Yeah!

  I had a Jameson. For the record, here's what Em ordered . . .

  She opened with,

  "Will you marry me?"

  Never knowing when/if ever she was

  (a) Herself/selves?

  (b) Taking the piss.

  I said,

  "You're not pretty enough."

  And fuck . . . her face fell, before I could say, "Hey . . . kidding."

  She ordered a large vodka tonic and I began my Jameson march. After we got some of that knocked down, we both pulled back a way, physically and emotionally. She asked,

  "Tell me what you're thinking."

  I know, I know, you'll run with,

  "You . . . dear."

  The Jameson said,

  "How it would be nice if just one person would fess up to 12 Years a Slave as eleven years too long."

  She frowned, said,

  "It's a masterpiece."

  I sighed, tried,

  "If I want torture porn, there's the Saw franchise.

  Her starter arrived, she asked,

  "Wanna share?"

  "Like . . . our lives?"

  By the time she reached dessert, she asked,

  "Did you ever, like once, feel real love?"

  "I feel it right now."

  Had to rush,

  "for that little waif, Ziggy."

  Then the image of Em's puppy nailed to the shed door arose and I said,

  "You should go visit your mother."

  A mischievous dance in her eyes, she asked,

  "And you, Jack, . . . care much for yours?"

  Truth.

  "She was a walking bitch, awash with piety, cunning in her constant cruelty . . . if there's a hell, I pray she roasts in it."

  Em did a mock wipe of her brow, said,

  "Phew, don't feel you have to hold back."

  She reached across the table, touched my hand. I didn't recoil or flinch so some progress. She said,

  "Jack, I am truly sorry for your young friend Boru. I really believed we could have saved him."

  I had no answer.

  Her hand still resting on mine, she held my gaze firmly, asked,

  "I need a solemn pledge from you, Jack."

  Fuck, it wouldn't be good. I tried deflection.

  "Didn't we do the marriage gig at the start of the meal?"

  Slapped my hand, stressed,

  "Be serious, Jack."

  "I'll give it a shot, what is it?"

  "Next Friday, you have a table booked for two at Brannigan's. Be on time and don't leave until eleven o'clock. Make yourself . . . felt."

  WTF?

  "Sounds like I'm setting up an alibi."

  Her hand withdrew. She said,

  "Once, just once, don't be a stubborn bollix. Just humor me."

  "What the hell, OK. Who am I dining with?"

  Now got the pixie smile, made her look twelve, vulnerable, and, oh shit, I don't know . . . deeply exposed. She said,

  "Part of an extended birthday buzz. You really need not to overthink this."

  I nearly smiled, clichéd,

  "Go with the flow."

  She signaled for the check, snapped,

  "Don't be a fuckhead. Just blew your shot at getting laid."

  Through Boru's actual solicitor, I obtained his parents' address, bought a Mass card, had it signed by a priest in the Augustinians who was a human being, said,

  "I am sorry for your loss."

  More like him and the Church might have less to fear from lynch mobs. He was that rare to rarest man, one who by pure simplicity made you glad to be alive. Plus, it didn't cost an arm and a leg (limping or otherwise). I enclosed the following note:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy,

  No words can convey the loss you have endured. Forgive my enclosure of a Mass card but here, it's our sole feeble attempt to demonstrate our care.

  Your son was a true gentleman, shining with intelligence, warmth, and utter charm. I was graced, honored, and humbled to be his friend. Know that, despite his brief time in our city, he became a true Galwegian. He will always live here in our hearts and we walk with deep respect the streets he grew to love.

  He is a credit to you and a terrible loss to the very meaning of "life extraordinary."

  With deepest sorrow,

  Jack Taylor

  If you want to know about spirituality, look into the eyes of a dog. So said William James. Ziggy was growing apace, already quirks of personality asserting themselves. He liked to nap on my Garda coat. Some long-lost tenuous connection to protection. He had brown velvet eyes that seemed to weep with emotion.

