The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(40)
“Tell him to grovel a little.”
“It’s not that the Irish
Are cynical.
It’s simply that they have a wonderful
Lack of respect
For everything and everybody.”
(Brendan Behan)
Clancy waited two days before he showed up. Early evening, a short knock at my door.
Solid, authoritative.
I let him simmer then opened the door. He wasn’t in uniform. I gave him a look of perplexity, asked, “Help you?”
He gave a grunt of barely suppressed rage, said,
“Not a time for your usual bullshit.”
And brushed past me.
I weighed my options:
Scream obscenities,
Throw him out,
Shoot him?
Much as I liked the third one, I closed the door, said,
“How have you been?”
Let a beat pass, then,
“Tom?”
He was checking out the room, seeing nothing to impress him. He said, gritted teeth, “I, um, appreciate you doing this, Jack.”
I shut the door, walked carefully to the chair, sat opposite him, the coffee table between us, and thirty years of bile. I said, with great warmth, “Glad to be of help.”
And I sat still.
He glanced around, definitely on edge, tried,
“If ever there is anything you need, some special assistance with?”
I let that hum, then asked,
“Like if I hadn’t paid my TV license?”
He gave a tight smile, said,
“Always the smart mouth but, really, if you get in a bind?”
Bind!
I said,
“Bind? Hell of a word.”
Enough fencing.
I reached behind me, produced a large brown envelope, laid it flat on the table. He stared at it, tried, “Thing between me and Anne, it was simply a fuck and run.”
I bit my lip, managed not to smash his face, said,
“There you go and … off you go.”
He stood, contemplated a hand shake, settled for
“Thanks again.”
And was gone.
Clancy was in his office, the envelope before him. He had shut his door, barked at his secretary, “No calls.”
He let out a sigh of relief, couldn’t believe it had been so easy. He picked up a gold letter opener, presented to him by the Rotary Club, sliced the top of the package.
Went,
“Huh?”
As he pulled out large blank sheets of paper.
In the middle was a page with black capital letters.
Took him a moment then he read
AS
?IF.
For once, I did the right thing.
I mailed the photos to Anne. I didn’t want to. In truth I wanted to wound her but I ignored the base instinct and sent them. There was the bonus of Clancy not sending his thugs to collect them from me. After I left the post office I paused to take a moment. A bedraggled busker was hammering “Galway Girl”
So badly, as if he had a mission to ruin Steve Earle’s song. I walked past him and he muttered, “Call yerself a patron of the arts?”
I couldn’t think of a witty rejoinder so I gave him ten euros. He looked at it, said, “Great, I can now retire.”
When buskers on the street abuse you, after you gave them money, something is seriously fucked.
I got back to the apartment and immediately knew there was someone inside. Not that I am psychic but loud music was playing. Sounded like Status Quo. I eased the door open and saw Emily dancing in the middle of the room, singing along with Quo. Trust me, to sing along with them is a feat of dark madness. I found the source, a small player on the bookshelf, turned it off. Emily stood mid–dance step, went, “You’re not down with the headbangers?”
I didn’t even know what that meant, asked,
“Why are people constantly breaking into my home?”
She giggled, yeah, giggled! Said,
“Because we love you, Jack-o.”
She was dressed in black jeans, white T, and her hair was brightest blond. The whole outfit gave her an almost waif appearance, which might have been appealing if she wasn’t so flat-out crazy. She flopped into a chair, drew a silver flask from her bag, drank deep, did a mock shudder, gasped.
“Fuck, that is good.”
Then looked at me, offered the flask, which I declined. She said,
“Jack me boy, we have us a
???Quandary,
???Quagmire.
Laughed.
Added,
“Well, all sorts of shite beginning with a Q.”
I waited.
She let out a deep dramatic sigh, said,
“One of us has to go.”
I asked,
“I’m thinking it’s not you?”
She did a tiny two-step shuffle, said,
“Exactly. And, logically, I’m prettier and younger, well, just about everyone is younger than you now, save for Bruce Springsteen.”
I asked,
“Where might you suggest I go?”
She seemed to give it some serious thought, then,
“I’m hearing Honduras is lovely this time of year.”
I nearly laughed.
I gave her a long hard stare but she merely smiled back. I asked,
“And if I don’t?”