“I’m Mason. Been looking for your boss, Taylor, but he seems to have disappeared. Probably sleeping off his latest piss-up?” Took Stewart a moment to grasp the cadence of the accent, British but muted. He answered,
“He’s not my boss.”
Mason actually raised an eyebrow, then said,
“You seriously believe that?”
The coffee arrived, Mason took a sip, spat, asked,
“The fuck is that swill?”
The waitress beat a fast and faster retreat.
Mason pushed the cup aside, said,
“Trust me sonny, I’ve done my research; you’re the gofer.”
Stewart applied all his Zen mastery, tried to envisage a sunlit meadow, but the sheer bulk of Mason blotted out the light. He asked,
“Who are you?”
Mason gave a deep smoker’s laugh, full of phlegm and venom, reached in his jacket, produced a wallet with a gold badge, said,
“I’m a private investigator. The real deal. Not like your employer’s half-arsed attempt. I used to be with the Met and after retirement took full accreditation as the real deal.”
Stewart was tired of the guy, tried,
“And you want to see Jack, why?”
He fixed his flat eyes on Stewart, steel glinting on the rims, said, “I’ve no fucking interest in that has-been. I’ve been employed by the family of Ronan Wall to look into his disappearance. You’re a messenger boy so deliver this to the alkie. This is my case and he’s to keep well clear of it. You got that, son?”
Stewart was still grabbing for some serenity.
Working it wasn’t, but he managed,
“Jack has no involvement in that case.”
Mason snapped his wallet shut. You could see the slick movement had been practiced before the mirror a lot. He said,
“Good, keep it that way. There’s a world of hurt for those who fall foul of me.”
He stood up, buttoned the coat, asked,
“Ex-con, right?”
Stewart didn’t feel it warranted a reply and Mason smiled. No warmth had ever touched that smile and it certainly didn’t now.
He said,
“Good lad, you sniff around my case, I’ll have you back behind bars in coke time.”
Stewart had finally found a place, deep within, where he could trust his mouth, asked,
“Your intimidating manner get you a lot of results?”
Mason had been on the point of leaving but turned back, leant right across the table, into Stewart’s face, his breath an acrid blend of nicotine and belligerence, hissed,
“Dipshit, I eat the likes of you for breakfast. I can stitch you up in ways you’d never imagine.”
Then he patted Stewart on the head, said,
“Now run along, there’s a good lad.”
He was done, set to head for the door, when Stewart said,
“I did learn a thing or two in prison. The louder the mouth, the bigger the target.”
Mason laughed, said,
“Next time we chat, I won’t be so cordial.”
And was gone.
Stewart tried to imagine such an encounter between Mason and Jack.
Phew-oh.
The Dylan album came to mind, he’d been listening to these old guys at Jack’s probing. The album was
Blood on the Tracks.
You say to me that there is more to life than hurling. But if you want to carry on like a fella who is not interested, then there will be lots more than hurling.
But there won’t be hurling!
That’s the reality of it.
– Kilkenny hurling manager
Ridge was standing before Superintendent Clancy. His main hatchet man, O’Brien, was standing point, smirk in place. Ridge marveled that Clancy once had been Jack’s best friend and now was his sworn enemy. She’d tried to probe Jack on it, he said, “Shite happens.”
Her alliance with Jack was a permanent black mark in her file. Clancy kept her waiting, poring over papers, making odd grunts of assent.
Who knew?
He was uttering,