The Ghosts of Galway, page 9
I would not
Could not
Dwell on Ridge.
I’d settled the pup on his chair, his Galway United scarf wrapped around his neck, poured a large Jay and, with a phew, sank into the armchair. A bang on the door.
Not a knock, a full wallop. If this was Jehovah’s Witnesses, they’d be witnessing sooner than they anticipated.
Father Malachy.
The pup growled.
Malachy barged in, trailing cigarette smoke, said,
“Need to talk to you?”
I went,
“How’d you know where I lived?”
Gave me a look of
“Seriously?”
Said,
“Google Earth.”
The pup glared at him, still low growling. Malachy asked,
“Does he bite?”
“Only priests.”
He looked around the room, not seeing anything that made him happy, asked,
“Where am I supposed to sit?”
The thing with Malachy was, you could just wallop him on a full-time basis. I indicated the armchair and he took that, sighing deeply. Then,
“Are you going to wet a man’s whistle?”
Even the pup had given up on intimidating him and simply went under the table. I got a glass of Jameson, handed it to him, asked,
“Ice?”
He lit up, coughed, looked like he might throw up, said,
“These boys will be the death of me.”
I said,
“We live in hope.”
And he looked deeply offended, said,
“No need for that.”
I asked,
“The purpose of your visit?”
He lit another cig, no ashtray required. He said,
“I’m in need of a fucking miracle.”
This, from a priest.
I asked,
“Have you tried, like, you know, your stock in trade?”
Glared at me, snarled.
“What fierce shite are you suggesting?”
I let that nice turn of phrase hover, then said simply,
“Prayer.”
Looked like he might wallop me, said,
“They’re downsizing in the Church.”
I laughed out loud, said,
“That is such a holy terror.”
He was serious, said,
“Sending me to some place like Bally de fucking nowhere”
I said,
“Like De Niro at the end of True Confessions.”
Wasted.
He said,
“Unless I could, um … pull off something that made them think I was valuable.”
Fuck me, was he playing me?
I asked,
“Anything in mind to, you know, big you up?”
He looked at me, said nothing.
God, everyone had an angle. I said,
“How did you know I had The Red Book?”
He feigned ignorance. What if he was telling the truth, though these days truth and clergy rarely met, but what if? Would one fine unselfish gesture eradicate some of the guilt I felt about the death of Ridge?
* * *
But help this asshole, who’d been the bane of my life? Not to mention my mother’s ally.
He was a priest and who in Ireland today would lift a finger for them? Before I could speak, he said,
“People don’t like me, it’s always been that way. I have no friends.”
That kind of fucked with my head. I said,
“My mother?”
He gave a bitter laugh, said,
“She despised me but having a pet priest was a feather in her cap.”
I tried,
“Hey, I don’t have a whole lot of friends my own self.”
Even the dog looked up.
Said,
“Ah, bollocks, when you put your mind to it, people like you well enough. You just don’t take any care of their feelings.”
Phew-oh.
I gave one last try, said,
“You have your faith to sustain you.”
Got the look of utter disdain, he said,
“Yeah, right.”
I went to my bookcase, took out The Red Book, said,
“This might help put you back in favor.”
He took it, put it in his pocket, said,
“I was hoping for money.”
A coffin
Makes
It
Difficult
To
Think
Outside
The
Box
I said to the pup,
“I have to go see a lawyer.”
He whined. It meant no walk. I continued,
“Has to be done to pay for your treats.”
He wasn’t convinced, went under the chair and feigned sleep with his back to me. So a good start to the day with the pup pissed off. I wore my all-weather Garda coat, seriously considered arming up. Meeting a lawyer, doesn’t hurt to be prepared.
I headed down Shop Street and noticed two Guards, a black band of mourning on their sleeves. Ridge’s death hit anew. A busker was murdering “She Moved Through the Fair.”
I put some coins in his cap and he scowled at me.
How much better could the day get?
Robert Preston’s office was one of those new all-glass affairs. Said two things:
One, we have no secrets here.
Yeah, right.
Two, put a large brick through this.
A very pretty receptionist was not impressed at my appearance, asked,
“Are you delivering something?”
“Bad news?”
Not amused.
I said,
“The name is Taylor and I was summoned by the head honcho.”
Before she could grill me further, a tall man with one hell of a suit came striding down the corridor, boomed,
“Mr. Taylor.”
His hand extended, and I swear gold cuff links with initials.
Like, seriously?
Weren’t they outlawed apart from Bond movies?
He said,
“So glad you could make it. Let’s step into my office and meet the client.”
