The Emerald Lie (10 page)

She stared at me in amazement, uttered,

“You?”

I said, with tight control,

“It’s what I do.”

She pondered this, then,

“They all drank a great deal and I’ve learned in my program that normal inclinations become perverted by alcohol.”

Fuck’s sake.

I said,

“Blame the demon drink, eh?”

A thin, mean smile danced along her lower lip. She said,

“One feels you have experienced some demons of your own.”

Bitch.

I gave up, said,

“Here’s my mobile number. If you think of anything that might help your
friend’s
defense, I would be grateful.”

I called the pup, who decided to show off and made an impressive leap into my arms.

Who knew?

I was at the door when she said,

“I would like to say it’s been a pleasure but I have learned that honesty is essential. It says so in
The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous
.”

I looked at her, the smug expression, figuring she’d scored the last point, and said,

“That same book talks about a state of mind that I think you may have.”

“Oh, and what might that be, Mr. Taylor?”

I let the moment build, then,

“A state of mind that only can be described as savage.”

Park’s aunt Sarah had a conference with the lawyer representing him.

You get what you pay for and, in this case, as she was laying out a shitload of green, she had the whiz kid of the city. But smarmy.

Oh, yeah.

Sarah knew to be suspicious of any man who wore more jewelry than she did. And not only that, but classy gear. And he did that annoying thing of shooting his cuffs to emphasize a point and, of course, to show you the Cartier watch, etc.

His office alone cost as much as the salaries of the Irish Water Board. And he was just as arrogant as those charlatans. He said,

“I’ve been in touch with Sergeant Ridge. She is the chief cop on the case and a dyke.”

Sarah wanted to ask,

“And this sexual data helps … how?”

But every question cost another five hundred euros. She nodded sagely. Not easy when you did not wish to draw attention to your double chin. He continued,

“It seems our boy used to give himself ECT.”

She thought,

“What?”

The lawyer smiled and this had the effect of her checking to see if she maybe had something stuck in her teeth. He said,

“If we go the insanity route, this will be a huge advantage.”

Then he suddenly stood up, majestic in the movement, spluttered,

“Good gracious, where are my manners?”

He had the Trinity accent that those who attended in the ’70s acquired. Not quite posh but cultured, showed learning more than breeding. It let you know they were indeed better but not showy with it.

“Coffee, tea, we have Earl Grey and Darjeeling.”

She refused, wanted to get to the bottom line. He continued,

“Our Mr. Wilson administered a voltage of five hundred watts to his brain on frequent occasions. You might say his mind was indeed scrambled.”

Sarah was, dare I say, shocked. She made a small

“Oh.”

The lawyer seemed to think this was appropriate and said,

“Mind you, there is now a bracelet on the market that gives you three hundred forty watts. It comes as a black rubber wristband with an LED light buried inside it; they are calling it a wearable personal trainer. Two copper terminals deliver the current with a simple two-second warning.”

Sarah was aghast, wondering if he was
trying to sell one to her.
She asked,

“Good heavens, why?”

He chuckled, genuinely amused, said,

“It’s named the Pavlov bracelet after the Russian who conditioned the dogs.”

This she knew about but she was mystified, said,

“I am mystified.”

He elaborated,

“It is designed to stop us yielding to our addictions.”

Sarah was shaking her head. He tried to elucidate.

“Invented by a Stanford whiz kid of the name Maneesh Sethi, it sells at a price of three hundred euros.”

He waited and when she had nothing, said,

“We can use this to show that Park, though obviously off his fucking head …”

She jumped at the obscenity as he intended. He liked to have her full attention. Then,

“Was at least trying to, shall we say, cure himself.”

She was dubious, asked,

“And that would, um, fly?”

He laughed again, a more brutal tone having leaked across his words, said,

“It’s bullshit but at least it shows he is at worst a harmless eccentric.”

Sarah didn’t know if this meant that Park would walk or be confined so she asked,

“What are his chances?”

Lawyers love, just fucking love, questions, and the sillier the better, plus, a long answer stretches out those billable hours, as he’d learned from
Boston Legal.
He saw himself with the cachet of William Shatner and the chutzpah of James Spader. He’d learned those two
c
words in the past week and used them frequently. He adopted that lawyerly look, eyes above the pince-nez so
you thought you were seeing double. You were certainly
paying
double, and said,

“If we draw Judge Fahy, we are in with a shout because she is
très
simpatico to madness. The worst would be Bennett. He let two rapists walk recently and is determined to jail some poor bastard.”

