His voice quickened,
“You found who mugged Malachy?”
Malachy, Christ, I’d forgotten all about him. I said,
“No, but a case with a nice lump of change.”
Silence.
I figured he wasn’t counting my blessings. Then he said,
“Malachy too poor to count?”
Sarcasm leaking all over the words.
I was fucked if I’d let him puncture my balloon. Said, with total ice,
“Don’t lecture me pal.”
And God forgive me, added,
“You weren’t so damn righteous when you came to me whining about your dead sister.”
I regretted it instantly, knew how horrendous it was. I can’t excuse it, was a low cheap wounding shot. Blame my state of euphoria.
He sounded as maimed as I’d anticipated, said,
“I called to tell you that I’d been checking on Ronan Wall’s sister.”
Another case that had dropped way down on my priorities. As I fumbled for a way to erase or stem the pain, he said,
“Ronan Wall is an only child.”
But Bethany, the Goth girl I’d met?
I said,
“What?”
“He doesn’t have a sister.”
Clicked off.
I worked on my second pint, considered calling him back to say.. . what?
Instead, I used my mobile to get Directory Enquiries, got them to connect me to the best pub in Oughterard. It rang a bit, then a gruff voice answered.
I said,
“Liam, it’s Jack Taylor.”
Another ex-Guard, took early retirement, bought a pub/restaurant, we have some history, most of it fairly good. He needed a moment, then,
“By the holy, Jack Taylor. I was beginning to think you were a rumor running round as a fact.”
You don’t have to be Irish to decipher that, though it helps to remove logic from such conversations. I asked,
“How’s biz?”
He sighed, said,
“Sweet Jesus, bollixed. The usual crop of Christmas parties, and they bring in major cash, would usually be booking now but they’re scarcer than a politician with the truth.”
I didn’t sympathize. That would be as much help to him as an audit. I said,
“A lady friend and I were hoping to have dinner there this Saturday.”
Jesus, it felt odd to say that, strange and wondrous. To be, in fact, no longer singular. He laughed, astonished, said,
“There must be a rib broke in the devil. Jack Taylor finally hooked.”
Now for the lure, I said,
“I was hoping to introduce her to Loyola” (deliberately omitting the Father; get that hands-on friendship gig going).
He paused.
Few are as loyal as an ex-Guard and especially when they are protecting a disgraced priest. Our history was riddled with such precedents. Carefully, he asked,
“You know him?”
Time to kick for the sympathy/guilt trip, said,
“When my poor mother passed, may she rest in peace, he was a tower of strength, arranged everything. I don’t know how I’d have got through without him.”
Dumb fuck bought it.
Nothing like priests, dead mothers, and guilt to shake the bastards.
He flustered,
“Jack, I meant to get to the funeral, to send a mass card, to.. .” Enough of this shite. I cut him off at the knees, said, adding a wee sting,
“She always loved you, Liam.”
Then before he could regroup from that shovelful of polite recrimination, I asked,