This both amused and vaguely embarrassed her. She said,
“Hmm, my husband left me for the ubiquitous younger model, and a bunch of gal pals and I used to meet regularly to read scripture and” — giggled a little — “okay, some of Fifty Shades of Whatever. Due to a series of blessed events we decided to become nuns but not with any formal rules or obedience to some old bitch who was bitter and frigid.”
A nice edge of hard leaked over the last part and she got me even more interested. I said,
“Rebels without a veil.”
She said, with a tiny hint of offense,
“We take our calling very seriously.”
I had managed to sit up, even sip some water, said,
“Like L. Ron Hubbard.”
Now she did snarl.
“We are nothing like Scientology.”
I gave a tight smile, no relation to humor, said,
“You have a problem with your comprehension, much like any church, really. What I meant was the saying by him, If you want to make a million, found a religion.”
Before she could answer, I asked,
“Do you pay taxes?”
A moment before she answered, then,
“I didn’t come here to discuss financial issues.”
I laughed, said,
“That would be a no: No, you don’t pay taxes so, tell me, why did you come?”
She was well rattled but took a moment to compose herself, then the cheery Californian resumed.
“We had been looking at Ireland as a base for our sisterhood and then we heard of the miracle, looked up Galway, and just knew it was divine providence.”
I had no reply to this nonsense so said nothing.
She was on a roll so continued, said,
“The miracle of Jack Taylor. It is perfect. A former lost soul, an alcoholic, a drug addict, prone to extreme violence, the cause of grief to so many, and God chose you, the most wretched of his creatures, to bestow his grace upon.”
Fuck.
I said,
“Flattery won’t work on me.”
She looked at me with that blend of pity and condescension that pharmacists reserve for some poor bastard who tries to buy meds with codeine in them.
She said,
“We’ve set up our convent near the shrine of the memorial and already hundreds of people are camping out there. Imagine what your appearance would mean.”
I was choking with rage, tried,
“What is it exactly you think I am supposed to do?”
She got that look of bliss that fundamentalists have when they are at their craziest, said,
“Saint Jack, that’s what they’re calling you. We can make Galway a city of global pilgrimage.”
The nurse came in. Trish, I think she was called. I told her,
“This woman thinks I’m a saint.”
Trish suppressed a burst of laughter, said,
“She should try nursing you.”
Connie rounded on her, spittle at the corner of her fading botoxed lips, near spat,
“Respect please: This is a man of deep spirituality.”
Trish gave her a long look, said,
“You need your head examined.”
Then turned to me, said,
“There’s some kind of Hells Angel being held by security. He claims to live with you.”
Keefer.
Exactly what this shindig needed.
I said,
“Let him in.”
He arrived looking like a cross between a biker and an outlaw, his hair in a ponytail, that Willie Nelson bandanna, leather jacket with a denim vest over it, combat pants, motorcycle boots, a battered rucksack on his shoulder. He stood, exclaimed,
“Taylor, you’re back.”
He nodded at Connie, noncommittal, who just gaped, said to her,
“Be a good gal, shut the door.”
She didn’t like it, echoed,
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiled, said,
“It’s not complicated: Shut the bloody door, on your way out, preferably.”
He plonked the rucksack on the bed, took out a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, two mugs, poured liberally, handed me one, said,
“Stay away from Mack trucks, buddy.”
Connie was horrified, shrieked,
“What if a doctor comes by?”
He looked at her as if she were a simpleton, said,
“Why I asked you to shut the door.”
Then adding heresy to blasphemy, he lit up a joint, drew deep, handed it to me. I was in heaven, reeling from the hit of neat booze, the rawness of the joint.
Connie near screamed,
“Do you know who I am?”
Indignation writ huge.
He shrugged.
“Sure, the broad running the Sisters of Something scam.”
She turned to me, said,
“Say something.”
I raised the mug, tried,
“Sláinte.”
Connie considered her options, which were few, decided on flight, said,
“I shall withdraw for now. But Jack, we’ll be seeing each other: We have important work to do.”
Then to Keefer,
“The Sisters of Solace will not be mocked.”
And she was gone.
Keefer said,
“I could be wrong but I think she took a bit of a shine to me.”
Then he added,
“Reminds me of Joan Didion, who was described as having cool bitch chic.”
I said,
“You’d make quite the pair.”
He laughed, then,
“You missed Christmas.”
I nodded gravely as if some losses must just be endured.
Asked,
“How is our falcon?”
His face shone, he said,
“She hunts like a thing of beauty.”
I showed him the match and the note from the matchstick man. He read it with a worried frown, said,
“We’ll have to find this lunatic.”
I said,
“Not too hard. Let’s see how many fires there’ve been.”
That hatred is a system that, however much it may be held in check by other forces of character, works for the destruction of the hated thing, as anger does only in its extreme forms, and in human beings works with a deliberate and self-controlled activity as one of its distinctive marks, is generally recognized.
Destruction then becomes the prominent end of hatred.
All means may be adopted for this end.
Benjamin J. Cullen.
A fine worthy name he felt.
Nobody called him
Benny
Or Ben
Or any of those mundane derivations.
At least they never called him that a second time.
He was in his late forties. His looks were average, nothing stood out. He liked it thus and dressed accordingly, conservative but expensive.
He was fueled by hate.
A dark, uncompromising, all-encompassing hatred, and he hugged it to himself like a malevolent lover. He didn’t have a tortured childhood; like everything else, it was mundane. Ordinary parents who were too normal to detect anything amiss in their only son. He was quiet, which suited their quiet dispositions.
In his late teens he had discovered The Art of War
By Sun Tzu.
It spoke to him directly when he memorized chapter 12.
“The Attack by Fire.”
Which began,
There are five ways of attacking with fire. The first is to burn soldiers in their camp; the second is to burn stores; the third is to burn trains; the fourth is to burn magazines arsenals; the fifth is to hurl dropping fire amongst the enemy.
He would adapt this thesis to suit himself like all the best nutjobs. He was chuffed to learn that Tony Soprano quoted the book in the television series. Later it amused him to learn that the two most read books in American prisons were
The Art of War