“Nobody.”
One of the few lights in my befuddled life was living in an apartment that was opposite the bay. I never ceased to stare and yearn.
I got home after a few fumbled drunken attempts with my key, and was immediately alert.
Somebody had been in again.
My nine-mm was hung in a pea jacket near the door. I slipped it out and ratcheted a round, then, holding it two-fisted like the movie guys, I entered the living room.
What I saw spooked me fast and hard.
In the center of the coffee table a gleaming crystal skull.
I scanned the room. Moonlight cast its beam and gave an eerie glow to the skull. I let the nine rest in one hand, headed for the drinks table, uncorked a bottle of Laphroaig, a present from Johnny Depp.
Kidding.
I got it from the manager of McCambridge’s at Christmas.
It takes a practiced dipso to get the cap off, splash a shot or two into the tumbler, knock it back. It’s a finely tuned act with one hand and even more impressive without taking my eyes off the skull.
Fortified, I approached the table and, fuck me, was I seeing things?
Embedded in the center of the skull was an insignia—
Of the Garda Síochána.
Scott had inherited his father’s house, a rambling mess of overgrown garden, built from old Galway granite, and it had an Edgar Allan Poe vibe.
Suited Scott to a maniac T.
His mother, Valiumed to the hilt, asked.
“Is it okay if I stay in the west wing?”
Scott laughed, a malicious, glee-free sound. He said,
“West wing! How very fucking Anglo-Irish.”
His mother tut-tutted, scolded,
“Language.”
Scott glared at her. She didn’t have her husband to back her passive-aggressive taunts. He moved right in her face, asked,
“How polite is this? Get the fuck out of the house by close of business, meaning this evening.”
A mournful dirge she began was interrupted by a special delivery package
Addressed to:
Scott,
Son of prominent dead Garda,
Taylor’s Hill,
Galway.
The courier remarked,
“Odd form of address.”
And lingered on the doorstep
For a tip/explanation?
Scott hit his head in mock exaggeration, said,
“Oh, silly me, you’re waiting for a tip.”
The courier gave an attempt at a modest grin. Scott said,
“Here’s a tip: mind your own fucking business.”
Scott bounced the package in his hand, puzzled.
Opened it carefully.
A disc fell out with play me inscribed.
He did.
A shaky video that showed him crossing the street, shooting Nora McEntee, then hurrying away. The camera panned to reveal a man in a top-floor apartment with a shocked expression. There was a short music track to accompany the shooting.
“Galway Girl.”
By Steve Earle.
Scott then noticed a sheet of paper, read,
Scotty,
Yah mad bastard.
The face in the window is an ex-cop, Jack Taylor.
You need to exercise due care.
You my bitch now.
xxxxxx
9
February 2018
The Beast from the East.
Brutal storms, blizzards, snow coming from eastern Europe
Nigh paralyze Europe.
Ireland goes into panic mode.
Three days of utter chaos as the shops empty of food
And a sense of Armageddon prevails.
Sales of toboggans are staggering.
Who knew we even knew what a toboggan was?
Most things we can make an effort at,
But snow?
We don’t do snow.
Ireland stayed in lockdown for five days.
Heavy snow altered the city landscape in a sort of beautiful, flawed fashion.
Supermarkets ran out of all supplies and for two days there was an actual curfew because of the velocity of the winds.
Horror of all, even the pubs shut.
Grim days.
TV news rolled out weather experts who doled out increasingly dour doom-ridden forecasts. I holed up in my apartment, watching the ocean at its fiercest, at its finest.
Had to ration my booze lest the storm continued longer.
Eerie to see the streets so deserted.
On the Saturday, knock on my door, opened it to a young man. Took me a moment to recognize him.
Stapleton’s son.
Fuck.
I asked,
“How did you know where I live?”
He gave an odd smile, asked,
“May I come in? I brought supplies.”
He did indeed have many bags, bulging with food, booze, so
I let him in.
Asked,
“How’d you get all this when the town is literally shut?”
He said,
“My job.”
“Yeah, what do you do?”
“I burgle.”
Not many sane replies to this, so I went with,
“Oh.”
He grabbed a bottle from one of the many bags, said,
“Let’s brew up some hot ones.”
I held up my hand, said,
“Whoa, I don’t even know your name.”
He looked at me, went with,
“The fuck does that matter?”
Said,
“Terry. Mundane, eh?”
I took the bottle from him, shoved it back into the bag, said,
“Okay, Terry, thanks for the thought.”
I gathered up the bags, pushed them at him, opened the door, said,
“You take care now.”
His face turned in an instant, the laid-back guy gone and now a hard stone chill. He said,
“You fucking owe me, Taylor.”
I nearly laughed, said,
“Don’t think so, pal, now on your way.”
“You murdered my old man.”
I near stammered,
“That is ridiculous.”
He smirked, said,
“Not according to the people I talked to.”
I tried to stay cool, asked,
“Any of them offer proof, evidence, even motive?”
He weighed his words, then,
“Apparently you believed he was responsible for the death of a friend of yours.”
I shook my head, said,
“This is Galway. What they don’t know, they invent. Go live your life, leave the past be.”
He gave me a long look, said,
“Keep looking over your shoulder, Taylor, I’ll be around.”
I shut the door in his face.
Did I consider him a threat?
These days, just about everything seemed threatening. He was just one more dark line in a story embedded in darkness.
10
“If his view of life would scare the bejesus out of you,
Nevertheless, he had the courage of his convictions,
And that’s more than the rest of them had.”
I thought a lot about Amy Fadden and the alleged murder of her daughter.
If, and major if, she had been drowned by the mayor’s son, then a full-scale clusterfuck was in the cards.
Mayor Sean Tern, not a popular guy and very much of the old school type of politics, the
Nod and wink,
Slap your back,
Don’t tell and never show gig.
But he had the juice, meaning money and friends of influence.