Fuck.
I asked,
“Why?”
She headed for the door, dragging a reluctant Satan, said,
“Because it’s there.”
“Marilyn’s brain was consumed with other thoughts.
Of murder. If and when, and where and how,
and with what.”
20
Terry Wood was on a high from his murderous acts. Muttered,
“I offed two cops, count ’em, two.”
He was in a small apartment on Merchants Road. Owned by the Ghosts, it had been purchased in the far too brief days when it seemed like their organization might actually amount to something. Jeremy Cooper had been on a high as money and contributions
Were flowing in.
For a shining moment they believed they could be a contender. Then the gradual dissolution. Cooper had no real policy or plan. He wanted power and, apart from shock value and bullshit, he had nothing.
An Irish Farage, if you will.
Oh, notions.
He had a ton of those.
There was a bookcase along the wall and some bright spark had decided to procure books with ghost in the title. Never mind if they had absolutely no relevance to the actual ghosts aspiring to be a force.
Like this:
The Long Shadow of Small Ghosts,
Laura Tillman.
A Head Full of Ghosts,
Paul Tremblay.
The Ghost in the Machine,
Arthur Koestler.
Thirteen Ghosts.
The last title hit the meanest shade of irony, in that the actual remaining membership of the Ghosts no longer even amounted to that.
Terry Wood, he said his name aloud,
Then
The abbreviation:
“Woody.”
He stared at the gun on the table and knew the smart thing would be to ditch it.
And was he going to do that?
Was he fuck!
He hadn’t yet been in touch with the boss, Jeremy Cooper. But he would be pleased?
Wouldn’t he?
Mmmm?
He was antsy, adrenaline from the shootings still coursing through him, said aloud,
“Gotta move, gotta boogie.”
A knock on the door.
WTF?
Or rather, who the fuck?
Snatched up the gun, pushed it in the back of his jeans, like he’d seen in the movies.
Opened the door, cautiously.
Saw a monster of a dog. And a girl, dressed like some punk wannabe. She did a neat spin, asked,
“Goth or emo?”
He asked,
“Emily?”
Got the wicked smile, and,
“Thelma,” and
Indicated the dog.
“Louise.”
He spluttered.
“That’s not a bitch.”
Mean chuckle with
“Boy, you is looking at the bitch.”
He wondered how she knew where to find him.
She asked,
“You gonna leave all us young ’uns out here in this cold hall?”
He moved aside.
So fucked in the head was he that he didn’t clock her hands. She moved right to the bookcase, the monster dog never taking its dead eyes from Woody. She shrilled,
“Boy, where the drinks be at?”
He didn’t know, said,
“I don’t know.”
She said to Satan,
“Stay.”
Began pulling open cupboards, then voiced,
“Voilà.”
Pulled a bottle of Jameson from the shelf.
Grabbed two mugs, asked, holding the bottle up,
“Shall I be mammy?”
Sloshed nigh lethal amounts then handed one to Woody, said in her best Scarlett tone,
“We’ll always have Tara.”
He drank fast, thinking,
“She is nuttier than a whole sack of young rats.”
Drowning such rodents had been a childhood passion.
Now she asked,
“Back of your pants fellah, that a weapon or...?”
Let the old hacienda line trail off.
Then reached out a hand, demanded,
“Give it here, young pilgrim.”
And he did.
She expertly racked the slide, sang,
Rootin’
Tootin’.
Shot Woody in the side of the head. The shot didn’t frighten the dog. In his streamlined world, he did the frightening. Emily looked at the dead man, said,
“Kept the best shot for last.”
Then adjusted the surgical gloves and rubbed Satan behind the ears, cooed,
“Who’s a good boy?”
“As the sun dips toward the horizon
And darkness gathers around the girls
Neither of them knowing how little time they have left
Before the fire goes out.
Remember how good it felt to burn.”
21
I was admiring the title for Tom Hanks’s new movie.
Not that I have huge respect for TH, seeing him as Jimmy Stewart lite. Or indeed have read much of Dave Eggers, thinking, perhaps wrongly, that he has that whole smug gig going.
I mean really,
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.
Come on.
Anyway, back to the title I do like:
A Hologram for the King.
“What do you think of that title?”
He didn’t seem to have a whole lot to bark on it either way.
A light knock on the door
And I mean light.
As if they didn’t want to intrude?
I opened the door and there’s a man so good-looking it hurt your eyes. As Woody Allen said,
He took handsome lessons.
Tall of course, not wearing a fedora but had the tone of it. Blond tousled hair, a tan.
Tan!
In Galway.
Age in that bad forty, terrific fifty range. His eyes were a sort of steel gray. He offered a warrant card with a gold badge. Special branch?
He asked,
“Mr. Jack Taylor?”
In that tone the schmucks in Vegas used to introduce
“Mr. Frank Sinatra.”
Yeah, annoying as hell.
His hand was out. I noticed a heavy class ring like they have in the U.S., so American experience?
He said,
“Sheridan. May I come in?”
I asked,
“What, no first name, like Madonna or the late Prince?”
He gave a huge grin and, of course, great teeth, said,
“I heard you were a funny guy.”
Nothing in his quiet tone suggested he thought there was anything even remotely humorous. I asked,
“If I say no?”
Bigger grin and
“Then I’d have to shoot you.”
Waited a beat.
Then,
“And the cute dog.”
I let him in and he strode over to the bookcase, asked,
“You think it’s true you can read somebody by what they read?”
As I said, his tone, his voice was barely above a whisper but it held a ferocity and steel that was damn impressive.
I said,
“Well, nowadays, skels keep the good stuff on Kindle.”
He looked impressed, exclaimed,
“I’m impressed. Skels! You obviously have read Andrew Vachss.”
The pup gave a soft sigh, not much liking the shoot the dog crack, and hid under the sofa. Sheridan indicated a chair, asked,