  Acquiring a dog may be the only opportunity a human ever has to choose a relative.

  Cheeky little bugger too.

  Already knew my favorite part of the couch for TV so he'd get there first. Like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, he seemed to have adopted the mantra

  "I will not be ignored."

  Times, too, he seemed to withdraw, his tiny body curling in on itself, emitting a deep sigh and ignoring all treats.

  I'd done that gig my ownself.

  I was currently watching the boxed set of

  Van Veeteren

  Maria Wern.

  The latter was like Saga Nordén from The Bridge, without the icy autism.

  Maria was a shade too fuckin whitebread.

  Nordic noir rules.

  I told Ziggy. He seemed unimpressed. Had the makings of a canine critic.

  I wondered who Em had set me up to meet at Brannigan's. I'd given my word, so show up I would. Crossed my mind it might be de Burgo. Now that would make an interesting evening. Friday rolled around with the winds finally easing. The latest scandal was the Irish Water Board. Millions paid to a bunch of carpetbaggers to plan the installation of water meters in every home. First we endured years of poisoned water, now they'd charge us by the drop. The minister in charge of this fiasco, Phil Hogan, told us with his smug expression . . .

  "You can't make an omelet without . . ."

  I mean, he actually fuckin said that!

  Brannigan's was off Kirwan's Lane. Had a reputation for great steaks. Ziggy whimpered as I prepared to leave. I told him,

  "You guard the apartment . . . you know, do dog stuff."

  He ignored me.

  I walked down Shop Street, trying to adjust the tie I'd worn. Under my Garda coat I had my sports jacket and, from a distance, might even have passed for respectable. Just past Easons, a man stepped out of the lane. Young, in an expensive Burberry coat, so it wasn't until he spoke that I realized who he was. The gap where his previous magnificent teeth had been. The punk who'd been beating on Ziggy. He snarled,

  "You think you got away with it, Taylor?"

  He kept a distance, so he had learned something from our encounter.

  I asked,

  "You want something?"

  Bravado and caution fought in his face. He said,

  "You stole my wallet."

  I smiled, said,

  "Put it down to a fine for disorderly conduct."

  His hands were in his pockets and a debate was raging in his mind. He settled for,

  "You'll pay for it, Taylor."

  I shook my head, said.

  "Hey, I'm here now, why wait?"

  He turned, scuttled back into the lane. I said,

  "That's what I thought."

  I was standing in the reception area of Brannigan's. A pleasing aroma of charcoal/grill/barbecue gave me that rare but fleeting feeling,

  An appetite!

  Throw in a hint of anxiety/anticipation and you're, if not raring to go, certainly on the precipice.

  I saw Ridge approach, a puzzled expression in place. She was dressed for an evening out. An almost too-tight little black number, semi-killer heels, highlights in her hair, caution in her eyes. We almost said in unison,

  . . . What are you doing here?

  I checked with the maître d'. Hard to even write that with an Irish accent. The reservation for two was in the name of Semple (or if you wanted to push buttons, Simple.)

  Ridge got there first.

  "Someone thinks we should meet?"

  I rolled, said,

  "Maybe to help us rekindle a friendship."

  Raised her eyes, said,

  "Take more than a bloody dinner."

  I wanted to slap her, pleaded,

  "For just one fucking time . . . chill."

  A waitress approached, asked,

  "Would Mr. and Mrs. Semple care for a complimentary cocktail before dinner?"

  Ridge nearly relented.

  I said,

  "One drink?"

  She agreed.

  The barman was one of those people whom Kevin Bridges described as

  "Never having been punched in the face."

  His enthusiasm to see us was grating. He beamed,

  "And what can I tempt you fine folk with this evening?"

  Mario Rosenstock would have loved him! All that plastic blarney. Ridge snarled,

  "Assault and battery."

  I interceded, said,

  "Two frozen margaritas."

  Add more ice to the chill Ridge trailed. I made a T gesture to the guy, indicating

  "Large amount of tequila or trouble."

