The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(14)

There was an atmosphere of unrest that cried out for a strong hand. That would be him. He believed in Ron Hubbard’s dictum that “If you want to make a million, make a church.”

He wanted to make a massive change so he would make a city. Followers. Essential to get foot soldiers and where better than the ranks of the disenchanted, the chronically unemployed?

A hatchet man.

Vital.

Terry Wood, known as Woody. A former insurgent, as they were now so PC-termed. He had been at a loss since the peace initiative. If he ever had a CV it would list Thug

Psycho

Maniac

And all-round brute. It wasn’t so much that he embraced violence—he loved it, was never more alive than beating the hell out of somebody. He looked like a small gorilla and knew it. He met JC at a prayer rally. The best venue to find the crazy and the seekers. He was in the midst of kicking a young guy who had bumped into him when he felt his drawn fist held. Turned to see JC who said, “Would you like to be rich and famous?”

His initial response of

“Fuck you, asshole”

Didn’t emerge, instead,

“Tell me more.”

So it began, the ghosts began to take substance.

JC asked Woody,

“Can you get a dead horse?”

Woody, not noted for his humor, nearly said,

“I have flogged some.”

But knew enough about his leader to keep it serious. He did try,

“Easy to get a live one and just …”

Pause.

“You know, shoot the fucker.”

Got the look from JC, who commanded,

“What do we believe about obscenities?”

Woody thought,

We fucking avoid them.

Said,

“It debases those who resort to them.”

JC appreciated the value of a man like Woody. A guy who seemed to thrive on what the Americans nicely term black ops. The down-and-dirty suite that was so necessary to get a movement off the ground. Woody was the personification of the shit sandwich principle. Pat their head while you kicked their arse. Convince a guy like Woody that only you fully appreciated his unique talents and bolster that fragmented ego, you had a pit bull of undying loyalty. Feed him a crazy notion and then the trick was to let him believe he had thought of it. Plus, there was the added rush of utter mind fucking.

Money.

Hit the rich guys, butter them up with titles they would hold in the new organization, then find their weakness and exploit the hell out of it. It was a hit-and-miss affair at best. The death of the Celtic Tiger made the new money guys cautious but, persuade them that they would be part of the new ruling junta, they bought in.

Blackmail with a velvet touch.

He had it blacklined in his book of ghosts. The journal he was keeping with a view to publication after he was famous. All the greats did that. Made him smile to consider a Ghostwriter.

Mainly he was a humor-free zone but did appreciate irony if it was delivered with a hammer and intent.

But for serious cash it was hard to beat the old reliables. Women and theft. Combine both. He did.

Julia Finch, an old bird like her very name. She came from old-time money and was old-time with it, that is, mean. He wooed her as if he meant it. Gave her the codswallop she wanted to hear. Too, played on that old adage of bad boy. Well, even more alluring to an Irish woman, bad priest.

Sin

Sacrilege

Sex.

Irresistible.

But fuck, he earned it. Big time. The woman droned on

And on.

While he had to act like he was rapt. Thinking he wanted to wrap his hands ’round her neck. Once she had signed most everything to him, JC asked Woody, “How do you feel about Julia?”

Woody was wary; was it a trick?

He tried,

“She seems very devout.”

He wanted to add sir but it stuck in his throat. JC said,

“She says you put your hands on her.”

He was speechless. JC gave a rueful smile, said,

“I don’t believe even you are quite that desperate.”

Woody knew he was being deeply insulted but wasn’t sure why, knew enough to know that, when you are cornered, a shot of pious shite might work, said, “We all have a cross to carry.”

He didn’t believe that for an instant, else why did God give the world au pairs? JC was shaking his head, as if more grief was coming.

It was.

He said,

“She says you are a vile, treacherous, thieving piece of garbage.”

Phew, he had to bite down. JC was watching him closely, said,

“Speak freely.”

He knew he would have to avoid cursing and to tread lightly, spat,

“Cunt.”

How do you track a ghost?

Lightly.

That’s what I did. Innocent questions thrown in to pub conversations, not a driving interrogation but a soft gentle inquiry. Nothing at first but slowly a trace began to emerge.

Unemployed men suddenly having a cause, a purpose. Hints of a new movement that would once and for all deal with the crooked bankers, the sleazy shot callers who had robbed the country blind.

Oh, and the water charges.

Any organization that promised to end the hated tax was a winner. A few times I saw a small burly man buying rounds for everybody. His name I learned was Woody. A Friday evening I managed to maneuver myself next to him at the bar. He was shouting for a large round, I said, “Great. Make mine a double.”