“She was on fire with pure hatred.”
Headstone, I thought.
Then I’d leave as his old head began to droop and sleep claimed him. A nurse stopped me one evening, said,
“You’re a grand man to visit the priest like you do. You must love him very much.”
I had no reply to that, if she only knew.
She added,
“Is he related?”
Now I could answer, said,
“Only through drink.”
My black eye was now in the yellow phase, like having jaundice. I had tried so hard not to think of Loyola and his death in the cold water outside the cottage he loved and regarded as a refuge. Time to do something about it. I dressed to intimidate: black jeans, black T-shirt, heavy black scarf, and my Garda coat. The Mossberg fitting snugly in the pocket. I took a Xanax, a wee drop of Jay, muttered,
“By all that’s holy.”
And went to the house previously occupied by Father Loyola. I didn’t bring port. Knew the lady would be long gone. Rang the bell, it was answered by a Barbie doll. Cross my heart, a real cutesy pie. Maybe twenty but not anything over. Jesus, at her age, I was security for a Thin Lizzy concert, right before Phil Lynott died.
She was heartaching gorgeous and as if in deference, she wore a heavy silver cross round her neck. God forgive me but all it served to do was accentuate her wondrous cleavage. Her clothes were the thin side of provocative. She asked, in a cultured voice tinged with the American twang beloved of Irish young people,
“Help you?”
Jesus, count the ways.
She clocked my hearing aid, my bruised eye, the black glove on my right hand. Nothing there to suggest any help…. could help. I said,
“I’ve an appointment with Father Gabriel.”
She chewed on her bottom lip and I knew if she had gum, she’d probably have blown a bubble. I said,
“No need to show me the way.”
Pushed past her. I didn’t knock on the door of the study, simply barged in. Gabriel was sitting behind a splendid new oak desk, a Galway crystal tumbler of booze at his right hand. The walls were adorned with photos of him with the guys with the juice. Most of whom were now facing indictments on all sorts of fraud, embezzling, theft. I focused on the one with him and Clancy, on the golf course, golden smiles and empty eyes. He managed, “Jack, what a surprise; this is unexpected.”
I gave him my best smile. Even if my teeth had been real, the sentiment never would be. I sat in the armchair opposite him, lovely soft napa leather that whispered,
“Relax.”
He asked,
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I said,
“Give me a shot of whatever it is you’re having.”
He had his control back, said,
“This is not really a good time.”
I said,
“Make it good.”
He glanced at the phone on his desk, one of those fake fucking antique jobs that cost a fortune, then decided to ride it out, reached in a drawer, produced a bottle of Laphroaig, then a glass, poured a smallish measure, pushed it across the desk. I said,
“Ah, Johnny Depp’s favorite drink.”
Contempt flowed easily now. He said,
“I really wouldn’t know. Pop trivia is not my forte.”
I said,
“He’s a movie star, but shite, that is one good drink.”
It was.
Like the smooth lie of an insincere priest. I said,
“Though, is it not a bit unpatriotic of you not to support the home side, like a decent bottle of Jameson? God knows, the economy could use all the help it can get.”
He was tired of me already, asked in a weary tone,
“Was there something?”
I made a show of looking around, asked,
“Where’s the housekeeper?”
We both knew I didn’t mean Barbie.
He made a dry sucking sound with his teeth, not an easy feat, but then, who’d want it to be? He said,
“Not really your concern but she had divided loyalties.”
I pushed,
“Where is she now?”
Exasperation oozed from him. He took a fine nip of the fine booze, patriotism notwithstanding, said,