  I think he'd already caught the gist of the latter. I said,

  "Ridge, you look nice."

  Didn't fly.

  She said,

  "I thought my ex-husband was surprising me."

  The drinks came, I raised my glass, said,

  "Slainte."

  "Whatever."

  She took a lethal taste, color rising to her cheeks. I realized she might have had a preparatory one . . . or two.

  I tried,

  "Perhaps dinner would go some way to us reconnecting?"

  She ignored that, asked,

  "Where's the psycho bitch?"

  I gave her a tequila smile, said,

  "Good title for a self-help book."

  She studied me for a long minute, gave a mock sigh, said,

  "You can't rile me anymore."

  She was oh, so wrong about that. It was simply that goading ran so close to deep hurt that I backed off, asked,

  "No way back to our former friendship then?"

  The barman approached with a fresh pitcher, asked,

  "You folks like to go for broke?"

  I nodded.

  Tequila is a sly son of a bitch. Tastes so good, you truly believe . . . briefly . . . it won't kick. I coasted on that lie, rode the fake euphoria, risked,

  "I miss you."

  She was lost in some other thought, then snapped back, said,

  "We were scattered with the ashes of Stewart."

  Fuck!

  I spat,

  "Damn near poetry."

  She gathered her things, threw some notes onto the bar, tip for the barman, said,

  "No, Jack, poetry was Stewart with his insane belief in you. What we've got is ashes in the mouth."

  And she was gone.

  The barman took her empty glass, dared,

  "Tough cookie."

  I finished my drink, said,

  "If you only knew the half of it."

  Checked my watch, we'd managed all of forty-five minutes, not a moment of it civil.

  My mobile rang at two o'clock in the morning. The pup, sound asleep on my chest, simply moved to the warm part of the bed. I growled,

  "What the fuck"

  "Jack, it's Em."

  "Christ, this is a surprise. Don't you sleep?"

  Her voice had urgency.

  "How did the evening go?"

  I nearly smiled but stayed in hard-ass mode, asked,

  "You seriously thought you could get us to reconcile?"

  More urgent.

  "What time did ye stay until?"

  "Hmmm . . . she stayed, I think, almost forty-five minutes."

  Rage.

  "What? You left within an hour? You stupid bastard, couldn't you do one bloody thing right?"

  "Hey . . . hey . . . take a fuckin breath. She left, I didn't."

  Hope.

  "You stayed on?"

  "Sure, even ordered steaks for two. Got them to do a doggy bag—reluctantly I might add. Ziggy will be having prime for the next few days."

  Relief.

  "And so you were noticed, right? I mean people remember you?"

  My brain kicked in, I said,

  "If I didn't know better I'd say you were giving me an alibi."

  Dawning.

  "Em . . . Jesus, is that it?"

  Dead air.

  The Irish Water Board, continuing to threaten, bully, and intimidate the population, refuses to release details of massive bonuses and perks. It does emerge that three hundred of its staff attended a "laughter yoga" workshop in Croke Park in 2013. The theory is you guffaw for fifteen minutes and this is good for body and mind.

  The people haven't had much to laugh at for many years. A workshop seems out of their reach.

  The Guards came early. A heavy pounding at the door. The pup trailed at my heels as I went down to open it. Two in uniform. Number one was vaguely familiar to me as a hurler. Number two was of the new gung-ho variety. Number one gave me a nod, not unfriendly, said,

  "Jack, they want to talk to you at the station."

  They followed me in as I threw on some clothes. The pup took an instant dislike to number two, yapping and nipping at his ankles. The guy said,

  "Control that animal or I'll give him a kicking."

  I snatched Ziggy up, put him in the bedroom with some treats, closed the door, said,

  "Trust me, it would be the last kicking you'd give."

  He looked at number one, then blushed,

  "Is that a threat, sir?"

  Number one said,

  "Ah, shut up."

  We drove to the station in silence. I let my mind go into the zero zone, focusing on nothing. I'd been this route many times.

