The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(27)

The pup trotting alongside me, glancing anxiously at me, intuiting that something was badly off. He was right. I walked with a cold fury tightening my heart and strangling my soul.

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

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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.