The recruit, whose name I learned was Costello, glared at me. I said,
“Not sure if. .”
I glanced at the pup,
“You have a dog in this fight, son?”
The “son,” rattled, looked to Ridge, who ignored him. Em said,
“Jack and I were. . what’s the buzz term?. . en flagrant the evening in question.”
Ridge went for her king, already faltering, tried,
“The witness mentioned something about. .”
Paused,
“A pup being part of the struggle. What is this pup’s name?”
Em, highly amused, dropped the remainder of the cig in the empty toddy glass, handed the glass to Costello, said,
“Be a dear, sweetie. .”
Then, back to Ridge.
“Not sure you were entirely paying attention earlier, sergeant, but I did mention my recent sojourn in Korea.”
Ridge looked fit to explode, snapped,
“Is there a point to this little. . detour?”
Em gave her most beatific smile, said,
“Alas, I did, to my shame, pick up on one of their culinary customs. .”
She stroked the pup’s ears.
“I never name something I may later eat.”
Quote from the Sunday Times:
Samantha Ellis believes that heroines such as
Scarlett O’Hara and Sylvia Plath’s
Esther Greenwood are appealing precisely
because they behave so badly.
“I’d had so many good girl heroines,” writes Ellis.
“Plath gave me a heroine who was anything but. .
As Esther gets suicidal, she also gets mean.
She releases her inner bad girl, she picks up sailors, reads scandal sheets, howls at her father’s grave.”
After Ridge left, I let out a long breath, said,
“Em, you know she will check the airlines.”
Em pulled out her iPhone, five minutes of elegant, furious texting, and she smiled, said,
“’Tis done and best if t’were done well.”
I asked,
“Seriously, who the fuck are you?”
She was nuzzling her face against the pup’s ears, said,
“The girl who just saved your ass from arrest. A thank-you about now might be good so feel free to jump in. .”
Instead, I made her a kick-heart coffee, even lit her cig, asked,
“Were you in Arizona?”
She savored the coffee, said,
“I’d like it a bit more Sara Gran, you know, New Orleans, hint of chicory. . yes, I went to rehab there.”
Jesus wept!
“For which of your many personalities?”
“Jack, I have a near genius for math, tech stuff, but they say I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”
She laughed, no humor touching her eyes, added,
“As in Cowboy Junkies, I am your skewed Misguided Angel and I need you to help to off the monster that is de Burgo.”
“You have always managed to evade, like so much else, your motive, your hard-on for him.”
Her phone buzzed. . she read a text, put the pup gently aside, gathered her things, said,
“I’m Gone Girl.”
Pecked me on the cheek, said,
“Catch you up for dinner, my treat tomorrow evening, and, oh. . de Burgo. .
he’s my dad.”
Using Google Search
Friends Reunite Ireland
I found Em’s mother. She was living in a cottage in Kinvara. She was a “home-keeper,” whatever the fuck that is. She was now using her maiden name, Marion McKee. Google Maps even showed me the cottage. The old adage:
“You want to know what the daughter will
become, meet the mother.”
Worth a shot.
I went to Charley Byrne’s Bookshop and wished Vinny a happy new year. He smiled ruefully at that. Then,
“So, what do you want, Jack?”
I did mock-offended.
“You think that’s the only reason I’m here?”
“Pretty much.”
I took a breath, asked,
“Could I borrow the van for a few hours?”
“You going into the book business, Jack?”
“Well, research of a sort.”
He rooted around, then handed me the keys, said,
“Second gear needs a bit of cajoling.”
Smiled at that, said,
“I will of course pay for the petrol.”
“Yeah, like that will happen.”
Em had only ever once referred to her mother, a throwaway quip:
“Good old Moms is a rummy.”
The last time I read that description was in the early works of Hemingway. This in mind, I made a pit stop at an off-license, bought a bottle of brandy. The owner, handing me the bottle, asked,
“You want to buy a bundle of books?”
“Excuse me?”
He nodded at the van, which had a sign on the side:
CHARLEY BYRNE’S
NEW AND SECONDHAND BOOKS
I said,
“Not really.”
He seemed surprised, pushed,
“Some James Pattersons in the bunch.”
Jesus, how could I resist?
I found Marion McKee’s cottage easily. Just look for the closed curtains. Alkies don’t do light. I had a briefcase and my Garda coat, and looked like someone collecting the Household Tax. That is, like an asshole.
Took some banging on the door until she finally answered. A small woman in what used to be termed a housecoat,
or
camouflage.
Badly permed blond hair was sorely in need of help. Her eyes were tired, a little bloodshot, and her face, despite makeup, showed the savagery of alcohol. A stale reek of alcohol, nicotine, and fear emanated from her pores. I said,
“I need a few minutes of your time, about your daughter.”
Saw the alarm, rushed,
“Nothing bad. . quite good in fact. If I may?”
Indicating,
Let me in?
She did, reluctantly. The living room was small but obsessively tidy. Your life’s going to shit, you try to hold something in place. She pointed to a chair that was forlorn in its loneliness. She sat on the couch, asked,
“May I offer you something, Mr. . ?”
“Jack. No, I’m fine.”
I put the briefcase on the table, pulled out a stack of papers, the bottle of brandy seemed to slip out. I smiled, said,
“Whoops, Christmas leftover.”
And placed it on the table. Then, as if struck by a thought, said,
“How about we baptize this bad boy, to mark the good news about Em. . or do you prefer Emerald?”
Her eyes locked on the bottle.
A beacon.
She fetched two glasses, heavy Galway crystal tumblers. I poured a passable amount into both, said,
“Here’s to your daughter.”
A fleeting dance across her eyes, fear chasing anxiety. She drained the brandy like a brawler. I stood up, glanced at her bookshelf, asked,
“May I. . peruse? A compulsion of the trade.”
Giving her the window. And, like a pro, fast, she replenished her glass and, I loved it, took a swig of mine. Oh, she was mighty, almost noble in her ruin. The books were like a legion of female artillery:
Germaine Greer
Naomi Wolf
Betty Friedan
And like a lost black sheep among the strident women, that out-of-favor, poor quasi-hippie, Richard Brautigan’s
A Confederate General from Big Sur
and peeking optimistically from a corner, Elizabeth Smart’s
By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept
Indeed.
I said,
“We are expanding the shop and wish to appoint Em as manager.”
Marion tried to rouse some enthusiasm but blurted,
“She had been such a promising child.”
I spied a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and, as I handed it to her, topped up her glass. She was rolling on a short recovery high, continued,
“But her father. .”
deep brandied sigh,
“He claimed Emmy’s dog had bitten him and she found. .”
mega gulp of brandy,
“The dog nailed to the shed door. He claimed some passing lunatic did it.”