I recognized the man standing by the window. We’d met outside the hospital. He turned, said,
“Jack, good to see you.”
The lawyer offered coffee and then said,
“I will withdraw and let you gents get down to business.”
Cooper looked ill, very ill. He said,
“I look fucked, right?” I went very Irish, said,
“God no, you look mighty.”
He sat down and indicated I should do the same, settled himself, said,
“From the time of our encounter, I knew you’d be the man if a chap found himself in a spot of bother.”
His tone oozed authority, a man accustomed to minions.
I don’t do minion well.
I asked,
“This spot of bother. Has it do with the murder of the Guards?”
Granite leaked over my words.
He gave me a searching look, asked,
“You knew them?”
I nodded.
He digested that as he considered his next move, then,
“My second in command, Woody. A good lad if a little impetuous.”
I waited, not going to make this easy, he said,
“Perhaps, I stress the perhaps, he might have been overzealous in his somewhat misguided loyalty to me.”
I said,
“The fuck shot two Guards?”
A fleeting wave of rage in his eyes as the true man peeked out, then it was gone and the sweet affability again, said,
“Good heavens, that would be a leap. My hope is that you, as the resourceful chap you are, might find him before the authorities do.”
I said,
“If he killed those Guards, his chances with the authorities would be better than me finding him.”
He sat back, a building sneer on his face, said,
“I had you figured as a man with a broader canvas.”
I near spat,
“Broader canvas? The fuck are you saying?”
He sighed.
“Your rep led one to believe you were something other than the pathetic wretch you now present.”
I nearly smiled. It’s almost nice to be insulted in literary language; makes a change from the usual bollix.
I said,
“I guess you won’t be needing my services, then?”
He gave me a look of such disdain that his face tilted. He said,
“You are dismissed, Taylor.”
I said,
“Thing is, I will now give all my energy to finding this Woody.”
Just when I figured I had him pegged, he did an about turn and, in a very pleasant tone, asked,
“Have you ever been to the dogs, Mr. Taylor?”
Was it some kind of metaphor? I went,
“Huh?”
“Not difficult, Mr. Taylor. Like horse racing but with …”
Paused.
“Dogs!”
He was, I decided, many shades of crazy. I said,
“No.”
He reached in his jacket, checked a leather-bound notebook, not unlike police issue, said,
“The second race on the card has a dog named, aptly enough, ‘Galway Ghost.’”
“You’re telling me this why?”
“Many reasons, mostly nefarious but bottom line, I have a sneaking regard for you.”
I said,
“Makes me all warm and valued.”
I checked the sports page on my return home. The dog was indeed running and quoted at
14/1.
Phew.
If this were a less bleak narrative, the hero would put the mortgage on the bet, and to the strains of
“Eye of the Tiger.”
The dog would at the very last second come from nowhere and win!
Glad rejoicings.
The dog lost.
I didn’t back him.
Not one cent.
To mix my metaphors, I not only looked that gift horse in the mouth but let it roar, unbridled. My mobile thrilled after the race and I heard Cooper go
“Oh, dear, so sorry.”
I waited.
He continued,
“I truly hope you weren’t too burnt with your wager, Mr. Taylor.”
I laughed into the phone, startling him. He tried,
“I must say you took the loss well.”
I said,
“Didn’t back him.”
A sharp intake of breath, then,
“Why?”
“Because, as they say in parts of the U.S., you are a lying sack of shit.”
I could hear his sharp intake of breath. He said,
“No need for that.”
He was offended?
Good.
I said,
“One last thing. You can bet on something.”
“Yes?”
“Your mate Woody? Kiss him good-bye.”
I clicked off the phone, tired of this bollocks. The pup was at my feet, the leash in his mouth. I asked,
“When did you learn that trick?”
Tail wag.
We went up Prospect Hill, past Crowes pub, then all the way up to the cemetery. Only in Ireland, opposite the graveyard gate, a new shop has opened.
In such a location, you’d think, flowers?
Nope.
Get this:
Bridal
Wear!
I kid thee not.
Was it a subliminal message, get hitched and ’twas then but a hop and a skip to the grave?
Just outside the cemetery gates I replayed a call I had made.
I called my friend Owen Daglish and he confirmed the Guards had nothing to pursue. I asked him about the guy Woody, and he sneered, said,
“An idiot, he couldn’t even shoot his mouth off.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Why the fuck would I know that when we’re not looking for him?”
“That’s a no, then?”
“Good-bye Jack.”
Never mind a person of interest. He wasn’t even a person of indifference.
A guy was standing outside the cemetery gates, greeted,
“Jack, how’s it cutting?”
