The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(31)
Let the old hacienda line trail off.
Then reached out a hand, demanded,
“Give it here, young pilgrim.”
And he did.
She expertly racked the slide, sang,
Rootin’
Tootin’.
Shot Woody in the side of the head. The shot didn’t frighten the dog. In his streamlined world, he did the frightening. Emily looked at the dead man, said, “Kept the best shot for last.”
Then adjusted the surgical gloves and rubbed Satan behind the ears, cooed,
“Who’s a good boy?”
“As the sun dips toward the horizon
And darkness gathers around the girls
Neither of them knowing how little time they have left
Before the fire goes out.
Remember how good it felt to burn.”
(Robin Wasserman, Girls on Fire)
I was admiring the title for Tom Hanks’s new movie.
Not that I have huge respect for TH, seeing him as Jimmy Stewart lite. Or indeed have read much of Dave Eggers, thinking, perhaps wrongly, that he has that whole smug gig going.
I mean really,
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.
Come on.
Anyway, back to the title I do like:
A Hologram for the King.
“What do you think of that title?”
He didn’t seem to have a whole lot to bark on it either way.
A light knock on the door
And I mean light.
As if they didn’t want to intrude?
I opened the door and there’s a man so good-looking it hurt your eyes. As Woody Allen said, He took handsome lessons.
Tall of course, not wearing a fedora but had the tone of it. Blond tousled hair, a tan.
Tan!
In Galway.
Age in that bad forty, terrific fifty range. His eyes were a sort of steel gray. He offered a warrant card with a gold badge. Special branch?
He asked,
“Mr. Jack Taylor?”
In that tone the schmucks in Vegas used to introduce
“Mr. Frank Sinatra.”
Yeah, annoying as hell.
His hand was out. I noticed a heavy class ring like they have in the U.S., so American experience?
He said,
“Sheridan. May I come in?”
I asked,
“What, no first name, like Madonna or the late Prince?”
He gave a huge grin and, of course, great teeth, said,
“I heard you were a funny guy.”
Nothing in his quiet tone suggested he thought there was anything even remotely humorous. I asked, “If I say no?”
Bigger grin and
“Then I’d have to shoot you.”
Waited a beat.
Then,
“And the cute dog.”
I let him in and he strode over to the bookcase, asked,
“You think it’s true you can read somebody by what they read?”
As I said, his tone, his voice was barely above a whisper but it held a ferocity and steel that was damn impressive.
I said,
“Well, nowadays, skels keep the good stuff on Kindle.”
He looked impressed, exclaimed,
“I’m impressed. Skels! You obviously have read Andrew Vachss.”
The pup gave a soft sigh, not much liking the shoot the dog crack, and hid under the sofa. Sheridan indicated a chair, asked, “May I sit?”
And sat.
Asked,
“Coffee?”
Got to hand it to him, he had some moves, knew how to make an entrance.
I bit down on a slightly dormant aggression, fetched the Jameson, offered.
He laughed, quietly of course, said,
“Tad early but, good Lord, how often does one meet Jack Taylor?”
Bollix.
I poured two bracing measures, said,
“Slainte a match.”
He answered,
“Agus leat fein.”
I was meant to remark on his command of our native tongue.
I didn’t.
Said,
“We have established you know all sorts of shite, but what Exactly
Are you doing here?”
He assumed a grave expression, said,
“There has been a suicide.”
I didn’t want to know.
I truly did not.
I said,
“Do tell.”
Even sounded like I might care.
He said,
“Terence Wood, alleged killer of two Guards, shot his bad self in his very bad head.”
Pause.
“Good fucking riddance.”
No argument.
I echoed,
“Suicide.”
For absolutely no reason, he observed,
“I have lived my life betwixt suicide and murder.”
Right!
I said,
“Me, I have endured my life between vicious cunts.”
He ran the taste of that ’round his gums, then said,
“I’m not buying in to the suicide scenario.”
“Why?”
He laughed, asked,
“Jesus H, how monosyllabic are you going to be?”
“A lot.”
He suddenly reached down and rubbed the pup’s ears, startling not only me but the pup.
The pup wasn’t buying it.
Sheridan said,