Aine refused to answer my calls. I even fell back on the hackneyed gesture of flowers. They were returned. Sat on my coffee table, slowly dying. My mother had believed if you slip an aspirin into the water, the flowers will last.

  Right.

  Like my life, they withered. In studying Jack, I had fallen into the most obvious trap for a biographer. I was too close. Worse, in many ways my life was now imitating Jack's. I had alienated my few friends, driven away my girlfriend, and, oh, sweet heaven, not only was I talking like him, I was steadily drinking like him. To some, strolling into a pub, having the barman holler,

  "The usual?"

  is some lame sign of arrival.

  The fuck with that.

  See, even the cussing.

  A more worrying trait was the anger. Close up I had witnessed Jack's volatile temper. When in doubt, he lashed out. The gauge was permanently set at aggressive.

  I found a new simmering rage developing daily. All my brief life, I had been the mellow dude, my mantra,

  "Whoa, let it slide, buddy."

  I'd discovered a curious phenomenon about living alone.

  The utter stillness.

  If you don't move, nothing does. The very air seems to be suspended. Then you walk the length of the apartment, it's as if you are part of that atmosphere and it closes behind you. No wonder people crammed their homes with kids, TV, radio, dogs, other people. Noise to break that eerie silence. Jack punctuated it with Jameson. I was beginning to understand a little more of what drove him.

  I'd been almost feverish in my compulsion to contact Aine. Had been to her apartment probably a few more times than was prudent. Her roommate finally said,

  "Just fuck off."

  And, too, I probably sent more texts than was appropriate. Worse, I'd been to her mother's house. Oh, Gawd, wish I hadn't. The woman was polite but adamant, advised,

  "Time for you to move on, son."

  Still. I thought, if I could see her. . . . Hung around the college until a porter finally asked me my business. I didn't play that well and though he didn't actually lay hands on me, he did say,

  "Don't let me catch you here again."

  How did this even happen? I was a successful American doctoral candidate with a prestigious scholarship and I was skulking around like a love-torn puppy.

  Not cool, dude.

  Then the oddest thing. I had been out all day, paying utilities, soaking up the Galway vibe, even spoke to Jimmy Norman, the coolest DJ on Galway radio. The guy had, get this, a cordon bleu, a master's degree in business, a daily show on early morning radio . . . and . . . a pilot's licence. The whole new man . . . seriously? And when I had coffee with him, he amazed me with his knowledge of local politics. I felt I was becoming, if not one of the players, at least the guy who knew them. Then, on to the Galway Advertiser to meet with Declan Varley, the editor, and Kernan Andrews, the arts/entertainment, go-to guy. All these dudes were young, smart, clued in, and a testament to the whole new generation of Irish who bowed down to freaking nobody. I was pumped, wired on possibilities. To be American in Galway was still to be blessed with remnants of Kennedy afterglow. On the fiftieth anniversary of JFK's death, it was still currency to be a Kennedy. Man, I played that gene card.

  Got back to my apartment, buzzing, the endless possibilities, and then . . .

  Something off.

  Stood in the middle of my living room, sensed the air had been disturbed. A new presence had, oh, so slightly, altered the air. I checked thoroughly. My iPad, TV, all there. The sense of an intruder was almost palpable. I didn't know what to make of it. I also didn't know that by this stage Aine had been dead for two days.

  Because nothing was taken, it never occurred to me that

  Something . . .

  might have been added.

  Miscellaneous notes, quotes, chapter headings, descriptions Boru had intended to flesh out his Taylor book

  Manic Street Preacher Richard Edwards was crucified by many Hounds of Heaven—

  clinical and manic depression

  anorexia

  alcoholism

  self-mutilation

  He walked out of his hotel room in 1995 and was never seen again.

  And yet you want to believe that in the place you've come to, where God has allowed you to prosper and for a few generations at least be safe, you honor your religion by doing this. By making something stunningly beautiful:

  The Story of the Jews with Simon Schama.

