The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(28)

Yeah, right.

Two, put a large brick through this.

A very pretty receptionist was not impressed at my appearance, asked,

“Are you delivering something?”

“Bad news?”

Not amused.

I said,

“The name is Taylor and I was summoned by the head honcho.”

Before she could grill me further, a tall man with one hell of a suit came striding down the corridor, boomed, “Mr. Taylor.”

His hand extended, and I swear gold cuff links with initials.

Like, seriously?

Weren’t they outlawed apart from Bond movies?

He said,

“So glad you could make it. Let’s step into my office and meet the client.”

I recognized the man standing by the window. We’d met outside the hospital. He turned, said, “Jack, good to see you.”

The lawyer offered coffee and then said,

“I will withdraw and let you gents get down to business.”

Cooper looked ill, very ill. He said,

“I look fucked, right?” I went very Irish, said,

“God no, you look mighty.”

He sat down and indicated I should do the same, settled himself, said,

“From the time of our encounter, I knew you’d be the man if a chap found himself in a spot of bother.”

His tone oozed authority, a man accustomed to minions.

I don’t do minion well.

I asked,

“This spot of bother. Has it do with the murder of the Guards?”

Granite leaked over my words.

He gave me a searching look, asked,

“You knew them?”

I nodded.

He digested that as he considered his next move, then,

“My second in command, Woody. A good lad if a little impetuous.”

I waited, not going to make this easy, he said,

“Perhaps, I stress the perhaps, he might have been overzealous in his somewhat misguided loyalty to me.”

I said,

“The fuck shot two Guards?”

A fleeting wave of rage in his eyes as the true man peeked out, then it was gone and the sweet affability again, said, “Good heavens, that would be a leap. My hope is that you, as the resourceful chap you are, might find him before the authorities do.”

I said,

“If he killed those Guards, his chances with the authorities would be better than me finding him.”

He sat back, a building sneer on his face, said,

“I had you figured as a man with a broader canvas.”

I near spat,

“Broader canvas? The fuck are you saying?”

He sighed.

“Your rep led one to believe you were something other than the pathetic wretch you now present.”

I nearly smiled. It’s almost nice to be insulted in literary language; makes a change from the usual bollix.

I said,

“I guess you won’t be needing my services, then?”

He gave me a look of such disdain that his face tilted. He said,

“You are dismissed, Taylor.”

I said,

“Thing is, I will now give all my energy to finding this Woody.”

Just when I figured I had him pegged, he did an about turn and, in a very pleasant tone, asked, “Have you ever been to the dogs, Mr. Taylor?”

Was it some kind of metaphor? I went,

“Huh?”

“Not difficult, Mr. Taylor. Like horse racing but with …”

Paused.

“Dogs!”

He was, I decided, many shades of crazy. I said,

“No.”

He reached in his jacket, checked a leather-bound notebook, not unlike police issue, said, “The second race on the card has a dog named, aptly enough, ‘Galway Ghost.’”

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Many reasons, mostly nefarious but bottom line, I have a sneaking regard for you.”

I said,

“Makes me all warm and valued.”

I checked the sports page on my return home. The dog was indeed running and quoted at 14/1.

Phew.

If this were a less bleak narrative, the hero would put the mortgage on the bet, and to the strains of “Eye of the Tiger.”

The dog would at the very last second come from nowhere and win!

Glad rejoicings.

The dog lost.

I didn’t back him.

Not one cent.

To mix my metaphors, I not only looked that gift horse in the mouth but let it roar, unbridled. My mobile thrilled after the race and I heard Cooper go “Oh, dear, so sorry.”

I waited.

He continued,

“I truly hope you weren’t too burnt with your wager, Mr. Taylor.”

I laughed into the phone, startling him. He tried,

“I must say you took the loss well.”

I said,

“Didn’t back him.”

A sharp intake of breath, then,

“Why?”

“Because, as they say in parts of the U.S., you are a lying sack of shit.”

I could hear his sharp intake of breath. He said,

“No need for that.”

He was offended?

Good.

I said,

“One last thing. You can bet on something.”