  I was brought into Superintendant Clancy's office. In full regalia, he was behind his massive desk. A scowl in place. Sitting to his left was Ridge, no smile of welcome. The two Guards stood behind me. Clancy adopted a fake warmth.

  "Ah, Jack, good of you to come."

  I said,

  "I'd a choice?"

  Clancy flipped through some papers, then,

  "Professor de Burgo was found murdered on Friday evening. Can you account for your whereabouts between eight and eleven that evening?"

  My mind tried to grasp the implications but, before I could answer, Ridge leaped to her feet, shouted,

  "He has a bloody alibi . . . it's me. I was with him."

  And she stormed out of the office. A silence followed, then Clancy paced.

  "Lovers' tiff?"

  I asked,

  "How was he killed?"

  A beat before,

  "A nail through his forehead."

  Then waved his hand, dismissing me. I said,

  "You can cross another suspect off your list."

  His head moved, slight interest.

  "And who might that be?"

  "Boru Kennedy."

  He shook his head,

  "Not known to me, I'm afraid."

  I turned to go, said,

  "Of course not. Why would you remember a young man who hanged himself in prison on Christmas eve? He had been cleared of putting a nail through his girlfriend's head."

  Em vanished. As if she'd never been. No e-mails, texts, nothing. I missed her. But the pup filled the void. I bought him a small Galway United scarf and he seemed delighted with its fit.

  I took him, or rather he took me, for daily walks and I became reacquainted with my city. Feeding the swans was, of course, on our agenda. Oddly, after a few visits, the swans tolerated him. He could move along the shore and the slipway without them hissing. I kept a wary eye. Best not to fuck with these beautiful creatures.

  He didn't.

  The evenings were getting a stretch to them and I'd see Ziggy, outlined against the bay, his scarf blowing gently, the swans dotted around him. He'd stand on the pier watching them glide. I could see his sharp mind thinking,

  "Shit, I could do that."

  One evening, on our way back, standing on a wall by the Claddagh was the thug whose teeth I had removed. He was staring, dead-eyed, not at me but at the pup. Then he turned to me, made the cutthroat motion slowly across his neck with his right hand

  . . . and smiled.

  The teeth had been replaced. I shouted,

  "Now all you need to get is a set of balls."

  But he was gone.

  As spring slowly began to creep up, we got back to the flat and in the middle of the kitchen was. . . .

  A tiny green emerald.

  Manchester United continued their losing streak as they made a record-breaking bid to buy Chelsea's Spanish, Le Meta. I said to Ziggy,

  "The Six Nations Cup will begin soon."

  He seemed more rapt in Paul O'Grady's series on the Battersea Dogs Home. The pup disliked cigarette smoke so I took the odd cig outside. Too much drink and he sensed my loss of control, responded by whimpering. I cut way back. He was whipping me into shape.

  Tuesday morning, St. Anthony's Day, I was sitting on a bench in Claddagh. Ziggy was down on the shore, his sense of smell in overdrive from all the different stimuli. A well-dressed woman approached and sat on the bench. Her handbag? I saw an article in the Galway Advertiser quoting some lunatic price for these suckers. Plus a six-month waiting period to purchase! Jesus, you could order a Harley in less time. She obviously had not been among those who had to wait.

  She smiled, said,

  "That your little dog on the shore?"

  I nodded.

  She said,

  "He keeps checking you're still here."

  I gave a noncommittal smile.

  Then she put out her hand, said,

  "I'm Alison Reid. I already know you're Jack Taylor."

  I took her hand, noting the thin gold Rolex, said,

  "Nice to meet you."

  And waited.

  She cleared her throat, said,

  "My husband died a long time ago and all I really have is one brother."

  I wanted to say,

  "Fascinating, but should I give a fuck why?"

  Went with,

  "My condolences."

  No maneuver room there. But she tried,

  "My brother was killed recently and the Guards appear to have abandoned the case. A Superintendent Clancy suggested you might help. Said you were a form of a forlorn St. Jude. For hopeless cases?"

 

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