  Jack's physical appearance was a testament to the myriad of

  beatings

  muggings

  hammerings

  he'd received by

  hurly

  hammer

  baseball bat(s)

  shotgun (sawed-off)

  He had a distinctive limp and a hearing aid, and two fingers of his right hand had been removed by rusty pliers.

  His eyes had the nine-yard stare of long-term convicts doing hard time. Hard time was the mantra of his bedraggled, violent existence.

  The years of Jameson, Guinness, and coffin nail cigarettes had lent to his voice a hoarse, creaky rasp.

  The difference between a person who says

  "Bring it on"

  as opposed to

  "Bring it"

  is the difference between a person who comes at you verbally

  as opposed to

  with a hatchet.

  It's very simple.

  It's intent.

  James A. Emanuel's more than a poet, more than an ex-pat: a man.

  (Stanley Trybulski on the passing of a great poet, as written on Stanley's blog, Mean Streets)

  Slick lizard rhythms

  cigar smoke

  straight gin

  sky laced with double moons.

  Pinned on Jack's wall was a print of Fabritius's Goldfinch. It's a tiny thing.

  Tiny bird

  Tiny picture

  Bare wall.

  Most telling is that the tiny bird is chained. That this bird has for centuries represented

  Christ on the Cross,

  Alone,

  Suspended.

  The city of Galway was Jack's very own cross.

  Jack had been watching Denis Leary's series Rescue Me in what they were now terming a viewing splurge. Meaning, you have one mega cluster-fuck of the boxed set back to back.

  Get this,

  Series One through Six in one slam dunk until,

  Bleary-eyed,

  Dizzy,

  Souped

  And the wild, crazy world of firefighters seems more real than the wet dreary days of a cold Galway November. Tommy (Denis Leary) could have been Jack,

  alcoholic,

  screwup,

  addict,

  violent,

  Catholic,

  Smoker.

  Halfway decent shell of a human being. Too, in one way or another, Jack had been putting out fires all his befuddled life.

  Starting them, too.

  And shards, snippets of the Brooklyn catalog banged around in Jack's head. More real than any lame conversation he'd attempted in any given Galway pub.

  "I'm doing you a solid."

  Yeah.

  Save Jack hadn't, nohow, done anyone "a solid" for a very long time. So, ridding the world of scum like de Burgo might be his very own

  White Arrest.

  October 28, 2013: Jack heard of the death of Lou Reed at seventy-one on the very day he'd resolved to yet again try a spell of sobriety. He didn't of course confuse sobriety with sanity. The nondrinking patches he'd endured simply seemed to spotlight his areas of madness in stark relief. Back in the day as a Guard, through subterfuge and bribery, he'd landed the security gig for a Reed concert in Dublin. It was a small venue and Lester Bangs's description of Reed as a deformed, depraved midget seemed cruelly apt. It was the high or low of Reed's heroin daze. Dressed in black leather jacket, skintight leather pants, black boots, and the obligatory black shades, he'd mumbled, stuttered, and pretty much failed to deliver a version of "Walk on the Wild Side." He resembled a crushed tarantula devoid of any sting. Helping Reed limp to his dressing room, sweat washing away the white makeup, Jack had ventured.

  "Good gig, Mr. Reed."

  A mumbled response.

  Only later, while he was sinking a Jameson and creamy pint in Doheny and Nesbitts on Baggott Street, did the mutter crystallize.

  It was,

  "Ya cunt."

  Jack smiled, whispered,

  "Wild side me arse."

  The classic murder victim, if you like, in today's terminology: A single, middle aged man, socially marginalized with a serious alcohol dependency.

  (Leif G. W. Persson, He Who Kills the Dragon. Your standard piss-head, basically, was how detective Backstrom describe the victim.)

  PART II

  Jack's Back

  Owen Daglish was a guard of the old school.

  Rough,

  Blunt,

  Non-PC,

  and one hell of a hurler.

  My kind of cop. Unlike me, he hadn't walloped anyone in authority.

