Headstone (5 page)

“I don’t believe we have been accused of bearing

arms?”

I said,

“Yet.”

And before he could muster, I added,

“Least with the IRA, we could see the weapons.”

He asked, in a patient, icy tone,

“Might I continue?”

“Go for it, Gabe.”

“Our reform group are known as
the Brethren
,

and, despite your cynicism, Mr. Taylor, we have

managed to avoid further unsavory revelations.”

He said
avoid
. I heard,
cover up
. I let him drone

on.

“Alas, our chief fund-raiser and most active

member, Father Loyola Dunne, seems to have

disappeared.”

I sat back, let the moment linger, then,

“Let me guess: him and your slush fund?”

He was silent, seething. I pushed, “How much?”

He had to drag it from deep down, gritted, “Three

quarters of a million.”

I gave an appreciative whistle, said,

“And you can’t go the official route. You want him

found,
discreetly
, No, let me rephrase that: you

want the cash back?”

His eyes burning on me, he said, “In a nutshell,

yes.”

I said,

“Tried Vegas?”

His patience with me was well gone. He shook his

head, flicked the briefcase again, slid over a

photograph, said, “This is Loyola; his details are

on the back.”

A man in his late fifties, with a kind face, laughter

lines on the eyes, high forehead, but deep bags

under his eyes, heavy jowled.

I asked,

“A drinker?”

Tight smile, then,

“None of us is without our frailties.”

“Want to share some of yours, Gabe, help us . . .

bond?”

He shut down. The meeting was over. He handed

me a tiny white card, three phone numbers, said,

“You report only to me, and need I stress that

speed is of the essence?”

I nearly gave the Nazi salute but it would have

been too obvious.

I flicked his card on the table, said,

“You’re forgetting the important bit.”

Finally, with a look of surprise, he indicated the fat

envelope, said,

“I think you’ll find the fee more than generous and

a speedy resolution will result in a very handsome

bonus.”

I said,

“You don’t listen too good, do you Gabe? So, I’ll

say it slow, you might be able to hear it then. I

haven’t said I’ll take the job.”

His lips literally peeled back to reveal those

marvelous teeth.

He said,

“Mr. Taylor, you are a Catholic, lapsed, perhaps,

but still part of our flock. You have helped the

Church in the past, albeit reluctantly, I understand,

but surely you want to see the Church restored to

its former glory?”

Back to its bullying days, its arrogance, its total

disregard of the people. I had an overwhelming

desire to wallop him, a powerful right hand to his

tanned face, wipe out one or two of those perfect

teeth.

I said,

“I’ll take the case. One, because I think you’re

lying through your teeth. Two, it’s a blast to be

actually receiving money from the Church. But

know this, Gabe, I don’t
report
and I’m not, no

way, part of your flock, lapsed or otherwise.”

It was impossible to gauge how he took it. He

stood, said,

“I have covered our dinner bill.”

I asked,

“When was Loyola last seen?”

He was already leaving, said,

“He gave the eleven o’clock mass in his parish ten

days ago and then disappeared.”

He strode off, master of all he surveyed. A vague

rumor of piety in his wake. He hadn’t wished me

“God bless.”

In lieu, I counted the cash, a blessing in its

commercial self.

Later I picked up some books from Charlie

Byrne’s Bookshop.

Vinny in full metal said,

“They’re preparing a flood fund for the families

devastated from the rains.”

I said,

“Why don’t they just use their usual slush fund?”

I bought a shitload of books,

including:

Jason Starr,

Craig McDonald,

Tom Piccirilli,

R.J. Ellory,

Megan Abbott.

Vinny said,

“Nice selection.”

I also picked up Carol O’Connell, I don’t care

what anyone says,

Mallory was a definite influence on Stieg Larsson.

In
Find Me,
there’s a passage that scalds my soul.

“…………………………..he asked her

‘Why don’t you want to have kids?’

Mallory said

‘Because I don’t know what they’re for.’”

My apartment in Nun’s Island was sublet to me by

a guy who decided to take a gap year in his late

forties. Some gap. Reeked more of midlife crisis

but better, I guess, than a red sports car. He

showed no inclination to return and I wasn’t

encouraging him. Nun’s Island is a small

neighborhood, nestling close to the cathedral.

And, yes, there are nuns.

The Poor Clares.

An enclosed community. To simply enter their

grounds was to find a rare tranquility. To tread

lightly on holy ground. They were currently running

a campaign to pay for the restoration of the

convent. Titled:

“Buy a Brick.”

You bought a brick by buying a ticket which then

went forward to a lotto. Being newly flush with

cash, I went to them, offered the Mother Superior

fifty euros. She protested it was too much. She

noticed me staring at her neck. Nuns, like cops, see

everything. I thought, if you’re staring at a nun’s

neck, you need a brick.

Hard, to the side of your head.

I was entranced by a necklace she wore. It

appeared to be tiny beautiful stones, threaded

through a silver chain. Each stone had a letter. She

noticed, was delighted, said,

“It reads, Medugorje.”

I asked,

“You’ve been?”

She shook her head at such an idea, said,

“No, my sister went, and, you know, she said, ‘The

sun danced in the sky.’”

Like all nuns, she had that flawless skin. Why the

cosmetic companies aren’t researching them is a

mystery. Her eyes were clear blue, lit with a

lovely hint of devilment. She asked,

“What do you think of that?”

