“That’s the point.”
He waited, apparently believing I had an answer.
I didn’t. Finally, he tried,
“Would it be some kind of Halloween prank?”
I said,
“Trick or threat?”
I told him about Ronan Wall’s sister and her parting shot about Father Malachy. Stewart was edgy. He liked patterns, things that made sense, events he could Zen-control. His mobile shrilled and he checked the screen, said,
“I have to take this Jack.”
Like I gave a fuck?
While he talked, I played with ordering a large Jay, decided the distaste on Stewart’s face wasn’t worth the hassle. He finished the call, said,
“Sorry about that, a new venture.”
He’d been a dope dealer, got busted, did a long jail stretch, and since then I knew he was involved in all sorts of business gigs. He never shared details but was always awash in cash. For once,
I asked,
“What is it?”
He grimaced, said,
“You’re going to laugh.”
I said,
“I could do with a decent laugh.”
He flexed his fingers, then,
“Head shops.”
He was right, I laughed. Galway already had two of them, selling: herbal joints, bongs, high e. s, flying angels, rockets, chill.
And all the assorted paraphernalia of a doper. A crazy legal loophole allowed all sorts of illegal highs to be purchased. How fitting that a convicted ex-dealer would get a slice of the action.
I shook my head and he asked,
“You disapprove?”
I stood up, said,
“No, I think it’s brilliant.”
He came as close to a plea as his nature allowed, asked,
“What about the headstone?”
I thought,
“….headstone
….head shop.”
Said,
“You’ll make a killing.”
Facts of… Light.
Putting headstones out of my mind, I figured I’d better begin my search for the rogue priest.
Where would a renegade cleric with stolen money go?
I answered with,
“As far as possible.”
But maybe not.
Back to basics, use my feet. I trudged around the town, showing his photo. It’s a given. You do this kind of tedious work, you’re on a hiding to nothing. People will give you answers. It’s Ireland, no one is ever… ever going to simply say
“No.”
Would that they could but they can’t. Mostly they asked,
“Why?
What’s he done?
What’s in it for me?”
And of course, lots of misinformation. You had to follow that shite anyway. Mostly what you got was tired. My limp ached. I even did a Google search. Nope. He had really flown under the radar. Eventually, I had to phone Gabriel, give him my report. A very short one. I played with the idea of stringing him along, saying I had a definite lead. When I called him, his clipped sarcastic tone changed that idea.
Quick.
I hoped he’d fire me. I never wanted to have to listen to this sanctimonious gob-shite again.
I’d begun the call with,