She looked gorgeous.
Anne Henderson, once the very beat of my beating heart.
We stared at each other for a moment. The would we,
Wouldn’t we,
Hug?
It hung there like a shy reprimand. Then she held out her hand, asked,
“Jack, how are you?”
Men and women just are not built for handshakes. I took her hand, it felt like torn hope.
I said,
“Not too bad.”
Jesus. Lame or what?
I mean, what if I spit it out,
Like,
They cut the heart out of my beloved pup.
The Guards reduced me to a level of shame I didn’t even know I still possess.
Oh,
And a young lady I am intrigued by tried to murder me.
And
And
And
How’s that sound?
She lied, said,
“You look...”
Pause.
“Well.”
The moment when Clancy humiliated me burned anew in my mind.
To paraphrase Macbeth,
Who knew I had so much shame in me!
She examined with that close scrutiny that Irish women excel in. Said,
“I forgive you, Jack.”
Fuck me.
I wanted to scream
“Oh, really? How magnanimous of you, how have I survived all these hard years without that vital act?”
I said,
“Thank you.”
Then I did that thing that people do when they are completely out of the next thought. I said,
“Nippy for the time of year.”
Oh, sweet God, like a stranded Brit.
And,
She laughed.
Asked,
“I wonder if I might enlist your help?”
Christ, sure, there wasn’t anything on the planet I wouldn’t do for her. More’s the Irished dumb ass. I said,
“Depends.”
Thought,
Seriously, I said that?
Her face changed, the briefest flash of annoyance, then,
“I will pay you. I didn’t expect you to work for nothing.”
Before I could stop myself I blurted,
“One time I would have done it for free.”
Fuck.
She shook her head as if she knew such nonsense was inevitable. I asked,
“What do you need done?”
I’d swear a slight blush rose to her face but probably the wind. In Galway, we blame the wind for most things we’d prefer to not name. She said,
“It is difficult to put into words.”
I said with more than a little edge,
“Think of me as a priest.”
She gave a sudden abrupt laugh, startling us both, and said,
“Good God! That is the very last thing I could think of you.”
Given the toxic air that priests inhabited these days, that might even have been a compliment. She asked,
“Might we meet next Monday?”
I said,
“Sure.”
Set the time for six in the evening at the Meyrick Hotel.
That time, it sneers loudly,
“This is not a date.”
Eight o’clock is a date and anytime in the day is just banal. But,
Six?
Six sucks.
Not
A
(Galwayed)
Hope
Of
A
Chance.
I needed to find the remaining Fenian.
After the other Fenian had been killed he’d gone to ground. But before I could even begin the search, he found me.
I’d been to the pub and, in truth, had way more than I intended. Least I think I had the intention but, as they say, it got away from me. I had bought a drink for a very attractive woman in Garavans, amazed when she smiled at me and, fueled by drink, I had sat next to her. She was in either late forties or a very battered thirties.
I was expounding on the lack of recognition for the writer Patrick Hamilton and she said,
“I don’t read.”
Now, I don’t, God forgive me, remember her name but, alas, I do remember my reply:
“You don’t read? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
And she was gone.
I staggered home, wondering if I would fry up a big batch of sausages, then thought,
“And put two down for the pup.”
To instantly realize there was no pup, no more. I had that drunken moment of utter self-pity, leaning against a wall. Managed to get it together to find my way home, opened the door, and felt a gun barrel into the back of my skull.
A voice.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
My whole life I had done just that. I managed,
“Shoot me now.”
Heard an intake of breath and,
“What?”
“Save me a biblical hangover.”
Heard a slight chuckle.
I asked,
“Let me sit down.”
And moved to the armchair.
My hangover had vanished. Guns might be the new hangover cure. The man facing me was mid-height, dark curly hair, a boxer’s bruised face, and eyes so brown they verged on black.
I asked,
“You here about my TV license? I heard they were getting more proactive.”
The gun was lowered to rest against his right leg. He tapped it gently against that, said,
“You’re a cool one.”
I stared at him. He had an ease in his bearing acquired from long experience of conflict.
He said,
“I’m Joe Tyrone.”
Took me a moment, then I spat,
“The other Fenian fuck.”
He said,
“Just Joe would be fine.”
He had a trace of an English accent and I sneered,
“You’re not even Irish.”
The gun came up and he took a deep breath, said,
“You need to mind your mouth. And many of the greatest Irish patriots...”
Paused, then,
He intoned,
“Roger Casement
Wolfe Tone
Were
Of English birth but their very souls were Fenian.”
I said,
“I don’t think they were into gutting dogs.”
He sighed, said,
“I have a deal to offer.”
I gave him the look that said,
“Dream on sucker.”
He pushed on.
“We declare a truce and I give you Clancy.”
Clancy!
I said,
“Clancy?”
He allowed a small smile, said,
“He is in line to be the new police commissioner, the big prize for a cop, but he needs to be...”
Paused.
“Squeaky clean.”
“Is he?”
Tyrone said,
“Clancy likes to portray family values, and his strong moral code will be much praised.”
He took a large envelope out of his jacket, mused,
“What if it were shown such is not the case?”
I said,
“He’d be fucked.”
“Indeed.”
I stared at him, let a silence build. He was one of those who could ride a silence, so I said,
“I’m thinking you want to trade.”
He made a hammer of his hand, said,
“Bingo.”
My shredded hangover fought with my desire to beat the living daylights out of him but I drew a deep breath, waited. He said,
“Here’s what I’m thinking. I give you these...”
Indicating the envelope.
“And we call it quits.”
I said,
“You must believe I had very little regard for my pup.”
He was about to respond then rearranged that, said,
“Wasn’t me did the deed. In fact I vetoed the idea.”
I gave him the look that says,