“Mr. Miller is now hiding out in Galway and has offered the book for sale.”
I said,
“So buy it.”
He sighed.
“Would it were so easy but Miller is, as they say, gun shy.”
This term would come back to haunt him.
“I want you to negotiate with him.”
I said,
“I don’t really do well with priests.”
“Ex-priest.”
“Whatever. I am sure you have better people to deal with him. I am quite likely to end up beating the shit out of him.”
He laughed, delighted, said,
“This is exactly what is required, fear and loathing.”
What the hell. I could give it a shot.
I said,
“Frank Miller. Shares a name with the renowned author, graphic artist, moviemaker.”
He looked as if this was of no relevance. I added,
“The film was Sin City. Nice serendipity, don’t you think?”
He didn’t.
Said,
“Just get the job done.”
Heard the steel in there and wanted to tell him to go
... Fuck his own self.
But the check.
Won out.
Said,
“I’ll get right on it.”
My dog Storm seemed to know I had recently considered suicide and was now keeping a canine watchful eye on me. In the apartment, he’d sit on my chair, staring at me as if to ask,
“What’s up, bud?”
I said,
Going American,
“Phew, I nearly bought the farm there, pal.”
He didn’t speak U.S. so just wagged his tail. I grabbed the leash and got a short bark of utter joy. Shucking into my Garda all-weather coat we headed out, my pockets holding treats and a small flask of Jay. Ending October, the air was dry and alive, people shouted how yah, and the warm vibe was largely a result of our soccer team beating the Germans by a goal.
Beating the best.
With a government hell-bent on eroding the will of the country with a continuation of the hated water tax, it was good to have a reason to smile. We headed for the Salthill promenade and I relished the little dog’s sheer unadulterated joy in the walk. The dead horse in Eyre Square was a hot topic and especially since a notice had been sent to the papers with just this:
“FADH.”
Speculation on it being a shortened form of an Irish word led nowhere. It seemed obvious that it stood for
... flogging a dead horse.
Or was that just too facile?
Set a priest to catch a priest. Father Malachy was my dead mother’s pet, a practice back then of pious ladies adopting a tame cleric and having him in tow to demonstrate their holiness. My mother was one mean, wicked bitch and that she had this idiot in thrall spoke volumes as to the characters of them both. He loathed me, agreed with my mother’s description of me
... as a useless drunk.
Our paths continued to cross. One memorable time I even saved his arse from serious allegations of indecency. Was he grateful?
Was he fuck!
He was the most determined smoker on the planet. No electronic capers for him. Despite all sorts of upheavals, he managed to cling to the shreds of his parish. Just a prayer ahead of the lynch mob. I hadn’t been to Bohermore for a time and had near forgotten the warmth and goodness of a real neighborhood. I stopped at a new off license, bought a bottle of Paddy. Malachy was truly old school in his whiskey. A man in a flat cap, donkey jacket, his nose beet red from booze hailed me with,
“Jesus, Taylor, you’re alive.”
A new corruption of language was the young people answering any question with
Basically.
They used it without rhyme or reason. I looked at the man, said,
“Basically.”
St. Patrick’s Church was the parish I grew up in, back in the days when the church ruled. Now it was simply a small church with smaller aspirations. I went to the house beside it, knocked, waited. Door opened by a housekeeper in her very battered fifties and with a scowl that was set in the ’40s.
“What?”
She barked.
“Good morning, my dear,”
I tried.
Phew-oh.
Good was not an adjective she had ever met and seemed unlikely to adopt now. I added,
“May I see the parish priest?”
“No.”
Terse but concise.
She went to close the door, but my boot prevented that. She near spat.
“What is that?”
Staring at my foot.
In a very polite voice, I near whispered,
“That, darlin’, is my shoe, which I shall put so far up your arse you will scream hallellaia or such like.”
“You...
You’re not right in the head.”
No argument there and I did the thing that freaks the very best of them.
I smiled.
Father Malachy looked fierce. In both senses of the word, angry and fucked. A wreath of smoke hung like bad news above his head. He snarled,
“Taylor.”
Warmth.
I handed over the bottle of Paddy and, without even looking at it, he put it in a drawer. I asked,
“We’re not having a drink?”
He lit a cig, blew smoke at me, said,
“’Tis drink has you in the state you’re in.”
So, business as usual.
I said,
“You might be of some help to me.”
He laughed with no hint of humor, plain bitterness, said,
“What’s in it for me?”
Christ.
I said,
“Clerical satisfaction.”
He looked like he might spit, said,
“Whoever sold you that lie is a Protestant.”
The worst insult in priestly lore. I persisted.
“I was thinking of putting some euros to the roof fund. He smiled, said,
“Now we’re talking.”
Handed over a few notes and they joined the bottle in the drawer. He gritted,
“What do you want?”
“A priest, ex actually, named Frank Miller.”
Right on cue, he said,
“Sin City.”
How could he know that?
I asked,
“How could you know that?”
He made the humph sound, said,
“I have Amazon Prime.”
I shook my head. Life still had surprises. He added,
“I’m a big Mickey Rourke fan.”
Saw my jaw drop, said,
“There’s many say I have the look of him.”
For fuck’s sake.
I asked,
“After the plastic surgery fiascos?”
He ground the cig on the floor. I understood why the housekeeper was like a demon. Then,
“Call me in a day and I’ll see what I can find.”
I tired.
“Thanks.”
He said,
“May need some more cash.”
I sighed.
“The roof?”
He sneered.
“Nothing wrong with the roof, it’s solid, like the papacy.”
I was leaving when he said,
“You had some kind of Goth girl in tow, a heathen I hear?”
Emily.
I said,
“You’re well informed.”
He waved a dismissive hand, said,
“People think I have some interest in you because I knew your sainted mother. I don’t.”
No reply to this.
He added, almost like he’d near forgotten,
“The girl, someone kicked fifty kinds of murder out of her.”
“What?”
He stared at me, said,
“You’re not deaf.”
Well, kind of, actually.
He eased a bit, maybe seeing the shock in my face, said,