“Endgame, lady, time to fold the crazy tent and bring the bazaar to further shores.”
She was on her feet, all five-foot-four of her, all of it mad as a loon. She snarled,
“I know where the bodies are buried. The nails? Remember them, that they took out of my dear dad and the asshole who killed your dog?”
This was literally the whole summary of my last horrendous case. I took a breath, said,
“You drop a dime on me, bitch, you go down too.”
And she laughed, said,
“You dumb Mick — down is where I live.”
Before I could reply to this, she reached into the bag again, pulled out a package, said,
“Got you a present, homey.”
Fuck.
Hard to flow with her changes. The dog, seeing the package, was all ears, maybe he’d score. I took the present, said,
“Thank you.”
And got the radiant smile. Then,
“Well, come on, boss, open up that sucker.”
I held it up to my ear, listening for ticking. Pulled the paper off and there was a fancy box, containing a watch, Patek Philippe. I was lost for an answer, I mean, the usual shite, like,
“Gee, you shouldn’t have.”
Always sounded so awful, but I had nothing else. She was amused at my dilemma, said,
“Not used to kindness, yeah?”
I tried,
“It is just... so much!”
She was gathering her stuff, preparing to leave, nudged the dog’s ears, asked,
“How’d you know it’s not a knockoff?”
“I dunno, you seem like the real deal sometimes.”
That seemed to trigger a memory and she zoned for a moment then snapped back, said in a harsh tone,
“Whoa, Jack, beneath the shallow surface is... ice.”
Then in an effort to rein in, added,
“Anyway, as they say in the soaps, you will always have a little bit of time for me.”
Lot of ways I could go on this but I took,
“Supposing it’s real, real time that is.”
Intrigued her, asked,
“If it’s not?”
“Then I’m back to my usual act, faking it.”
“I’m afraid of people who are afraid of dogs.” (Anonymous)
The Grammarian fucked up. After, he’d think,
“Who let the dogs out?”
He had heard a man use and abuse the language in a way that seemed to proclaim,
“I’m freaking ignorant and proud of it.”
Uh-oh, no way.
He’d tracked the guy back to his home off Devon Park. Nice quiet residential area and no neighborhood watch. Perfect. The guy had gone in his front door so he went round the back. Small garden, good. He checked he had the letter, a vowel, ready then began to make his way up the path and fuck.
A dog.
Big.
And in the lunge, narrowly missed G’s face. But undeterred, the dog swirled, fast, ready for another try. G picked up a water bucket and let rip. Knocked the dog back as the back door opened and the man, screaming,
“Was you want, I’ll kick your arse”
G scrambled back over the fence and ran for his life, thinking
“... Was you want?”
What on earth kind of language was that?
“The thing is, if you just do stuff and nothing happens, what’s it all mean? What’s the point?”
(Jesse Pinkman, in Breaking Bad)
The accountant who had asked me to look into the death of his daughter. I checked him out. He was serious money. Had all the heavy accounts in the city and beyond. A little more checking and discovered he had served as an officer with the UN so his saying he had friends who would help him was definitely a sign he had been telling the truth. The company that employed his daughter and was responsible for her death, Real Time Inc., was situated close to the docks. Brand-new state-of-the-art building, so lots of cash. The managing director was Brad Clear, which told me exactly nothing. Had an MBA in business from some midwestern college.
I thought,
“Okay, let’s go pay Brad a visit.”
I wore my Garda coat, still being demanded back by the Department of Justice. Despite the recent firing/resignation of the minister of justice over Garda whistle-blowing, it seemed my coat was still a vital necessity to them. No wonder they were fucked. I had a crisp new white shirt, bespoke in Jermyn Street, or so the collar claimed, and cost me five euros in the charity shop. Black 501s and Doc Martens, street scuffed. Ran my fingers through my hair to give that overall look of an eccentric writer or someone who could give a careless fuck. I had the news on and aw, damn it, Joan Rivers died. A true loss, so few left who actually said the things most of us were afraid to even think. And she pissed on PC. How could you not applaud that, when people were so afraid of offending somebody with any opinion they nervously aired? She had brought not so much joy as a wicked glee in taking down celebrities and other riffraff.
I walked down Shop Street and the papers were telling us that some economic recovery was already apparent. But to whom? And promising us that the coming budget wouldn’t be so harsh. Just bullshit cover for the water charges due at the end of October. Despite the glut of scandals of fat cats stealing form the very charities they headed, there were still gangs of collectors on the street. And I mean gangs, no longer the lone supplicant, but groups, lest they be confronted.
A busker was massacring “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” and a tap dancer was only halfheartedly going through the motions. Two teenagers accosted me demanding I support some camogie team. I said,
“Gimme a break.”
I was sorely tempted to nip into Garavan’s for a fast Jay but figured I’d soldier on. Top of Quay Street, I looked down to see straggling hen parties looking as if they had been doused in disappointment. Two young tourists checked me out, decided I was reasonably normal, which in Shop Street is some feat these days, and asked if I might know where they would find the craic.
I hadn’t the heart to tell them that since the new government decided to tax us into oblivion, the word had more or less lost all meaning. I told them to check out Naughton’s pub. Pushing, they went,
“But is there music?”
I pointed down the street, said,
“There’s all kinds of tunes but I can’t vouch for any melody.”
I got to the docks as the sun made a late appearance. Glanced up at what was almost a blue sky, took a deep breath, and entered the office of Real Time Inc. An all-biz secretary/receptionist asked if I had an appointment. I said,
“No, but Mr. Clear will be glad to see me, I bring tidings of investigation.”
Lest I be IRS or worse, she picked up a phone, did some whispering, then said,
“Down the corridor, first on the right.”
I gave her my best smile but it didn’t seem to bring any sun into her sky. Brad Clear was one big guy, over six feet, looked like someone who’d played in the NFL but some time ago. He had one of those stomachs that seems to have a life of its very own. And as always, he emphasized it with the tightest shirt. A very expensive suit did absolutely nothing to hide the gut, nor did he seem to care. He was maybe in that indefinable good for sixty-five or terrible for fifty age bracket. What remained of his blond hair was long at the back and, I prayed, not in one of those god-awful ponytails.
The face though: a study in opposites, what they call a generous mouth below a nose that veered to the left and the hardest dark eyes I have even encountered. The utter kill-all-the-hostages hue. Something else, too, a spark of malignancy and black amusement. He came from behind a massive desk, of course, with his hand extended, said in a good ole boy roar,
“Brad Clear, and you are?”