The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(3)

Tell the truth or kiss arse?

I said,

“Has me bored shitless.”

He laughed, seemed actually amused. Then he asked,

“The Red Book, this is known to you?”

His English had that tight careful air of the second-language perfectionist. Almost a clipped precision and you nearly hear the translation occur. I said, “Apart from Mao’s little red one, no.”

He topped up our glasses and then,

“You are, I believe, an …”

He paused to taste, savor, the next word,

… Aficionado

A conniver of books?

Conniver?

I said,

“I like to read but a bibliophile? Hardly.”

He liked that word, could see him store it. He continued,

“The Book of Kells. This you know?”

“Know is hardly the description but, yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

He settled himself into the chair opposite me, composing some lecture he’d prepared.

Began,

“It was written around AD 800. It is a book of the Gospels. No one knows who wrote it but it is believed to be a series of monks.”

He paused.

I said,

“So?”

He gave what can only be described as a wolverine smile, said,

“A rival book came out shortly after, decrying the Gospels, and is generally regarded as the first true work of heresy.”

Let me digest that, then.

“Known as The Red Book, the Church of course denies its existence. It is sometimes known by its title in Irish but, alas, that pronunciation is a little beyond me.”

I supplied,

“An Leabhar Dearg.”

He was impressed, said,

“I am impressed.”

I said,

“Fascinating as this little side trip down a Dan Brown alley is, what has it got to do with me?”

“I want you to get the book.”

I stood up, said,

“Thanks for the drink and the chat.”

He said,

“Here.”

Offering a check it seemed like. Well, fuck it. I am always going to look at one of those suckers.

Gasped.

Went,

“You are shitting me.”

He said,

“I am told you are dogged in your dedication to a case and that, somehow or other, you get results.”

This was patently untrue.

But was I going to argue? A gift horse is what you throw a saddle on and shut the fuck up.

He continued.

“You are familiar with the term rogue priest?”

I nearly laughed, wanted to ask,

“Nowadays, is there any other kind?”

But went with,

“Indeed.”

“The curator of sacred manuscripts and other treasures in the

Vatican recently died and his assistant, a Father Frank Miller, took the opportunity to not only quit his vocation but also abscond with The Red Book.”

If he was expecting a comment, I didn’t have one. He continued.

“Mr. Miller is now hiding out in Galway and has offered the book for sale.”

I said,

“So buy it.”

He sighed.

“Would it were so easy but Miller is, as they say, gun shy.”

This term would come back to haunt him.

“I want you to negotiate with him.”

I said,

“I don’t really do well with priests.”

“Ex-priest.”

“Whatever. I am sure you have better people to deal with him. I am quite likely to end up beating the shit out of him.”

He laughed, delighted, said,

“This is exactly what is required, fear and loathing.”

What the hell. I could give it a shot.

I said,

“Frank Miller. Shares a name with the renowned author, graphic artist, moviemaker.”

He looked as if this was of no relevance. I added,

“The film was Sin City. Nice serendipity, don’t you think?”

He didn’t.

Said,

“Just get the job done.”

Heard the steel in there and wanted to tell him to go

… Fuck his own self.

But the check.

Won out.

Said,

“I’ll get right on it.”

My dog Storm seemed to know I had recently considered suicide and was now keeping a canine watchful eye on me. In the apartment, he’d sit on my chair, staring at me as if to ask, “What’s up, bud?”

I said,

Going American,

“Phew, I nearly bought the farm there, pal.”

He didn’t speak U.S. so just wagged his tail. I grabbed the leash and got a short bark of utter joy. Shucking into my Garda allweather coat we headed out, my pockets holding treats and a small flask of Jay. Ending October, the air was dry and alive, people shouted how yah, and the warm vibe was largely a result of our soccer team beating the Germans by a goal.

Beating the best.

With a government hell-bent on eroding the will of the country with a continuation of the hated water tax, it was good to have a reason to smile. We headed for the Salthill promenade and I relished the little dog’s sheer unadulterated joy in the walk. The dead horse in Eyre Square was a hot topic and especially since a notice had been sent to the papers with just this: “FADH.”