What the hell, I felt in the mood for a scrap.
Dressed in white shirt, loose tie, my Garda coat, 501s, Doc Martens. Very much a mixed metaphor, a blend of tough and yet one of the guys.
Headed for town, checking over my shoulder for Stapleton’s son. No doubt he was off preparing a new burglary.
The ferocious beast of a storm had ended after a week of dire conditions and now came the burst pipes, power cuts, and the government assuring us that we’d be back in business soon.
Really.
The receptionist at City Hall was ice in clipped speech.
Like this,
“His lordship doesn’t see walk-ins.”
Fine.
I asked,
“He’s a lord now?”
Didn’t merit her reply, so I said,
“It’s regarding an allegation about his son.”
Still no move, so I pushed.
“Guess it’s the newspapers, then.”
Immediate reaction and a hurried,
“Wait here.”
She fucked off down a long corridor, all bristling anger.
Five minutes and she returned with a thin guy, wispy hair, tight suit, tighter face, and an air of
“I deal with assholes, fast.”
I said,
“You’re not the mayor.”
He allowed a thin smile to leak sideways from his curled lip. He was going to enjoy this.
Or so he thought.
He said in a withering tone,
“I deal with the more trivial of the mayor’s businesses.”
I asked,
“They allow you a name?”
He sighed, said,
“Mr. Cahill.”
I said,
“You have lovely manners.”
He made a show of checking his watch, important business waiting, demanded,
“Who are you?”
I held out my hand, which I knew he’d ignore, said,
“Jack Taylor.”
A dim light ran across his eyes, then,
“Oh, Lord, yes. Some kind of raggedy-arsed private eye.”
I said,
“A serious allegation has been made against the mayor’s son.”
He chuckled, made a face of deep annoyance, said,
“The alleged accuser has withdrawn her ridiculous charge.”
Fuck.
I waited.
He turned on his heel, not even a word of dismissal. I shouted,
“God bless.”
I found Jimmy Tern at the canal, the last place you’d think he’d be.
Accused of drowning a girl, why would he return there of all places?
I knew him from Instagram. He was all over social media, and if his posts were any indication he was a cocky little bollix.
Tall for his age, dark hair in what was once a Beatle cut, dressed in an expensive navy tracksuit, and the latest trainers — the ones that went for upwards of 250 euros.
How would I know that?
Mainly from utter astonishment for what we in our naïveté still called sand shoes.
Jimmy was obviously leader of the pack, and a motley bunch they were: two boys who were the followers and three girls drawn to the bad boy vibe.
Jimmy was in his element, uttering directives to the gang.
He spotted me and a vague hostile bravado drew him near. He demanded,
“Wotcha want, pedo?”
I liked him already.
I said,
“I’m here to make you famous.”
The new irresistible lure for the young.
Fame.
Didn’t matter how and talent wasn’t even in the neighborhood, just be a YouTube viral star.
He moved closer, asked,
“How?”
No question as to why.
Just get me there, fast.
I said,
“Child killers are hot now.”
Rocked the little bastard.
He faltered for a moment, looked to his gang who, as one, were staring at their feet, then,
“Fuck you, my dad will have you for slander.”
I said,
“But then we’ll get you to a court and, who knows, a lot can happen there. Least the world will see your face.”
He spat at me.
I said,
“You really are a nasty little prick, aren’t you?”
Truth to tell, I wanted to wallop him, a lot, went with,
“Can you swim?”
The gang were slowly slithering away. He snarled,
“Of course I can swim, you moron.”
I made a fast move toward him and he backed away, lost his balance, into the water. One of the girls laughed. He struggled for a moment then swam to the bank. I said,
“Nice stroke but you need to work on your dive.”
11
“Then
I had the kind of dreams
Where big black birds try to
Pluck your eyes out
And you wake up
With the sheet knotted around you
Like a vine.”
The fine Australian crime writer Peter Temple died aged seventy-one.
Ireland beat Scotland to win the Six Nations, and if they beat England at the dreaded Twickenham they’d have the Grand Slam.
We hoped, as this fixture was set for St. Patrick’s Day, we had some hard-core charm on our side.
I Never Sang for My Father,
A grueling emotional ride with Gene Hackman, was on cable.
Did I watch it again?
No.
My own father was great.
Few people in my life had such an impact on me. He was that rarity, a good decent man, as opposed to my mother, the walking bitch.
He once said to me,
“I’m not an aggressive person and I rarely feel aggressive but sometimes...”
Pause.
“I do feel the need to cut loose, be reckless, and be a man.”
I was twelve and this meant little to me. I always felt aggressive and vented on the hurling pitch.
My father worked on the railways. After a particular shift, his overtime and a win on the horses collided to leave him with the grand total of 1,500 pounds.
A friggin fortune in those days.
He hadn’t yet told my mother and I think he was on the verge of handing it to her when she from nowhere exploded,
“When do I get a new kitchen set?”
Before he could flash the money, she sneered,
“What kind of pathetic excuse of a man are you? I could have married somebody in the Post Office.”
He grabbed his coat, said,
“C’mon, Jack.”
And we were out of there.
Walked to Salthill, my father silent most of the way.
I didn’t care. As long as I was in his company, my world had a foundation.
The Castle Inn had just opened and was doing a thriving business, mainly due to the extras from Alfred the Great filming in Galway then.
They were earning mad money as Anglo-Saxons fighting draftees from the Irish army.
For a pound, you’d get eight pints, ten cigs, and change for chips on the way home.
My father ordered a pint and a Paddy chaser.
Boilermaker.
We didn’t know such terms then, it was simply a short one to keep the pint company. He got a mineral for the boy.
All soft drinks, which were either Claddagh orange or bitter lemon, came under the heading of that.
My father rarely drank spirits, had said,
“Road to hell.”
True that.
The very first Wimpy bar was due to open and we’d soon be able to try the very first hamburgers to hit the country.
My father drank fast; again, unusual for him, said,
“There’s a poem titled ‘If.’”
He paused.
Then,
“Lines in it that if you can make a pile of your winnings and roll them on one turn of the dice, it says...”