As if it just occurred to me, I said,
“Come pick me up, we’ll celebrate.”
Now the trace of caution entered his voice, he said,
“Jack, it’s blowing up a hurricane now.”
I laughed, went with,
“It’s Galway. If you let the weather dictate your life, you’d never go out.”
His intuition battled with his machismo and he conceded, said,
“OK, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
I was waiting outside, being blown to freaking bits by the wind. He opened the door of an Audi, urged me in. He had certainly dressed for the elements: a long Barbour coat, navy wool cap pulled over his ears. Now for the tricky part. I suggested we go to Blackrock, the area of beach passing on from the Salthill promenade. Before he could protest, I added,
“It’s the best view and, trust me, buddy, no more awesome sight than the Atlantic at full roar. You up for that?”
Poking his pride.
He put the car in gear and we were speeding out of there. His face was stone. As we came off the Grattan Road, I saw the off – license I was heavily dependent on still being there, said,
“Kosta, stop a moment. Let’s get some fortification for the wind.” He pulled over, began to get out, asked,
“Jameson?”
“Perfect and oh…”
Like I’d just thought of it,
“A pack of Gitanes.”
I didn’t want them but I desperately wanted to buy time and prayed the assistant would have to go looking for such a brand, or at least explain why they didn’t have it. I only needed minutes.
Four minutes and he was back, tossed a pack of Marlboro, said,
“No Gitanes.”
The bottle of Jameson felt heavy as he handed it over. He glared at the sea, said,
“It’s getting worse.”
He had no idea.
I said,
“Something you’ll never forget.”
That clinched it.
He parked near the tower, the silhouette of the diving boards barely visible in the driving rain. I said,
“See, under the tower, a shed. We can get protection there. When we were kids, we used to huddle under there, watch the sea roar.” If kids had done it, how could he baulk? He sighed, reached in the glove department, took out the Glock, said,
“Force of habit.”
We made our way down along the side, the wind tugging like the worst kind of religion. Once inside the shed, we caught our breath, I unscrewed the Jay, handed the bottle over, said,
“This will warm you.”
He took a deep draw, handed it back, and I toasted,
“Long life.”
I used the Zippo to fire us up and he put the Glock on his knee, the charade at an end. He took but one long fervent draw on the cigarette and flicked it into the storm, asked,
“What’s up Jack?”
I said,
“I met your daughter.”
He was stunned, muttered,
“What?”
“Actually, she found me. Told me that Edward had many faults but molestation wasn’t one of them. She did say that he was chipping away at your business and you’d never allow that.”
He grabbed the bottle, drank, said,
“Poor girl, she’s deluded.”
I let that sit, then,
“I checked around and, sure enough, he was no prince but he wasn’t what you said and he was most definitely a rival to your business.”
He had the Glock in his hand, said,
“Spit it out Jack.”
I did.
“You used me to erase him. That a friend of mine got killed was just friendly fire. Primarily, you got rid of a son-in-law you loathed.”
He stood up, watching the wild sea, said,