I had no idea, said,

“I’ve no idea.”

She pulled out a batch of cards, asked,

“Your name, please, for the draw?”

“It’s Jack but honest to God, no need to put me on

the tickets.”

She seemed surprised so I tried,

“I’ve never been lucky.”

I was about to leave when she took the piece from

round her neck and slipped it over my head, I

began,

“I can’t . . .”

She said,

“Better be blessed than lucky.”

That moved me so.

Go figure.

My last encounter with a nun had resulted in

murder. Outside, the sky was darkening and the

deadly ice they were predicting seemed to hang,

waiting. A guy was selling DVDs outside, I guess

he figured even nuns watched movies.

Newly blessed, I bought:

Orphan,

Traitor,

Passengers,

District 9,

and I swear to God

Sam Raimi's

Drag Me to Hell.

There is some mega-metaphysical irony in all the

above but I’m fucked if I can join the dots. As I

headed off, the guy said,

“Cool chain dude; Medugorje rocks.”

Bono must have played there.

A new off-license had opened, the budget had been

announced and . . . the price of booze was
lowered

.

In a country devastated by alcohol, they were

encouraging us to drink. It was state of the art

premises and even offered loyalty cards! And

brews you’d never see ordinarily so I stocked up

on my favorite hard-to-get brands:

Shiner Bock,

Blue Moon,

Asahi,

Sam Adams.

I’m an alkie, I’m hurting, I’ll drink anything, even

aftershave, and have done so.

Though I suggest you avoid Old Spice.

But as Derek Raymond said, in
The Crust on Its

Uppers,
I can be a beer buff.

What this flashy new place showed, though, deep

in recession, we were not only drinking as mad as

ever, but with some discernible taste. I got back to

my apartment, anticipating a blast of Blue Moon

and twenty minutes of Johnny Duhan’s new album.

I had a wad of cash in my jacket, new DVDs, the

literal blessing of a good nun, and a new case.

Laura would soon be coming from London.

How good can it get?

I don’t do happy.

But I was real close then.

Wouldn’t I just love to be the poster boy for

Prozac, have a kickarse smile perpetually in place,

plaster my face on those Prozac bottles, with the

logo,

“We Rest Our Case.”

But my past was too littered with the wasted and

the wounded. Ever hear Marc Roberts sing “Dust

in the Storm”? Listen and weep.

I’m not a total eejit, I’ll grab the moments of peace,

fleeting though they be, when they deign to appear.

That’s how I was feeling. Opened the door of the

apartment, a ton of junk.

I’d won ten million in the Nigerian Lottery, got a

voucher for a free pizza from Papa Joe’s, an

appeal for orphans, till I came to a small tightly

wrapped parcel.

In black paper.

Uh-oh.

Neatly printed in red Gothic lettering on the front

was

“Jack Taylor.”

Not good. A gut feeling, I fingered the Medugorje

chain round my neck. My apartment opens up to a

large room, which has the books, TV, laptop, and

leads to a small kitchen. Marble-top counter from

Connemara constitutes the dining area. I placed the

package there and pulled back from it. Opened the

fridge, pulled out a Shiner, drained half that in jig

time. No shite but those Texans make good beer. I

approached the package as if it were incendiary.

My history of such mail was

all

bad.

Took a deep breath and tore it open.

Out, onto the marble top, fell a perfect miniature

sculpture.

A headstone

the size of a Bic lighter.

I stared at it, muttering,

“The fuck is this?”

It was exquisitely carved, polished to a high sheen.

Any other circumstances, I’d have admired the

sheer artistry.

In a state of alert, I reached for the dictionary,

looked up the definition, got

“A stone at the head of a grave.”

All my instincts screaming,

“Throw it out…………….
now
!”

Halloween was already gone, so I felt this was

less

trick or treat as more

trick and threat.

No coincidence that the clocks were due to go

back to winter time and when that happened, it was

a long time to the light.

If the package was meant to unnerve me

it did.

I felt the urge to get the hell out of there, be among

people. Put on my all-weather Garda coat and, in

the side pocket, the Walther PPK I’d had since the

time of the devil. Just the weight of it eased my

growing paranoia. Once outside, I felt better—not

great but getting there. What I needed was a large

Jameson but maybe some caffeine would be wiser

first.

I turned left at Nun’s Island, moved along to the

low bridge close to the Samaritans, stole a furtive

glance at Mill Street, the Garda headquarters, a

pang,

“never to belong there no more.”

Muttered,

“Get a grip.”

Turned left again and across O’Brien’s Bridge.

Saint Patrick’s school looming large and off-white.

In my time, the teachers were mostly Patrician

Brothers. They wore a green sash like a belt and

were very fond of the reed cane. They could lash

with impunity and did. At least once a week I

staggered home, my legs bruised and battered,

welts clearly visible on the bare skin. No one

questioned their authority. They walloped the

bejaysus out of you, it was simply the norm.

It wasn’t that they were always right, simply that a

cowed populace never thought to ask if they might

be wrong.

All has changed, utterly. Corporal punishment is

illegal. And in a ferocious, ironic turnaround, the

teachers were now the ones being bullied.

I had replaced their reeds of punishment with a

whole new way of lacerating myself.

Called it Jameson.