The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(2)
I nodded and he said,
“The head honcho wants you to meet him.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, said,
“No idea. He only this week went through the employee files and seeing your name asked for you.”
“Who is he?”
He took a deep breath, then,
“Alexander Knox-Keaton, from some, somewhere in Ukraine.”
Ukraine!
With all the waves of migrants literally throwing themselves into the ocean to flee Syria and other deadly regimes, Ukraine seemed to have momentarily dropped from the headlines, but it was nice to know one of their people was living it large.
I said,
“Not exactly your expected Ukraine name. I’d have expected something more
… Slavic?”
He sneered.
“Fucking get you, Mr. Knowledge. Shame you are wasted on this piss poor excuse of a job.”
I didn’t rise to the bait. Oddly, since my failed suicide, I felt less inclined to kick the living shit out of assholes.
He said,
“Here is his address and you are to report to his mansion tomorrow at noon.”
I echoed,
“Mansion?”
He gave me the look, the one that cries,
“Dumb shit”
Said,
“You will see and be sure to wear a suit.”
“I only have my funeral one.”
He sneered.
“Might well be just that.”
“They spent the afternoon butchering horses.”
(Matthew McBride, A Swollen Red Sun)
Early on the morning of October 1 a reveler, staggering home, went, “What the fuck?”
He was standing or rather swaying at the top of Eyre Square. If he had been of a literary bent, He might have intoned,
“Doth mine eyes deceive me?”
But being hungover and a moron, he uttered,
“WTF.”
In the middle of the square was the body of a horse. A bright chestnut already showing extreme rigor mortis. The drunk added, “In all me born days …”
He moved down to take a closer look but a sudden spasm doubled him and he projected a line of vomit that would cause CSI all kinds of headaches. He wiped his brow and swore, “That is my last drink. Ever.”
He didn’t of course stop drinking but he did avoid Eyre Square for a long time. He also stopped backing horses.
I dressed to, if not impress, then to make a statement. That being,
“I’m fucked.”
So my now very battered Garda allweather coat, scuffed Doc Martens, a once white T now in shades of washed gray, and my fade to faded 501s.
The man from Ukraine had his mansion near the golf links. I had as a child worked as a caddy, thus ensuring a lifetime aversion to the sport.
I let his name swirl in my mouth to get a sense of it.
Alexander
Knox-
???Keaton
No way was this his real name but I could care less. His house was a glass affair, screaming two things: Money.
Bad taste.
A car, BMW, with two occupants, either bodyguards or the local cops. Which, depending how much juice you had, could be both.
I stopped to survey the house and, with Galway Bay at my back, let out a deep sigh. I was bone tired, tired of assholes and stupid money. I lit one of my now five a day rationed cigs and blew the smoke toward the monstrosity of glass. Then muttered, “Let’s rock and moan.”
Headed for the door. Opened as I reached it, a young Filipino woman in maid’s uniform said, “Mr. Taylor?”
I nodded and she stepped aside to let me by.
In the hallway was a huge tapestry of what appeared to be a page from The Book of Kells.
The maid led me to a study, ablaze with books, the walls lined with beautifully covered volumes and they had that look of being well used. Not for show then. But that rarity. A working library. Thick heavy wooden furniture that you might imagine carved from a line of oaks but, too, seemed to be lived in. An open fireplace had a raging inferno going on.
Few things as comforting as that. Like an echo of the childhood you only ever read about. The maid withdrew and I examined the books up close, nearly missed hearing the door open behind me, turned to see a man who reflected the grandeur and solidity of the room. A man over six feet tall and power oozing from every pore. He was wearing a tweed suit, very Anglo-Irish of the ’50s, and, I shit thee not, a cravat, adding a slight P. G. Wodehouse vibe. He had a full head of well-darkened hair and a face that testified to the use of money and force. His age was a well-preserved seventy or a very fucked forty.
He held out a big hand, calloused and creased so not just a sightseer. Boomed,
“Mr. Taylor.”
I took his hand and was relieved he wasn’t one of those bonecrushing idiots who think that means anything other than “Bollocks.”
I said,
“Jack, please.”
He smiled, revealing one gold tooth among the very best cosmetic dentistry. He said,
“And I am Alex.”
Then,
“Sit, sit and let me treat you to a shot of Slain whiskey.”
Made at Slain castle and promoted by Lord Henry Mount Charles himself and not due to hit the market until late 2017.
Was I impressed?
Yeah, a little.
Taking a heavy tumbler of Galway crystal, I sank into an armchair. Inhaled a smoky whiff of the drink. Fucking marvelous. He asked, “How are you finding the job?”