“Liam Clancy is dead.”
The end of an era indeed. Bob Dylan had called them the finest ballad singers ever.
What the fuck was he smoking back then?
Still, I raised my glass, said,
“Codladh samh leat”
… Safe sleep.
I asked John,
“You ever see Father Loyola?”
His church was less than a brief rosary away. John gave a warm smile, said,
“Oh yeah, he’d stop in for a small Paddy once a week.”
In the current climate, that could be hugely misconstrued. John meant Paddy’s, regarded by many as the true Irish whiskey. Above John’s head was a large flat-screen TV. The top story was whether a children’s toy, “Go-Go Hamster,” was safe. Literally as a footnote, the irritating bottom line script announced that the hundredth British soldier had been killed in Afghanistan. I pulled myself back to John, ran a scam, asked,
“He sure relied on that housekeeper of his.”
Did he have one? The fuck I knew. But some things thankfully don’t change. John said,
“Ah, Maura, the poor creature, the salt of the earth, she loves her port but she’s been devastated since he left.”
Gotcha.
You don’t tip Irish barman. I do.
And did.
John nodded, said,
“Much appreciated Jack.”
I headed for St. Patrick’s church, stopping at a new off -license to buy a bottle of port. My mobile shrilled.
Stewart.
He said Father Malachy was still in a coma. I ran the encounter, meeting with Ronan Wall’s sister, by him, he said,
“The swan killer. You caught him, yeah?”
Added,
“You were a local hero for a while.”
I said,
“It didn’t last.”
He countered with,
“Jack, with you, what does?”
I bit down on my temper, said,
“I think the headstone, Ronan Wall, and his sister are somehow all connected.”
“Why?”
“The fuck do I know why; call it a former hero’s hunch.”
I knew he was laughing. He said,
“Lemme guess, you want me to track down the sister and maybe even the bold Ronan himself?”
I counted to ten, said,
“What do you think I pay you for?”
Feigning indignation, he said,
“You’ve never paid me a single euro.”
Now, I nearly smiled, said,
“Money is not the only currency. Zen that.”
And clicked off.
The priest’s house was a neat bungalow to the side of the new church.
The bungalow had been freshly painted and looked welcoming.
Maybe spent the stolen cash on that.
I knocked on the door. It opened to a tiny robust woman, late sixties with her gray hair scraped back to a severe bun. How do women do that and more importantly….why?
I literally rushed her.
“Maura, just great to see you.”
Offering the port in the same frenzied tone. She was taken aback but I was already inside and I knew she wasn’t sure how the hell that happened. I upped the bullshite.