  Yet.

  But it was there, simmering. His superiors knew it, so he was never going to climb the ranks. He didn't arse-kiss, either, so he was doomed to uniform. He and I had some history and most of it was pretty decent. A big man, he was built on spuds, bacon, Guinness, and aggression. Why we got along.

  I met him on Shop Street, his day off, and he said,

  "Jack, we need to grab a pint."

  "Sure, how you fixed this evening?"

  He glanced furtively around. Fragile as his job prospects were, it definitely wouldn't help to be seen with me. He grabbed my arm, insisted,

  "Now."

  Anyone else, he'd have lost the hand from the elbow. I asked,

  "I'm presuming something discreet?"

  He nodded.

  Close to the docks is one of those rare to rarest places. A pub without bouncers and probably without a license. Under-theradar business is its specialty. That plus serious drinking. No

  Wine spritzers,

  Bud Lite,

  Karaoke.

  We got the pints in, grabbed a shaky table in a shaky corner. No word until damage was done to the black. Owen, the creamy top of the Guinness giving him a white mustache, sighed said,

  "'Tis a bad business."

  No one, not even Jimmy Kimmel, can delay a story like the Irish. The preparation is all. Bad business could mean a multitude:

  The government,

  The economy,

  Priests,

  X Factor,

  The weather.

  I waited.

  He said,

  "A young girl found murdered a few days back, part-time student I think."

  My radar beeped.

  "She was . . . gutted. What's the word? . . . eviscerated."

  He looked as if he was going to throw up, rallied, shouted at the bar guy,

  "Couple of Jamesons, make them large."

  He wiped his brow, said,

  "I tell you Jack, like yer ownself, I've seen some ugly shit. You learn to shut off, like the nine-yard stare. You're watching but you're not seeing. Jesus!"

  I'm an Irish guy, we don't do the tactile. Keep your friggin hands to yourself. Whoa, yeah, and your emotions, too. Keep those suckers, as they said in Seinfeld,

  "in the vault."

  But I reached over, gently touched his shoulder.

  "The last bit, Jack, fuck, the final touch. . . ."

  It didn't register. He downed the Jay, let that baby weave its wicked magic, shuddered, then,

  "A six-inch nail was hammered between her eyes."

  I thought,

  . . . Nailed!

  I spotted an East European guy across the bar. We had business in the past,

  Heavy,

  Risky

  Business.

  I indicated a meet with my right hand and he nodded. I said to Owen,

  "I need a minute."

  In mid-narrative, he was jolted back to where we actually were, protested,

  "But there is something else, Jack."

  There was always something else and never—ever—good.

  "One second,"

  I said.

  In the small smoker's shed at the back, he was waiting, sucking fiercely on one of the cheap Russian cigarettes currently flooding the city. He shook my hand, said,

  "Jack, my friend, you need some merchandise?"

  Over the years, that had mainly been muscle and dope.

  I made the universal sign of my thumb, trigger hammer coming down. He booted the cigarette, took out his mobile, spat some foreign command in a harsh tone, grimaced, clicked off, asked,

  "A Rugger, is OK?"

  "Sure."

  "One box of shells?"

  "Perfect."

  No money exchanged. That would be later, on delivery.

  Got back to Owen. He was literally wringing his hands, went,

  "Jesus, times like this, I wish I still smoked. You gave up, didn't you, Jack?"

  For an alarming moment I thought he meant it literally, like on life, but focused, shrugged said,

  "Nope, still smoking."

  He cracked a smile at that, said—quoted a line from Charley Varrick,

  "Last of the Independents."

  Even Walter Matthau was dead, and recently the great Elmore Leonard. Deferring the final piece of Owen's story, I told him how Leonard's son called around to visit, saw his wife up on the roof clearing the eaves, asked his dad why she was up there. Elmore said,

  "Because she can't write books."

  Enough with the stalling, I pushed,

  "You had something else, Owen?"

