What happened?
To this bloody day, I’ve no idea. One of those terrible ironies of alcoholism, striving for numbness and terrified of losing control.
What the Brits call a conundrum.
Great word and I might actually understand what it means someday.
Stewart was tapping my shoulder, saying,
“You did great; it’s done.”
Took me a moment to refocus. I wasn’t in hospital, unless they’d installed a bar on the wards and don’t rule out the possibility. I wasn’t being tortured, I think, and I felt pretty OK. I asked,
“What did you do?”
He shrugged, no biggie, said,
“Just a mild hypnosis.”
I asked,
“Did I give up my ATM number?”
He nearly smiled, said,
“You remembered a name, the name of the guy who gave the ethnic cleansing speech.”
I was impressed, asked,
“Who is he?”
“Bine.”
I nearly choked, spluttered,
“Bine, that’s it? The fuck kind of name is that?”
He was deep in thought, held up a hand, the equivalent of “Sh-issh.”
Which I love.
He said,
“It triggers something. I’m not quite there yet but I’m so close.”
My waitress brought us over two toasted sandwiches, said,
“You’re skin and bone Jack.”
Looked at Stewart, with a blend of interest and amusement, said,
“Don’t worry-yours is vegan.”
He gave her his rare smile and when he did, smile that is, he looked like a kid, a nice one, and it lit her up. He said,
“Thank you so very much.”
I swear to God, I knew her a long time and now she… blushed.
She said,
“Ah, ’tis nothing.”
The winning smile again from my Zen maestro and “Generosity without expectation of recompense is true spirit.” I could tell, like meself, she wasn’t entirely sure what the hell he meant but she loved it; me, not so much. Seeing him revealed, at least a bit, prompted me to tell him about Laura, or maybe I was simply maudlin. He seemed truly sorry, said,
“Isn’t there any way you can fix it? I’ll go to bat for you, tell her what happened.”
I shook my head. Some things you can’t fix. I switched channels, asked about Malachy, he said,
“Still comatose.”
For all his Zen masks, I knew him-knew there was something.
I pushed,
“What else, Stewart?”
He tried a bite of the sandwich, liked it, wiped his mouth, then took a deep breath, told me about Ridge receiving the fingers. I had no answer. None that didn’t involve deep obscenities, profound insanity. I desperately wanted to have another drink but in deference to him, I didn’t. He described the attack on Ridge, too, then he suddenly sat bolt upright, asked,
“The girl. The girl who asked you to find her brother,… what’s his name?”
“Ronan Wall.”
He was cruising into it, asked,
“Describe her.”
I did.
He digested that and whatever wheels were turning in that eerie head of his were at full speed. He said, almost to himself, the sandwich forgotten,
“Bine….abbreviation for…?”
I took a bite of mine; it was good, hint of garlic on the meat and my favorite, mayo, and I told myself, soaks up the booze, so got to be good.
He said,