I vaguely recognized him but had no name to go with the recollection so I went the Irish way, said,
“Good to see you.”
He indicated the graveyard, said,
“You’d think I was keen to get it over with.”
The pup was staring at the graves, his body on alert, as if he knew this was not a place to linger.
The guy shook himself, said,
“Prince was found dead.”
I didn’t quite know the response to this, so went,
“Really?”
He asked,
“Were you a fan?”
Shite.
I said,
“The guy had some moves.”
I began to move off myself and he shouted,
“Did you hear about the priest?”
These days that was a multichoice answer.
A. Molester
B. Married his housekeep (of either sex)
C. Robbed the parish funds
D. All of the above.
I went with the cute answer, which covered my ignorance and hinted I knew other stuff, asked,
“Which one?”
“Father Malachy.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, he found some rare old book that the Church was looking for and he’s being called to Rome for some mega honor.”
Fuck.
I asked,
“How did he find it?”
“Oh, he gave all the credit to Anthony.”
“Who?”
“Saint Anthony. The go-to guy for lost things.”
I was truly shocked. The treacherous bastard.
The guy said,
“Good for him, eh?”
I now knew what the expression meant.
It stuck in my craw.
Did it fucking ever.
He continued,
“He’s going to be on The Late Late Show.”
Wonder and enchantment in his tone.
That show was the ultimate Irish accolade. It was said you could do most anything to please your mother (once, by joining the priesthood but now, not so much) but nothing impressed her like being a Late Late guest.
He said,
“I heard him on Jimmy Norman’s radio show and he was so humble.”
I’ll bet he fucking was.
I’d heard enough and waved a vague good-bye. He went,
“You know him pretty well.”
Phew-oh.
I said,
“Seems like I didn’t know him at all.”
PURPLE
RAIN
The pup and I got back to the apartment just as the heavens opened. I reached for my keys and the pup began a low growling.
Someone was inside.
I pushed the door slowly open, my keys held forward as a fairly lame weapon. The pup was trembling and it took me a moment to see.
A hundred-pound rottweiler was sitting near the bookcase. I said,
“Fuck.”
Then heard,
“Don’t be shy, Jack, join us.”
Emily
Emerald
Em.
Trouble.
She said,
“Meet Satan.”
Of course.
I said,
“I already met the devil.”
The pup went under his own chair, peeking warily at Satan. He knew what that dog was:
A killer.
Em pushed a book at me, said,
“In gratitude.”
I asked,
“You’re thanking me?”
Snap of her head and
“Silly, it’s the title, by Jenny Diski, about her relationship with Doris Lessing.”
I said,
“That means Jack shit to me.”
She loved that, her dog not so much. She said,
“Satan responds to just two commands.”
I guessed,
“Kill and kill better.”
She laughed.
“How very Sam Beckett.”
I should have hated her. She was the reason Ridge was dead but hating her was like blaming the weather; it was just elemental. I asked,
“Aren’t you at least a little wary of being here? You had my friend murdered.”
She sat forward, the dog gave a low rumble. She said,
“Why I have this lovable beast.”
I said,
“Keep him close, you’ll need him.”
She giggled.
“Threats. I love it. How very alpha of you.”
I went to the bedroom, rummaged in the closet, and heard her shout,
“You must be the only person in Ireland going into the closet.”
Found the gun, racked the slide, and heard her mutter,
“We know that sound and it tolls for us.”
She was right.
I came back, aimed the weapon, said,
“Get that damn monster out of here now or I will shoot him.”
Sounding not unlike Liam Neeson in Taken.
She scoffed.
“You’d never hurt a dog.”
I racked the slide and she was on her feet, going,
“Jesus, all right already. You need to cut back on the caffeine, fellah. I really came to help you.”
I kept the gun trained on the dog who watched me with what can only be called malevolent interest. My pup was whimpering quietly beneath the chair. I asked,
“Help?”
“The shooter? Woody? But you need to track him fast. He has a plan.”
“What plan?”
She gave a smile of such malign slyness, said,
“To blow the living shit out of Galway Cathedral.”
Fuck.
I asked,
“Why?”
She headed for the door, dragging a reluctant Satan, said,
“Because it’s there.”
“Marilyn’s brain was consumed with other thoughts.
Of murder. If and when, and where and how,
and with what.”
(John Sandford, Extreme Prey)
Terry Wood was on a high from his murderous acts. Muttered,
“I offed two cops, count ’em, two.”
He was in a small apartment on Merchants Road. Owned by the Ghosts, it had been purchased in the far too brief days when it seemed like their organization might actually amount to something. Jeremy Cooper had been on a high as money and contributions
