Headstone (4 page)

condescension. I said,

“I’m all done with priests. This is purely a good

Samaritan gig.”

She got back in the car, hurled,

“You need to call the Samaritans yourself.”

And burned rubber outta there.

Cops watched way too many cop shows.

Malachy was in intensive care, no visitors. I’d

said I was a relative and was told a doctor would

see me soon. The health service is so bollixed that

that probably meant two days. I had a book so I

didn’t mind too much.

The new John Cheever biography, by the same

writer who’d done the stunning bio of Richard

Wright. The book sure captured the torment, agony,

guilt, and utter loneliness of the alcoholic. I didn’t

really need it described; I lived it every frigging

day, heard “Mr. Taylor?”

A doctor, towering above me. Pristine white coat

with all the pens in the top pocket. One, to my joy,

was leaking. A name tag identified him as
Dr.

Ravin
. Not Irish then but fuck, few were these

days. They’d fucked off to where the money was.

He asked,

“You are a relative?”

Yeah, brothers in animosity, bonded in hatred, and

related by booze. I said,

“Yes, first cousins; we are very close.”

Close to murder mostly.

He did the sympathy dance, I nodded idiotically,

then he said,

“The padre……….”

“Priest.”

I snapped.

How often do you get to correct the medical

profession?

Yeah.

He said,

“My apologies, he has suffered severe trauma, he

is in a coma and the next twenty-four hours are

critical.”

“Will he die?”

He reassessed me. Then maybe acknowledging I

was in shock, soft-pedaled. He said,

“He is not a young man and, alas, he has not taken

care of his body very well, so, as I said, the next

day will be crucial.”

“Cigarettes,”

I said.

He nodded then asked if I had a number I could be

reached at. I gave him the mobile one. We shook

hands and he headed off to do doctorly stuff , or

maybe, if my smell was still vaguely intact, grab a

sly cig. I was preparing to leave when a tall, stern-

looking priest literally marched up to me. They

ever needed a poster boy for the clergy or the

Gestapo, this guy was it. A shock of steel gray

hair, beautifully cut. I know, as I have the other

kind. The cheap bad version. His black suit was

immaculate. If Armani was doing a clerical line,

he’d got the best of the bunch. Shit, I mean, if the

current pope was releasing a CD wearing Gucci

slippers, anything was up for grabs.

His face was deep tanned and I finally understood

what an aquiline nose meant.

His eyes matched his hair.

Steel.

He moved like an athlete, assured, confident, and I

thought,

“A player.”

A tiny pin in his lapel, shining in its gold almost-

simplicity.

Opus Dei.

Memo to myself,

“Watch your wallet.”

He extended his hand, said, not asked,

“Mr. Jack Taylor.”

I took his hand, said,

“Yes.”

His grip was like the granite workers in

Connemara. He smiled.

Fucking great teeth. I had great teeth but they

weren’t my own.

He said,

“I’m Father Gabriel.”

Like I should know?

I asked,

“Like the Archangel?”

Too easy, but what the hell, how often do you get a

Dan Brown moment, especially when he said,

“You know your angels?”

I countered,

“And my demons.”

The smile vanished. Just folded its tent and fucked

off. He asked,

“Is there somewhere . . . less public we might

talk?”

I bit down, asked,

“The confessional?”

He was seriously tiring of me, so I said,

“The River Inn, across the road, does a rather good

lunch.”

I added the
rather
just to keep him off balance.

Some of the smile slithered back. He said,

“Capital.”

I mean, outside of Booker nominees, who talks like

that?

He added,

“My treat.”

My cup fucking overfloweth.

A man brushed past me. I vaguely recognized him,

a Down syndrome adult. I asked,

“How yah doing?”

He gave me a radiant smile, said,

“Wonderful, Mr. Tayor, thank you.”

Oh, God, if I’d only known, that brief encounter

would feature large in what was to come. When I

finally learned of the alley murder, I immediately

thought of that lovely soul.

I just pray that I was as warm as he seemed to think

I was. Gabriel was meanwhile moving fast and I

had to hurry to catch up. The guy was a power

walker and he stopped, noticing my limp, said,

“I do apologize Mr. Taylor; I’m accustomed to

speed.”

Bollix.

I said, clenched teeth,

“Tell you what Gabe, you power on over there,

grab the corner table and order up.

They do great bacon and cabbage.”

Like Mr. Perfect would ever eat such basic peasant

food. He asked, smirk in place,

“And for you Mr. Tayor?”

“Pint and a Jay chaser, oh, and you call me Jack.”

His face ran a gamut of emotions, none of them

exuding warmth.

He said,

“Righty-ho, see you anon.”

The fuck was this guy? Who on heaven’s earth

spoke like that?

And he was gone.

Trailing coldness in his wake.

Whatever else I know, I knew bacon and cabbage

wouldn’t be his . . . forte?

And I seriously doubted he watched
True Blood
.

I stopped outside the hospital, saw Gabe already

disappearing into the River Inn, and reached into

my jacket for my cigs. Yeah, yeah, I know,

“Smoking again.”

Rationing them, OK?

I cranked up my Zippo; it had the logo,

“Fifth of . . .”

And gulped down a lungful of Blue Superkings.

I moved over to the dismal smokers’ shed. It

should have a sign proclaiming:

“Give me your huddled masses.”

A motley crew of:

frazzled nurses,

patients, I kid you not, trailing IVs,

stunned relatives,

and

Dr. Ravin.

