The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(29)
“Yes?”
“Your mate Woody? Kiss him good-bye.”
I clicked off the phone, tired of this bollocks. The pup was at my feet, the leash in his mouth. I asked, “When did you learn that trick?”
Tail wag.
We went up Prospect Hill, past Crowes pub, then all the way up to the cemetery. Only in Ireland, opposite the graveyard gate, a new shop has opened.
In such a location, you’d think, flowers?
Nope.
Get this:
Bridal
Wear!
I kid thee not.
Was it a subliminal message, get hitched and ’twas then but a hop and a skip to the grave?
Just outside the cemetery gates I replayed a call I had made.
I called my friend Owen Daglish and he confirmed the Guards had nothing to pursue. I asked him about the guy Woody, and he sneered, said, “An idiot, he couldn’t even shoot his mouth off.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Why the fuck would I know that when we’re not looking for him?”
“That’s a no, then?”
“Good-bye Jack.”
Never mind a person of interest. He wasn’t even a person of indifference.
A guy was standing outside the cemetery gates, greeted,
“Jack, how’s it cutting?”
I vaguely recognized him but had no name to go with the recollection so I went the Irish way, said, “Good to see you.”
He indicated the graveyard, said,
“You’d think I was keen to get it over with.”
The pup was staring at the graves, his body on alert, as if he knew this was not a place to linger.
The guy shook himself, said,
“Prince was found dead.”
I didn’t quite know the response to this, so went,
“Really?”
He asked,
“Were you a fan?”
Shite.
I said,
“The guy had some moves.”
I began to move off myself and he shouted,
“Did you hear about the priest?”
These days that was a multichoice answer.
A. Molester
B. Married his housekeep (of either sex)
C. Robbed the parish funds
D. All of the above.
I went with the cute answer, which covered my ignorance and hinted I knew other stuff, asked, “Which one?”
“Father Malachy.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, he found some rare old book that the Church was looking for and he’s being called to Rome for some mega honor.”
Fuck.
I asked,
“How did he find it?”
“Oh, he gave all the credit to Anthony.”
“Who?”
“Saint Anthony. The go-to guy for lost things.”
I was truly shocked. The treacherous bastard.
The guy said,
“Good for him, eh?”
I now knew what the expression meant.
It stuck in my craw.
Did it fucking ever.
He continued,
“He’s going to be on The Late Late Show.”
Wonder and enchantment in his tone.
That show was the ultimate Irish accolade. It was said you could do most anything to please your mother (once, by joining the priesthood but now, not so much) but nothing impressed her like being a Late Late guest.
He said,
“I heard him on Jimmy Norman’s radio show and he was so humble.”
I’ll bet he fucking was.
I’d heard enough and waved a vague good-bye. He went,
“You know him pretty well.”
Phew-oh.
I said,
“Seems like I didn’t know him at all.”
PURPLE
??????RAIN
The pup and I got back to the apartment just as the heavens opened. I reached for my keys and the pup began a low growling.
Someone was inside.
I pushed the door slowly open, my keys held forward as a fairly lame weapon. The pup was trembling and it took me a moment to see.
A hundred-pound rottweiler was sitting near the bookcase. I said,
“Fuck.”
Then heard,
“Don’t be shy, Jack, join us.”
Emily
Emerald
??Em.
??Trouble.
She said,
“Meet Satan.”
Of course.
I said,
“I already met the devil.”
The pup went under his own chair, peeking warily at Satan. He knew what that dog was: A killer.
Em pushed a book at me, said,
“In gratitude.”
I asked,
“You’re thanking me?”
Snap of her head and
“Silly, it’s the title, by Jenny Diski, about her relationship with Doris Lessing.”
I said,
“That means Jack shit to me.”
She loved that, her dog not so much. She said,
“Satan responds to just two commands.”
I guessed,
“Kill and kill better.”
She laughed.
“How very Sam Beckett.”
I should have hated her. She was the reason Ridge was dead but hating her was like blaming the weather; it was just elemental. I asked, “Aren’t you at least a little wary of being here? You had my friend murdered.”