Looked like he might wallop me, said,
“They’re downsizing in the Church.”
I laughed out loud, said,
“That is such a holy terror.”
He was serious, said,
“Sending me to some place like Bally de fucking nowhere”
I said,
“Like De Niro at the end of True Confessions.”
Wasted.
He said,
“Unless I could, um... pull off something that made them think I was valuable.”
Fuck me, was he playing me?
I asked,
“Anything in mind to, you know, big you up?”
He looked at me, said nothing.
God, everyone had an angle. I said,
“How did you know I had The Red Book?”
He feigned ignorance. What if he was telling the truth, though these days truth and clergy rarely met, but what if? Would one fine unselfish gesture eradicate some of the guilt I felt about the death of Ridge?
But help this asshole, who’d been the bane of my life? Not to mention my mother’s ally.
He was a priest and who in Ireland today would lift a finger for them? Before I could speak, he said,
“People don’t like me, it’s always been that way. I have no friends.”
That kind of fucked with my head. I said,
“My mother?”
He gave a bitter laugh, said,
“She despised me but having a pet priest was a feather in her cap.”
I tried,
“Hey, I don’t have a whole lot of friends my own self.”
Even the dog looked up.
Said,
“Ah, bollocks, when you put your mind to it, people like you well enough. You just don’t take any care of their feelings.”
Phew-oh.
I gave one last try, said,
“You have your faith to sustain you.”
Got the look of utter disdain, he said,
“Yeah, right.”
I went to my bookcase, took out The Red Book, said,
“This might help put you back in favor.”
He took it, put it in his pocket, said,
“I was hoping for money.”
A coffin
Makes
It
Difficult
To
Think
Outside
The
Box
18
I said to the pup,
“I have to go see a lawyer.”
He whined. It meant no walk. I continued,
“Has to be done to pay for your treats.”
He wasn’t convinced, went under the chair and feigned sleep with his back to me. So a good start to the day with the pup pissed off. I wore my all-weather Garda coat, seriously considered arming up. Meeting a lawyer, doesn’t hurt to be prepared.
I headed down Shop Street and noticed two Guards, a black band of mourning on their sleeves. Ridge’s death hit anew. A busker was murdering “She Moved Through the Fair.”
I put some coins in his cap and he scowled at me.
How much better could the day get?
Robert Preston’s office was one of those new all-glass affairs. Said two things:
One, we have no secrets here.
Yeah, right.
Two, put a large brick through this.
A very pretty receptionist was not impressed at my appearance, asked,
“Are you delivering something?”
“Bad news?”
Not amused.
I said,
“The name is Taylor and I was summoned by the head honcho.”
Before she could grill me further, a tall man with one hell of a suit came striding down the corridor, boomed,
“Mr. Taylor.”
His hand extended, and I swear gold cuff links with initials.
Like, seriously?
Weren’t they outlawed apart from Bond movies?
He said,
“So glad you could make it. Let’s step into my office and meet the client.”
I recognized the man standing by the window. We’d met outside the hospital. He turned, said,
“Jack, good to see you.”
The lawyer offered coffee and then said,
“I will withdraw and let you gents get down to business.”
Cooper looked ill, very ill. He said,
“I look fucked, right?” I went very Irish, said,
“God no, you look mighty.”
He sat down and indicated I should do the same, settled himself, said,
“From the time of our encounter, I knew you’d be the man if a chap found himself in a spot of bother.”
His tone oozed authority, a man accustomed to minions.
I don’t do minion well.
I asked,
“This spot of bother. Has it do with the murder of the Guards?”
Granite leaked over my words.
He gave me a searching look, asked,
“You knew them?”
I nodded.
He digested that as he considered his next move, then,
“My second in command, Woody. A good lad if a little impetuous.”
I waited, not going to make this easy, he said,
“Perhaps, I stress the perhaps, he might have been overzealous in his somewhat misguided loyalty to me.”
I said,
“The fuck shot two Guards?”
A fleeting wave of rage in his eyes as the true man peeked out, then it was gone and the sweet affability again, said,
“Good heavens, that would be a leap. My hope is that you, as the resourceful chap you are, might find him before the authorities do.”
I said,
“If he killed those Guards, his chances with the authorities would be better than me finding him.”
He sat back, a building sneer on his face, said,
“I had you figured as a man with a broader canvas.”
I near spat,
“Broader canvas? The fuck are you saying?”
He sighed.
“Your rep led one to believe you were something other than the pathetic wretch you now present.”
I nearly smiled. It’s almost nice to be insulted in literary language; makes a change from the usual bollix.
I said,
“I guess you won’t be needing my services, then?”
He gave me a look of such disdain that his face tilted. He said,
“You are dismissed, Taylor.”
I said,
“Thing is, I will now give all my energy to finding this Woody.”
Just when I figured I had him pegged, he did an about turn and, in a very pleasant tone, asked,
“Have you ever been to the dogs, Mr. Taylor?”
Was it some kind of metaphor? I went,
“Huh?”
“Not difficult, Mr. Taylor. Like horse racing but with...”
Paused.
“Dogs!”
He was, I decided, many shades of crazy. I said,
“No.”
He reached in his jacket, checked a leather-bound notebook, not unlike police issue, said,
“The second race on the card has a dog named, aptly enough, ‘Galway Ghost.’”
“You’re telling me this why?”
“Many reasons, mostly nefarious but bottom line, I have a sneaking regard for you.”
I said,
“Makes me all warm and valued.”
I checked the sports page on my return home. The dog was indeed running and quoted at
14/1.
Phew.
If this were a less bleak narrative, the hero would put the mortgage on the bet, and to the strains of
“Eye of the Tiger.”