The Devil (16 page)

Lady of Galway. W h e n I'd sheltered from the rain and met

Father R a l p h I'd never given her a second thought, so if I

made up for the lapse now, w h o knew, maybe she'd

appreciate it.

A seventeenth-century Italian M a d o n n a . There is a

mother-of-pearl bead in her hand, given by a fisherman.

Her crown was presented by the first ever Catholic mayor

of Galway in 1683.

She was literally buried when the waves of persecution

began.

I love the altar surrounding her, it shows

a Claddagh boat,

St Nicholas, patron saint of Galway,

St Enda, venerated on the A r a n Islands.

It is said that if a real Galwegian asks her help, she w i l l

grant it.

221

KEN BRUEN

So I asked,

'What am I supposed to do?'

Waited, then decided that walking was the only thing I was

able to do just now. I blessed myself, then headed on, moved

along Grattan Road, glancing to the right at the abandoned

lighthouse. Maybe I could rent that and put the isolation in its

proper place. I reached the aquarium. I'd never been inside.

Perhaps they had displays of the poisoned water.

Beside it was Seapoint ballroom. My m i n d attempted to

recapture those glory days of the showbands:

The Regal,

The Capitol,

The Clipper Carlton,

The Indians,

The R o y a l ,

The M i a m i .

Dressed in blazers and pants with actual creases, those

guys played three-hour sessions, and the c r o w d loved them.

I'm not going into some rap about a more innocent time, but

the fact we knew less seemed to suit us better.

N o w we k n o w everything and talk to nobody.

A priest w o u l d patrol outside to ensure lewd behaviour

didn't occur. If only we knew, we should have been

patrolling the priests.

As I hit the promenade proper, I gazed out at the ocean. It

never failed to make me yearn. For what?

America,

love,

peace?

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THE DEVIL

I don't know, but it was like balm to my tired soul. It

didn't quiet the voices in my head that had the same refrain

of

reminding,

re-telling,

reprimanding

the trash I was.

Once a cop . . .

Those instincts never fully leave y o u .

I'd been aware for the past ten minutes of a sleek black

B M W tracking me.

Sawyer's men?

Payback?

The Sig was to hand. I was ready and be-jaysus, I was

willing.

I kept w a l k i n g , replaying my most recent conversation

with Stewart, his anger at my insistence that we were deal-

ing w i t h the D e v i l . He even asked if I'd checked for the

number 666. I'd laughed out l o u d , said,

'He's bald, how hard w o u l d it be to look?'

Then I added, venom spilling all over my words,

' Y o u saw
The Omen
and bought the glitz version.'

He didn't k n o w what I meant so I told h i m .

H o l l y w o o d versus Revelation.

A n d read out the actual passage from Revelation, 13,

16-18:

'And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free

and bond, to receive a hiark in their right hand, or in their

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KEN BRUEN

foreheads. And that no man might buy or sell, save he that

had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his

name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding

count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man;

and his number is six hundred three score and six.'

He was confused and I said,

'The number 666 is the mark of the beast, not of Satan!'

The B M W stopped, the back door opened and a voice

said,

'Get i n . '

Cautiously I bent d o w n and there was Superintendent

Clancy. Once my best friend, but my lethal adversary for a

long time. In my last case, I had saved the life of his child

and he owed me. I knew he hated that, the debt. I got in,

closed the door. Sitting in the front were two Guards, plain

clothes. One I didn't know, but the other, he had beaten me

to a pulp the year before. He was k n o w n as T o m the Thug.

It fitted. I said,

' H o w ' s the hurting biz. Tommy?'

He didn't reply, but I could see his neck redden from

temper.

Clancy said,

'Always with the mouth. Jack?'

Jack.

For years, it had always been Taylor.

I looked at him. He was in full regalia, the deep-navy

Commander's rig, with medals pinned on the right collar.

H e ' d been carrying a lot of weight the last time we met, but

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THE DEVIL

seemed to have grown even larger, his stomach pressed

against the tight tunic. H i s jowls testified to rich dinners

with the lads and layers of fat had narrowed his eyes into

slits. I asked,

'Life treating you good?'

He sighed and I knew he was waiting for me to ask about

the boy, to remind him.

I didn't.

He said,

'I was reliably informed you were going to America.'

I smiled, said,

' N o t that reliable, it seems.'

Usually, at this stage in the proceedings, one of his men

w o u l d have walloped me, hard. He said,

'Jack, we have the Volvo racing competition coming to

Galway. O u t of all the cities in the w o r l d , we get to be the

base. This means a huge influx of money, prestige, tourists,

puts us on the w o r l d stage.'

He paused, shot his hand out, adjusted the cufflink on his

snow-white shirt.

W h o the fuck wears cufflinks any more and more to the

point, why?

I swear, they had the Garda crest on them.

I had a real hard time not to burst into R o d Stewart's

'Sailing', but that w o u l d have definitely gotten me a

hammering. He continued,

' N o w Jack, h o w w o u l d it sound to the w o r l d media if

some eejit were running round making w i l d accusations

about Satanic murders and'such crazy talk as that?'

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i

KEN BRUEN

I said,

'I'm guessing the Tourist Board wouldn't be happy w i t h

such an individual.'

He turned his beady eyes on me, said,

'You've got it arseways as usual. Jack. You're forever

bleating about not liking our new G a l w a y but it's the other

way round, G a l w a y doesn't like you, I don't like you and the

f u c k i n g Tourist B o a r d is prepared to ship you out

themselves.'

