Which left Stewart, the drug-dealer. Instead of analysing it to death, I just called him and he said, 'Come by, I've just bought some new herbal tea.'
I could only hope the tea was a joke.
I stopped in a religious shop en route. There's one near the Augustinian church: lots of relics of St Jude, spanking new books on the late Pope. I couldn't find what I was looking for, just like U2.
The woman behind the counter said, 'I know you.'
Like the theme song of me life.
And never uplifting.
She said, 'I knew your mother.'
I waited for the usual homilies, platitudes, the dirge about her being so holy, damn near a saint and all the other horseshite. I nodded, thinking, Let's get the beatification over with.
She said, 'Hard woman, your mother, but I don't suppose I have to tell you that.'
I warmed to her instantly, asked, 'Have you a St Bridget's Cross?'
She smiled, a smile of real warmth.
'By the holy, we don't get much demand for those any more.'
But said she'd check the storeroom.
I read a plaque of the Desiderata while I was waiting, and figured with that and the Glock, you were set for life's setbacks.
The woman had one cross, blew some dust off it and said, 'There's no price on it.'
I handed over a twenty-euro note and she said it was far too much. I told her to put it in the poor-box.
She allowed herself another smile.
'Oh, we don't call them that any more, we say the disadvantaged.'
I had no reply to this, thanked her for her time.
As I left, she said, 'God mind you well.'
I sure as hell hoped someone would. I was doing a bad job of it me own self.
When Stewart answered his door I didn't recognize him for a moment, then realized he'd shaved his head.
I said, 'You're really taking this Zen gig to the limit.'
He motioned me in.
'I'm losing my hair. This way, I don't have to see it happen piecemeal.'
Argue that.
It gave him a hard-arse look and, coupled with the new stone eyes, totally changed him from the bank-clerk type I'd first encountered those years ago. The whole vibe cautioned, 'Don't fuck with me.'
The flat was still spartan and held an air of vacancy.
He said, 'I'll get the tea.'
Yeah.
I sat wondering if I could score some more of those magic pills.
He came back with two mugs of some vile-smelling stuff, put it in front of me, asked, 'What's on your mind, Jack?'
I moved back from the mug and tried for levity. 'I can't just drop by for a social call?'
He shook his head, took a sip of his tea. 'You don't do social, Jack, so what's on your mind?'
What the hell? I told him. All of it – the family who killed as a unit. Took time to lay it all out.
He listened without interruption, and when I finished, I almost took a taste of the tea. Then I remembered the present, took it out of my pocket, said, 'House-warming token.'
He was surprised, opened it and said, 'You bring me a cross – you don't think I've enough of a burden?'
Didn't sound like gratitude.
'It's good luck, keep your home safe.'
He put it aside, said, 'Take more than St What's Her Name to achieve that.'
I was a bit put out.
'Those crosses are hard to get.'
Jesus, sounded lame even as I said it.
He finished his tea, said, 'So is luck.'
Before I could reply, he asked, 'What are you planning to do?'
'I've no idea.'
He let that float around, then said, 'It's fairly simple. I've been reading Thich Nhat Hanh, who said, "Don't just do something. Sit there."'
Just what I needed, philosophy.
I asked, 'You're saying I should do nothing?'
He stood up, flexed his body in some sort of yoga movement.
'I'm saying, kill the sister.'
I'd hoped for some brilliant idea, some radical scheme that would solve everything and, in truth, let me off the hook. So I could walk away, go to America and have, if not a clear conscience, then at least some tiny measure of ease.
Wasn't going to happen.
I raised my hands in a futile gesture, meaning 'That's the best you can do?'
He reached in his pocket, took out a tube of pills and threw it to me.
'You'll be wanting these.'
I wanted to protest, get indignant, fling them back, exert some dignity, but I wanted the pills more.
'Thanks.'
He shrugged, asked, 'You want help?'
Did he mean with my growing addiction?
He said, 'You'll need to know where the enemy lives, and let's face it, I can do that better than you, I still have all my network.'
Ridge wasn't going to help me, and tramping around on me own, hoping to get lucky, that wasn't too smart, so I said, 'Yeah, I'd appreciate that.'
He smiled, actually a hint of warmth in this one.
'You don't like relying on people, do you, Jack?'
Not a whole lot of mileage in lying so I said, 'No. No, I don't.'
He moved over to a small press, rummaged in there, took out a CD, frowned at it, then said, 'And when I find them, and find them I will, you want me to come do the deed with you?'
The deed?
Before I could mouth some crap about needing to do this alone, he said, 'My sister was murdered, and you helped me. These . . . people . . . wiping out a whole family, I feel I could get some closure by blowing out their candle.'
I had to ask, 'Stewart, you do know what you're saying?'
He'd come to some decision on the CD.
'I always know what I'm saying – that's why I say so little.'
Deep.
I stood up, didn't know if I should shake his hand, seal the pact, but he was offering the CD.
'This is for you. You give me a cross, here's something similar back, though perhaps a bit easier to carry.'
It had a black cover, which was appropriate. The title was I've Got My Own Hell To Raise, by someone called Bettye LaVette.
I indicated the title, asked, 'Cryptic message to me?'
He was moving me towards the door, said, 'It's a CD. Not everything has significance.'
I gave him my mobile number and he said, 'You'll be hearing from me, so keep the hearing aid on.'
Yeah.
21
'When you eat, the meal is yourself.'
Ed O'Brien, the dog guy – the man who hired me to investigate the stolen canines – I felt I better make a report to him. What to tell him? That I'd hired an alkie ex-cop who ended up in the canal? That I was fairly sure a businessman named King was putting the dogs in tins and I'd set a psycho to burn the warehouse to the ground?
Some report.
Whatever else, I'd surely have his full attention.
He'd given me his address. It was in Newcastle Lower, right alongside the university, and the walk there is almost soothing. You can hear the roar of the students, the high-spirited laughter and the sheer buzz of life. I found the house without any bother, one of those ivy-covered jobs, you have to figure a professor of something serious lives there. A heavy iron gate and then a short walk to the main door. Large neglected garden. When you're rich, you can afford to do neglect, it adds to the allure. A sign on the door warned:
No salesmen
All I was pitching was trouble and strife. I rang the door, waited, and finally it was opened by O'Brien, dressed in one of those heavy Aran cardigans I thought only the Americans purchased, and brown corduroy pants that were misshapen to the point of ridicule. He had a heavy book in his hand.
He stared at me, said, 'Can't you read the sign?'
I knew it had been a time since he'd enlisted my help, but not that long.