Leveled the gun at me, said,
“I liked you, Jack, I really did.”
Pulled the trigger three times and was bewildered, hitting on empty. Now I stood, shucked the Mossberg free, said,
“I never wanted Gitanes, I just wanted time to, shall we say, defuse you.”
I racked the pump. He had to shout over the growing tempest, said,
“Jack, you’re not going to do this. You owe me. I got rid of the priest and his playgirl housekeeper.”
I was taken aback but didn’t lower the Mossberg. Gasped,
“Gabriel?”
He nodded, control sneaking back, said,
“See? I have your back, my friend. The priest was very cooperative; emptied all the bank accounts, too.”
Trying to keep my shock in check, I asked,
“He’s dead?”
He waved a dismissive hand at the sky, said,
“He’s in the wind.”
Then added,
“Which shows my friendship for you is real.”
I laughed, said,
“I love it, especially as you just attempted to unload a Glock into my face.”
I ordered,
“Give me the car keys.”
He did, his eyes darting round for an opening. I backed away, out of the shed. He asked,
“How do I get home without transport?”
I didn’t look back as I climbed along the railing, said,
“Join Gabriel, go in the wind.”
The sacred and profane
Clancy, the Garda superintendent, had been ominously absent during all of the Headstone drama. Didn’t mean he didn’t know. How could he not?
Ridge becoming a media darling-and he had to know my hand was in there. Mason, his new pet PI, taken off the board. Once my best friend, he hated me with all the passion that once had bonded us.
The railway station where my dad had worked was being revamped. The staff was being moved to a new building in the wilderness close to the docks. An Irish gulag. Did they have a say in this?
Right.
As homage to my father, I decided to take a last look at the station before they moved to the barren plains. I hoped I’d meet Brian Carpenter, for decades the stationmaster, or Martin Quinn who, even as mayor, continued his day job on the railway. Now that’s class.
As I got to the station, the occupants of the Simon Community were being sent out for the day, to kill the time till they could return. One asked me politely if I could spare a cig and I gave him the packet. I moved onto the platform, could almost feel my dad’s hand in mine as he showed me the trains when I was little more than a toddler.
Engulfed in memories of him, I failed to notice the burly figure come up behind me until he touched my shoulder. A train was approaching and I still wonder: if I hadn’t moved as fast, would the touch have become a push?
I swirled round to face O’Brien, Clancy’s hatchet man. We had bad history, mostly of violence and hurleys. He was surprised at my sudden turn, recovered, said,
“The Super would like a word.”
Not negotiable.
That much I knew from previous history. I followed him out of the station, resisting the temptation to look back. My dad was in my heart, that was what counted. A sleek Mercedes was outside, the engine humming, another thug at the wheel. I got in the back, O’Brien following.
The five-minute journey to Mill Street and Garda headquarters was swift and silent. I had nothing to say to these hoodlums. We moved quickly into the station and then Clancy’s domain/office.
He was sitting behind a new mahogany desk, as vast as his ego. He seemed to have grown in girth to match it. Dressed in full uniform, a riot of insignia pinned on the tunic, he busied himself with papers as O’Brien took up position behind him, smirk in place. Finally he looked up, took off his gold pince-nez, said,
“Ah, the fingerless Taylor.”
I said,
“Nice to see you too. Sir.”
He gave a predatory smile as he pulled up a very old file, blew the dust dramatically off it, said,
“Jacko, Jack, you must be very proud, your dike lady being promoted and your dope dealer friend involved in the head shops.”
Stick it to him or not?
I stuck it, said,
“One does what little one can, as you know. The little, I mean.”
O’Brien moved but Clancy waved a restraining hand. He had better fodder than a wallop. Asked,
“You a fan of TV, Jacky boy?”
“Just TnaG, the Irish channel.”