T o m laughed out l o u d , nudged his mate and they

snickered in unison. Clancy said,

'Get the fuck out of t o w n , and this warning as opposed to

other . . . measures . . . means our slate is clean, am I clear?'

'Yes, sir.'

He made a bone-breaking noise w i t h his fingers, said,

'Get the hell out of my car and remember, next time I'll

send T o m alone.'

I was not fully out of the car when the driver put it in gear

and roared off. I fell on to the pavement, shouted like the

show bands always d i d ,

'Goodnight and G o d bless.'

I suppose in the interests of truth I'd have to admit that I'd

been to see Sawyer but had been holding off on recounting

it. I'm not ashamed of it, it needed to be done, but the stuff

about his daughters, spoilt or otherwise, made me hesitate

to relate the event, the reason why I'd expected Sawyer and

not Clancy in that sleek B M W .

In truth, it comes to the same deal.

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THE DEVIL

Thugs and bulhes.

Save one wore a uniform.

It was almost too easy to get to h i m .

Arrogance breeds stupidity and he had both.

In buckets.

H e ' d played his usual round of golf, seemed mightily

pleased w i t h his o w n self. H a d the customary drink w i t h his

buddies after, picked up the tab.

Just one of the guys, and generous with it.

Except he kicked the living shite out of a Ban Garda.

M y Ban G a r d a .

Dressed in a cashmere sweater and, I swear to G o d , a

cravat and pleated golfing pants, he was whistling as he

headed for his car.

A l l was hunky fucking dory in this cat's w o r l d .

Looked momentarily puzzled as his driver didn't bounce

to open the car door.

The driver was out cold in the back seat.

I came up behind Sawyer, smashed his face into the door,

broke the fingers of his right hand, the gun nuzzled against

the base of his neck, and said in a whisper,

'Once, only once am I going to give you this message.'

Paused.

'Your three spoilt brats of daughters bully a child again,'

I pushed the barrel of the gun harder into his neck,

'I w i l l k i l l you, your wife, and then I'll take a decent look

at your three precious darlings.'

Then I cold-cocked the sucker and got the fuck out of there.

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KEN BRUEN

W h o says golf chills y o u out?

The papers reported the Sawyer shooting, the consensus

being 'drug related'.

Ireland today had so many drug shootings, even the old

reliable drive-by gig didn't warrant the front page any more.

The Cheltenham Race Festival had begun and fears of the

recession affecting the number of Irish w h o usually travelled

over to it seemed unfounded.

To the great relief of the Brits.

The Paddy pound,
as they termed it, meant a huge source

of income to the tiny English town.

They didn't like us any better, but they sure as hell were

glad of the Irish insane gambling spirit.

It wasn't just the betting, the Irish liked to party and their

parties were the stuff of myth.

Like the Oscars on meth and Jameson.

Publicity wise. Sawyer got shot the wrong week.

The lead singer of the Devil's M i n i o n s , nobody gave - for-

give the pun - a toss. Trash was tossed in the canal every

night.

Sawyer had, to stay w i t h the racing terminology, form.

Or as the Americans say,

' H e was a person of interest.'

D i d I feel any remorse?

D i d I fuck.

Ridge phoned me a few days after, asked if we could meet

for a coffee.

I asked if I had to gear up.

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THE DEVIL

She thought I meant clothes.

We met in Cafe du Journal on Q u a y Street.

Does it get more Irish.'

The place was packed and we had to wait for ten minutes

to get a table.

Recession?

N o t for the designer-coffee crew, or maybe the news

hadn't
filtered
d o w n yet.

Or perhaps, following the government's lead, they just

didn't give a fuck.

St Patrick's Day was looming and the government, in the

midst of the worst crisis we had faced in twenty years,

awarded themselves a twelve-day holiday.

St Patrick had obviously seriously screwed up the ridding-

of-snakes gig.

Ridge looked well.

Despite her recent beating, she had an almost healthy

glow. M a k e - u p had disguised most of the fading bruises. She

was dressed in a tweed suit, as befits the wife of a L o r d .

I could see black shadows under her eyes though.

No make-up is that effective.

I k n o w shadows, and not just beneath my eyes.

I lied, said,

' Y o u look great.'

She lied right back.

' Y o u too.'

Getting a table finally near the door, we ordered lattes

from the extremely affable Polish waitress. Ridge declined a

Danish and me, of course, I don't do sweet.

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KEN BRUEN

Never one to preamble, she launched in w i t h ,

'I see Mr Sawyer had some bother.'

One way of putting it, I suppose.

I nodded.

She knew, let a silence build, then,

'Thanks.'

I gave her my fake smile, admitting nothing. She was still

a G u a r d .

The coffee came, lots of froth. I asked the waitress,

'Think you could hit that with a double espresso?'

Gave me the radiant smile of another caffeine fiend,

said,

'I think we could manage that.'

Ridge sipped at hers, I just knew she couldn't let it slide,

said,

' A l w a y s the
rush:

I could play, went,

'Don't tell me, the movie with Jason Patric and Jennifer

Jason Leigh. N o t a lot of people k n o w this, but Pete Dexter

did the screenplay.'

M o v i e buffs like that kind of small print.

Ridge didn't.

I think the last movie she saw was
The Quiet Man.

But Jesus, she'd had the crap beaten out of her by a thug,

so I said,

'The rush, the edginess, it's what I'm used to.'

Surprise, surprise, she let it go, asked,

' H o w was your dinner with Carl?'

I had a lot of answers that didn't contain civility, so I said.

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THE DEVIL

'Didn't develop along the lines I'd anticipated. He speaks

very highly of you, though.'

H e r face darkened, like a cloud crept behind her eyes and