  Owen said,

  "The American kid you were friendly with?"

  Jesus, how long was he going to stretch it? I grilled,

  "Yeah?"

  "They've arrested him for the girl's murder. As the Brits say, 'they've got him bang to rights.' "

  I really believed I had lost the capacity to be shocked. The life I'd lived, I could no longer really tell the difference between a shock and a surprise. Like Owen's Brits . . . I was flabbergasted, asked,

  "How, I mean . . . ?"

  He caught my confusion, cut past it, said bluntly,

  "Bloodied underwear was found under his mattress. Sick little fuck."

  I finished my Jameson, hoping to blast the bile in my mouth, the acid in my gut, said,

  "He didn't do it."

  For a moment it seemed as if Owen would punch me on the shoulder, swerved, settled for,

  "Come on, Jack, you liked the kid but, let's face it, you obviously had no idea who he was or what he was capable of."

  I stared straight at Owen's eyes. Whatever he saw there, he flinched. I said,

  "You know history, buddy. I've looked into the faces of

  Rapists,

  Psychos,

  Stone killers,

  Priests

  and

  Bankers.

  Trust me, I know when someone is feral."

  Owen's eyes got that shadow tint. He wanted another drink, his blood sang for it, he just didn't want it with me. It's always a revelation, a short, intense chat can bury a friendship cold. He knew too we'd come to a standoff but tried to wrap, said,

  "I know that, Jack, but there's something else out there now, something new."

  I shrugged,

  "Evil is never new, simply a different shade."

  He put out his hand, we shook, almost meaning it. I headed back to town, went into a hardware store. Bought a pack of sixinch nails. The guy in the store had remarked,

  "Some mild weather, huh?"

  Indeed.

  December 1 and no rain, no real cold weather. We weren't complaining. He asked,

  "You know Mike Diviny?"

  I didn't. Said,

  "Sure."

  "He caught forty mackerel in the docks this morning."

  He pronounced them in that distinctive, flat-vowel Galway tone,

  Mac — ker — el.

  One of the reasons I still had a gra for the town. Farther down Shop Street a group of carol singers were seriously massacring "Jingle Bells." A woman with a collection box shoved it in my face, and not politely. I asked,

  "Who are you collecting for?"

  Figuring I'd gladly help the Philippines Tornado Fund. She said,

  "Girls' basketball team."

  I had to take a breath, rein in my disbelief, then,

  "You got to be kidding me."

  She was up for it, challenged,

  "And what do you suggest they do with their leisure time?"

  "Would fishing be out of the question?"

  The Rugger was delivered that evening. I paid over the odds; helps the discretion. I was sitting at the table, cleaning the gun as Jimmy Norman's show played on Galway Bay FM. A song rooted me to the chair,

  "Mary"

  by Patty Griffin.

  My memory kicked in, sometimes supplying arcane and, in truth, useless information. She'd been married briefly to Robert Plant. The lyrics of the song touched me in all the broken places. Heaving the gun amid a mess of bullets, I stood, poured a liberal Jay, toasted Patty, said,

  "Your voice is the perfect bridge between Emmylou Harris and Nancy Griffiths."

  I tried to get my head around the notion of Boru being a killer. Wouldn't fly. I'd spent enough time with the kid to get his measure. Then a thought hit. I grabbed my mobile, got Owen, said,

  "I'm sorry to be bothering you so soon."

  "That's OK, Jack. I enjoyed the pints, we should do it more often."

  That hovered for a moment but we knew it was never going to happen. I asked,

  "The murdered girl, you said she was a part-time student?"

  "Yeah."

  "Literature, by any chance?"

  "Yes. In fact I heard the professor told the investigating officers that Kennedy had been stalking the girl. A college security guard even remembered moving him along."

  Fuck, this wasn't good.

  He said,

  "Leave it alone, Jack. It's cut-and-dried."

  I had one last question,

  "Who is in charge of the case?"

  "A hotshot named Moylan. A man going places, they say."

 

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