I wondered who Em had set me up to meet at Brannigan’s. I’d given my word, so show up I would. Crossed my mind it might be de Burgo. Now that would make an interesting evening. Friday rolled around with the winds finally easing. The latest scandal was the Irish Water Board. Millions paid to a bunch of carpetbaggers to plan the installation of water meters in every home. First we endured years of poisoned water, now they’d charge us by the drop. The minister in charge of this fiasco, Phil Hogan, told us with his smug expression. .
“You can’t make an omelet without. .”
I mean, he actually fuckin said that!
Brannigan’s was off Kirwan’s Lane. Had a reputation for great steaks. Ziggy whimpered as I prepared to leave. I told him,
“You guard the apartment. . you know, do dog stuff.”
He ignored me.
I walked down Shop Street, trying to adjust the tie I’d worn. Under my Garda coat I had my sports jacket and, from a distance, might even have passed for respectable. Just past Easons, a man stepped out of the lane. Young, in an expensive Burberry coat, so it wasn’t until he spoke that I realized who he was. The gap where his previous magnificent teeth had been. The punk who’d been beating on Ziggy. He snarled,
“You think you got away with it, Taylor?”
He kept a distance, so he had learned something from our encounter.
I asked,
“You want something?”
Bravado and caution fought in his face. He said,
“You stole my wallet.”
I smiled, said,
“Put it down to a fine for disorderly conduct.”
His hands were in his pockets and a debate was raging in his mind. He settled for,
“You’ll pay for it, Taylor.”
I shook my head, said.
“Hey, I’m here now, why wait?”
He turned, scuttled back into the lane. I said,
“That’s what I thought.”
I was standing in the reception area of Brannigan’s. A pleasing aroma of charcoal/grill/barbecue gave me that rare but fleeting feeling,
An appetite!
Throw in a hint of anxiety/anticipation and you’re, if not raring to go, certainly on the precipice.
I saw Ridge approach, a puzzled expression in place. She was dressed for an evening out. An almost too-tight little black number, semi-killer heels, highlights in her hair, caution in her eyes. We almost said in unison,
. . What are you doing here?
I checked with the maître d’. Hard to even write that with an Irish accent. The reservation for two was in the name of Semple (or if you wanted to push buttons, Simple.)
Ridge got there first.
“Someone thinks we should meet?”
I rolled, said,
“Maybe to help us rekindle a friendship.”
Raised her eyes, said,
“Take more than a bloody dinner.”
I wanted to slap her, pleaded,
“For just one fucking time. . chill.”
A waitress approached, asked,
“Would Mr. and Mrs. Semple care for a complimentary cocktail before dinner?”
Ridge nearly relented.
I said,
“One drink?”
She agreed.
The barman was one of those people whom Kevin Bridges described as
“Never having been punched in the face.”
His enthusiasm to see us was grating. He beamed,
“And what can I tempt you fine folk with this evening?”
Mario Rosenstock would have loved him! All that plastic blarney. Ridge snarled,
“Assault and battery.”
I interceded, said,
“Two frozen margaritas.”
Add more ice to the chill Ridge trailed. I made a T gesture to the guy, indicating
“Large amount of tequila or trouble.”
I think he’d already caught the gist of the latter. I said,
“Ridge, you look nice.”
Didn’t fly.
She said,
“I thought my ex-husband was surprising me.”
The drinks came, I raised my glass, said,
“Slainte.”
“Whatever.”
She took a lethal taste, color rising to her cheeks. I realized she might have had a preparatory one. . or two.
I tried,
“Perhaps dinner would go some way to us reconnecting?”
She ignored that, asked,
“Where’s the psycho bitch?”
I gave her a tequila smile, said,
“Good title for a self-help book.”
She studied me for a long minute, gave a mock sigh, said,
“You can’t rile me anymore.”
She was oh, so wrong about that. It was simply that goading ran so close to deep hurt that I backed off, asked,
“No way back to our former friendship then?”
The barman approached with a fresh pitcher, asked,
“You folks like to go for broke?”
I nodded.
Tequila is a sly son of a bitch. Tastes so good, you truly believe. . briefly. . it won’t kick. I coasted on that lie, rode the fake euphoria, risked,
“I miss you.”
She was lost in some other thought, then snapped back, said,
“We were scattered with the ashes of Stewart.”
Fuck!
I spat,
“Damn near poetry.”
She gathered her things, threw some notes onto the bar, tip for the barman, said,
“No, Jack, poetry was Stewart with his insane belief in you. What we’ve got is ashes in the mouth.”
And she was gone.
The barman took her empty glass, dared,
“Tough cookie.”
I finished my drink, said,
“If you only knew the half of it.”
Checked my watch, we’d managed all of forty-five minutes, not a moment of it civil.
My mobile rang at two o’clock in the morning. The pup, sound asleep on my chest, simply moved to the warm part of the bed. I growled,
“What the fuck-”
“Jack, it’s Em.”
“Christ, this is a surprise. Don’t you sleep?”
Her voice had urgency.
“How did the evening go?”
I nearly smiled but stayed in hard-ass mode, asked,
“You seriously thought you could get us to reconcile?”
More urgent.
“What time did ye stay until?”
“Hmmm. . she stayed, I think, almost forty-five minutes.”
Rage.
“What? You left within an hour? You stupid bastard, couldn’t you do one bloody thing right?”
“Hey. . hey. . take a fuckin breath. She left, I didn’t.”
Hope.
“You stayed on?”
“Sure, even ordered steaks for two. Got them to do a doggy bag-reluctantly I might add. Ziggy will be having prime for the next few days.”
Relief.
“And so you were noticed, right? I mean people remember you?”
My brain kicked in, I said,
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were giving me an alibi.”
Dawning.
“Em. . Jesus, is that it?”
Dead air.
The Irish Water Board, continuing to threaten, bully, and intimidate the population, refuses to release details of massive bonuses and perks. It does emerge that three hundred of its staff attended a “laughter yoga” workshop in Croke Park in 2013. The theory is you guffaw for fifteen minutes and this is good for body and mind.
The people haven’t had much to laugh at for many years. A workshop seems out of their reach.
The Guards came early. A heavy pounding at the door. The pup trailed at my heels as I went down to open it. Two in uniform. Number one was vaguely familiar to me as a hurler. Number two was of the new gung-ho variety. Number one gave me a nod, not unfriendly, said,
“Jack, they want to talk to you at the station.”
They followed me in as I threw on some clothes. The pup took an instant dislike to number two, yapping and nipping at his ankles. The guy said,
“Control that animal or I’ll give him a kicking.”
I snatched Ziggy up, put him in the bedroom with some treats, closed the door, said,
“Trust me, it would be the last kicking you’d give.”
He looked at number one, then blushed,
“Is that a threat, sir?”
Number one said,
“Ah, shut up.”