Time for me to add something. I said,
“This group, I figure, four core members. Worse, these attacks, I think they are only a foretaste of the main event.”
“Like what?”
I didn’t know, said,
“I don’t know. They could easily have killed me when they had the chance. But, let me think, OK, it’s like they’re holding me for the main event. That make any sense to you?”
It didn’t.
So I blundered on,
“The girl, always the girl. I have a gut feeling, we find her, we bust this maelstrom wide open.”
The pills, the booze, the food, being out of hospital, suddenly ganged up on me. I gasped,
“Jaysus, enough.”
And I couldn’t stifle a huge yawn. Stewart stood, said,
“C’mon Jack, let’s get you home, back to your apartment.”
We left a large tip for our waitress and I could be wrong but did she slip Stewart her phone number and fuck, God forgive me, worse, was I jealous?
Headstones signify a lot of profound thoughts but a drunk on Quay Street said they meant,
You’re beyond fucked.
At Nun’s Island, as we got out of the car, Stewart said,
“Just a second.”
Opened the trunk and took out three large grocery bags. I asked,
“You’re moving in with me?”
He sighed, said,
“Felt you might need some provisions.”
It was such a decent thing to do; you’d be delighted at someone’s care.
Right?
I was wondering if there was booze in there. Fuck the other crap. He carried them up the three flights of stairs, too. Opening the door took a time, as we had to literally push it due to the stack-up of mail. The usual free offers, pizza vouchers, notification of winning millions of euros, and a letter from Laura; I could recognize her handwriting. I stared at it for a few minutes until Stewart asked,
“You going to open it?”
I told the truth, said,
“Maybe later.”
I turned the heat on full and Stewart marveled,
“The place is spotless. I’d have thought, and sorry Jack, but it would be like a… you know, a bachelor pad.”
Translate… filthy.
I didn’t tell him about the professional cleaners. I reached in my jacket, got the envelope Gabriel had given me, and let the contents spill onto the coffee table. A turmoil of large-denomination notes littered the surface, swirled to the carpet, a whirlwind of blood cash. A treasure trove of treachery.
Stewart gasped, muttered,
“They paid you for being in hospital?”
I could have laughed. He asked,
“How much is it?”
I said,
“A lot.”
Stewart began unpacking the goods, asking if there was a special place for things.
I gave him the look, he figured, no. I went to the overhead cupboard, pulled down the Jameson, and said,
“I’m fresh out of herbal tea, unless you bought some.”
Fuck, he did.
And brewed it up. It smelt like vinegar gone south. He’d bought cookies, the healthy ones, the ones they manage to remove everything from, especially the taste. We imbibed our separate feasts and Stewart asked if I’d like him to cook up something?
I said I was good, the sandwich had been plenty. As the latent control freak he was, he began to pick up the money and I near shouted,
“Don’t.”
He stopped, a hundred note resting in his hand, and he asked,
“You like to see it spread out, yeah?”
“No, I like to see it on the floor, where it belongs.”
Finally, he said he’d better make a move and asked,
“You going to be OK, Jack?”