The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(9)

The dog wagged his tail so I was amusing at least one. Ridge said,

“For fuck’s sake, Taylor.”

She sounded her wit’s end. I said,

“I met him one time.”

She consulted her notebook and I thought,

God be with the days I had one of those. She asked,

“Where were you between the hours of eight and midnight yesterday?”

I made a show of concentrating just to fuck with her a little more, then,

“Drunk in Fahy’s bar in Bohermore.”

She raised her eyes to heaven but found no solace there, said,

“You might need to contact a lawyer.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Miller was found dead and we know from a hotel receptionist that you were his last visitor.”

“How did he die?”

“Violently.”

God almighty.

As she left, she said,

“Looks like you are screwed this time, Taylor.”

The young guy glared at me, said,

“I am looking forward to having you down the station.”

I gave him a caring smile, said,

“Go with God, my son.”

Later that day, I met with one of the few remaining Guards who would talk to me. Owen Daglish.

We met in Naughton’s on Quay Street, now a hubbub of hen and stag parties. I remembered when this was a dead street with nothing but a pawnshop. Owen looked seriously hungover, as he had done for the past ten years. Not so much one episode but the very box set of hangovers. He said, “I’m dying here, Jack.”

He had the serious cure, double hot whiskey and pint chaser, a heated boilermaker, if you will. I stayed on the cold Jay. Never ceases me to observe the cure occur. Owen gulped down the toddy, exclaiming, Oh, sweet Jesus, let it stay down.

No.

Oops.

Fuck.

Yes, maybe.

And then it hit, his face got the glow, the sweat evaporated, the shakes disappeared, he sat up straight, looking for fight, as they say. He literally sprang from the stool, urged, “Come on, cig time.”

Definitely on the mend if you want a cig. Outside it was cold and we huddled like lepers with the other wretched smokers but with a defiant air of camaraderie.

Owen lit a Major, the serious nicotine route, drew in some lethal amount, then on the exhale said, “I had to go to the wall on this request of yours, Jack.”

Meaning it would cost me.

Dear.

I handed him a wad of notes and, for a moment, seemed he might count it. Caught my look and put it fast in his jacket, said, “This is a bad business mate. That poor bastard Miller? Whoever did for him, it was vicious, beat the poor whore for a time before killing him, shoved pages of a book in his mouth so forcibly that it crushed his tongue.”

I felt a shiver, asked,

“A book?”

Back inside, he signaled for a refill, the cure coursing through his system and, of course, screaming for more. Then, “Yeah, some pages in, get this, Latin!”

Oh, fuck.

Before I could ask, he added,

“A priest translated it.”

“Whoa, what was a priest doing at a crime scene?”

He gave me a look of

“Yah dumb fuck.”

Said,

“He was still alive for a time and the priest was called for the last rites.”

He got the fresh drink, said slyly,

“Translation costs extra.”

I reached for more cash, slid it across with bad grace, thinking,

Hope it chokes you.

He tried to chill the situation. Said,

“Next round is on me, pal.”

Nervous though.

I snarled,

“The translation?”

“Oh, right, I have it written down.”

A crumpled piece of paper, then a big show of getting his reading glasses, then read,

“Hic est diabolized.”

Waited.

I near spat.

“The fuck does that mean?”

He waited a beat, then,

“He is demonized.”



Woodrow Wilson said, “The hyphen is un-American.”

(Note the hyphen required in “un–American.”)

Fleur de peau

Sensitive to anything that touches his skin





Time to go and see my boss. He would not be too thrilled that I failed to procure The Red Book. The fact that Frank Miller was dead and apparently with pages of said tome shoved down his throat. Would it cut any ice?

Would it fuck.

From my previous meeting with the great man, I knew he only understood results. Plus, I hadn’t shown up for the security job, figuring I was already working on something for him. I asked Doc to mind the pup while I was thus engaged. Doc was busy in preparation for Everest. I hadn’t yet asked him if I could come along.

I mean,

Here I was,

A drunk,

Xanax popping,

Two fingers mutilated,

A limp,

A hearing aid,

Dodgy health prognosis,

Recent wanna-be suicide.

Who wouldn’t want to climb the highest mountain with me? He had in his time summited

K2.

Annapurna.

McKinley.

Kilimanjaro.

Failed to reach the top of the North Face of the Eiger. I asked,