I know my kin. For once I did the decent thing. I

pretended not to see him. A man, my age, with a

jaundiced pallor, on crutches, said,

“Hiya Jack.”

I did the Irish gambit, when you haven’t one

flogging notion of who they are, said,

“Jesus! Haven’t seen you in ages.”

He moved closer to me. He had the scent of death

on him, I know it from familiarity. He said,

“I’m Gerry Malloy.”

I didn’t ask,

“So how are you?”

He was on crutches, looked desperate.

He was fucked.

I lied,

“Great to see you Gerry.”

He looked furtively around, then confided,

“I’m hoping to get a big claim out of this.”

I ground my cig under my boot, said,

“My fingers crossed for you.”

He licked his bottom lip, a gesture like the onset of

dementia, said gleefully,

“If they cut off my right leg, I’m set for life.”

OK.

Before I could hazard,

“Good luck with that,”

he asked,

“Jack, could you spot me a twenty? You can see

I’ll be rolling in it so no worries about payback.”

An arm and a leg as they say.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I gave him the note and as I limped away, he

shouted,

“Big hug to your blessed mother.”

I waved . . . yeah.

She was dead five years but I had a feeling he

might be able to deliver the hug in person sooner

than he reckoned.

A lapsed Catholic is simply one

who is hedging his bets.

—Ken Bruen, from

“Reading at Random,” in
Collected Essays, 2001–

2005

I arrived at the pub, a long fifteen minutes after

Gabriel. He’d found the corner table, and a lone

ray of sunshine was beaming through. Did it

illuminate him?

No.

Seemed to emphasize the aura of darkness around

him—or maybe I just needed a frigging pint.

He was finishing their famous handmade soup,

dabbing at the corners of his mouth like a petulant

nun. A lone pint of Guinness, forlorn in its

solitariness, opposite him, like a sin he’d refused

to absolve. I indicated the chair across from him

and he waved me to it. The waitress, a rarity—she

was Irish—approached, greeted,

“Hiya Jack.”

He gave me the look, like, how often are you in

here?

I gave her my best smile and meant it. She turned to

Gabe, asked,

“Father, have you decided on your main course?”

He had.

Demanded, not asked,

“The Dover sole, lightly grilled. Are the

vegetables fresh?”

“Yes, Father, we had a fresh delivery just this

morning.”

He never looked at her. This guy was accustomed

to
hired help
. He said,

“I’ll have the brussels sprouts, a side salad of

coleslaw, red onions, and, of course, in olive oil

dressing.”

She risked a glance at me, her eyes saying,

“Bollix.”

She asked,

“Usual Jack?”

“That would be great and thanks.”

He looked up, queried,

“You eat here regularly?”

“Drink, I drink here . . . regularly.”

Like this was news to him. He reached down,

fetched a beautiful brown leather briefcase with a

symbol on it:

T.

B.

E.

I thought I knew it but couldn’t bring it to mind

then.

I would later, ruefully . . . as I learnt it meant The

Brethren, Eternally.

I said,

“You didn’t have that in the hospital.”

He was mildly impressed, said,

“A keen observer, that’s good, very good. My

driver brought it over.”

He had a driver? I asked,

“DUI, that it?”

The briefcase was snapped open—and I mean,

snapped
. Then he rested his tanned hands on it

and, fuck, were his nails . . . manicured?

His tone was now that of a stern parent to an unruly

child. He said,

“I know all about your smart mouth, your—how

shall I put it—
cynical repartee,
but it’s wasted on

me so let’s drop the smart-alec pose, shall we?”

I threw him with the monosyllable

“Fine.”

His chastisements obviously carried huge freight in

his usual circles. He asked,

“I beg your pardon?”

“Isn’t Jesus about love, spreading the joy, or are

you more the school of,

Man is born of woman

and is full of misery
?”

He leant back, folded those perfect hands in his

lap, said,

“You remember your Catechism.”

“No, I remember me funerals.”

His food came. He snapped at the girl,

“Glass of sparkling water, very thin wedge of

lemon.”

Waved her away. I said,

“Bon appétit.”

I hoped it choked him. He didn’t answer, set about

his food like a rabid dog, ate with a ferocious

determination. This was his food and by Christ he

was going to have every last bite. I drank, thanked

the girl when she brought my Jameson, and waited

for whatever this prick had in mind.

Finished, he cleaned the corners of his mouth,

delicately, with the napkin, took a sip of water,

said,

“To business.”

“I can hardly contain myself.”

Briefcase flicked open again. He took a fat

envelope, passed it over to me, said,

“A retainer.”

I didn’t touch it. He stared straight into my eyes. I

knew he didn’t much care for what he saw there.

He said,

“The church, as you are well aware, has been

under intense scrutiny; the errors of the few have

cast a shadow on the many.”

I nearly laughed out loud.

Fucking errors!

Echoed,

“You mean

the child molesters,

the Magdalen Girls,

our local bishop who refuses to resign despite the

whole country

howling for his head?”

He winced.

An actual physical tic appeared under his left eye,

began a rat-tat-tat like the drumbeat of the fallen.

He reined it in, said,

“Recovery must come from within. To that end, a

group was formed within the church to deal with

misconduct before it becomes public.”

I said,

“A splinter group, like the Provos breaking from

the official IRA?”

His efforts to control his temper were admirable.

He almost sneered,