“What?”
I pulled the glove back, asked,
“What does he think you know?”
Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there.
– Miles Davis
The call from Kosta was unexpected. He began,
“Jack, you extended me the hospitality of your home. I’d like to repay the courtesy.”
It occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about him, and yet we had a deep, almost ferocious, bond. I said,
“Of course.”
He gave me the address, in Taylor’s Hill, our own upper-class part of the city, home to doctors and other professionals. He asked if I could be there by five and I said, sure. Then he added,
“I need your help, my friend.”
“You have it.”
A pause, then,
“Thank you. Please bring the Mossberg.”
Jesus.
Was I being invited to dinner or murder?
Taylor’s Hill still retains those glorious houses, set well back from the road, with large carefully tended gardens. Kosta’s was midway, huge hedges almost shielding it but you could glimpse the majesty of the building. Built when money was used lavishly on homes. I opened a heavy wrought iron gate, and, instantly, two heavies were on me. Front and back. I said,
“Whoa, easy guys, I’m Taylor, and expected.”
The one facing me, all hard mean muscle, gave me a cold calculating look, then spoke into a lapel microphone, waited. Everybody wanted to be an FBI clone. He motioned,
“Pass.”
Not big on chat those guys. I moved up to the house, three stories of Connemara granite and kept scrupulously clean. I rang the bell and wondered if a maid would answer the door. Did people have them anymore? Apart from the clergy, of course. Kosta answered. He was dressed in a navy blue tracksuit, not unlike Ridge’s, trainers, a white towel round his neck. He greeted, “Welcome to my home, Jack Taylor.”
Waved me in. A long hallway was lined with paintings. I know shite about art but I do know about cash and here was serious dough in frames. The only painting I had was of Tad’s Steak-house in New York. He led me to a book-lined study. Not the books-for-show variety; you could see they’d been well used. Comfortable armchairs in front of a roaring log fire. Few things as reassuring as that. When I looked closer, I could see it was turf. A man who knew the country. He indicated I sit after I shucked off my coat. Left it close by. He offered a drink and I said,
“Whatever you’re having yourself.”
“Gin and tonic?”
“Great.”
He didn’t ask about on the rocks. Serious drinkers don’t do ice. I settled in the chair, putting the Mossberg on the carpet. Maybe he wanted it back. Got my drink, and he sat, reflected for a moment as he gazed into the fire, the flames throwing what seemed like a halo on his bald skull. Like Michael Chiklis in The Shield.
The Mossberg rested-a lethal snake-near his feet. He said,
“To good friends.”
“Amen.”
He liked that answer. Took a large wallop of his drink, savored, then swallowed, said,
“Genever.”
Dutch?
I’ve found nodding sagely stands you in good stead when you don’t have a fucking clue.
I nodded sagely.
He let out a deep….Ah.
I knew we were now at the main event. He said,
“Jack, like you, I live my life to the minimum.”
He was kidding, right?
Bodyguards, a huge house… not really Zen. He continued, “I have few friends, and you I regard as one. My history is violent but we don’t need to dwell on that. I have one daughter, her name is Irini
… means peace.”
Stopped.
Fuck, I hoped we weren’t in sharing mode. No way was I reliving Serena-May and the tragedy.
Pain ran across his eyes, took hold as he said,
“She is… otherworldly. Very beautiful, with a true purity of spirit. I have always, siempre, always protected her.”
I believed him.
He said, slowly,
“But I was detained for nearly two years. She met a man named Edward Barton.”
He spat into the fire, continued,
“A Londoner, he smelled money, married her, and by the time I was