Sarah was still lost, said,

“The press are camped outside my home.”

He shrugged that away—not his problem—said,

“Thing is to try and make our dear Park appear …”

He cleared his throat, noisily, then,

“… Normal.”

She gave a cynical shrug, as in,

“Good frigging luck with that.”

He nearly smiled but went with,

“Couldn’t you get him a copy of Lynne Truss and let him, I don’t know, be seen with that and somehow have the focus on his intellectual side?”

She had no idea of who that person was but this was why God invented Google.

She stood up, said,

“Thank you.”

He stood, too, had to now that he might be a hoot but at least a hoot with manners. For a horrible moment she thought he might actually kiss her hand. He said,

“
C’est ne pas rien
.”

Storm Rachel finally hit, the west coast worst of all. Howling winds, snow, ice, monsoon rain, power cuts, and flooded homes, all the usual outriders of Armageddon in a green wave. The pup doesn’t really do storms or, indeed, most bad weather. He hides under the sofa with my Galway GAA hurling shirt as a security blanket. I’d have gone in there with him if there was room.

But hey, I had a date. No wonder the elements were deranged. A rib broke in the devil. I tried to envision my own face when Emily told me she loved me. Christ, let me be humble and gracious, and let the bitch down easy.

I did neither

Humility

Grace

Nor

Niceness with any conviction. In fact, I usually seemed to be about to vomit. But she might cancel owing to the storm.

She didn’t.

Left a message on my phone

“Hey, babe, the G Grill at eight, dress to fascinate.”

Right.

As the winds battered against the window, the pup glared at me, like,

“Why have you not stopped the storm?”

I said,

“I’m working on it, buddy.”

I put on a new crisp white shirt. Fuck, why do they put all those frigging pins in there and you always miss one which lacerates the tender part of your neck. I loose managed a Rotary club tie, me being one of the very few who they actually voted not to allow to join. A black waistcoat to give me the crime writer’s vibe, my washed 501s.

Then the pièce de résistance.

Doc Martens,

Which I had done the impossible with: got a shine on there.

Hid the steel toe caps.

And finally, my all-weather Garda coat. It had been

Burned

Thrashed

Beaten

Usually with me in it.

The G Grill was the latest flash place in town and not even a storm of such ferocity could dent its allure. I reluctantly had to leave the pup alone as my neighbor Doc wasn’t answering. Most of the floodwater still clogged the main street but the ubiquitous buskers were undaunted, one so enterprising as to have a sign,

“Feel guilty about Katrina? Now is your chance to catch up.”

I gave him a ten for ingenuity and I swear he shouted,

“Yo, bro, get the boxed set of
Treme.
”

I looked at him, dressed like the joker in
The Dark Knight
, down to the horror makeup. I asked,

“You watch box sets?”

Like he had a home?

He smiled with that grim Heath Ledger smile, said,

“Get real, bro, streaming, it be the way.”

That he rasped like Bob Marley only added to the surreal tone. I carried on. Met Des Kenny, trailing off the end of his marathon.

Fuck.

Here was the oligarch of Irish bookselling, dressed in shorts and Lifeboats T-shirt, looking fit and healthy. I asked,

“You’re running now?”

He gave that radiant grin, said,

“Aw, Jack, we can’t all simply stand still.”

Deep.

He asked,

“Got a hot date, boyo?”

Heat all right.

The G Grill had a guy on the door, a guy with bags of attitude. He stepped in front of me, asked,

“Help you?”

Fuck’s sake.

I said,

“Doubt it.”

He flexed his gym pecs, smiled, thinking,

“Player.”

But another guy stepped forward, said,

“Jack, how’s it cutting?

I knew him from a brief stint I did as a security guard. We’d had some drinks and shot the shit. He looked like Jeremy Kyle,
which was a hell of handicap. Kyle is the TV guy, a poor man’s Jerry Springer, makes his living shouting at folks from disadvantaged backgrounds.

I said,

“Going okay until this asshole got in my face.”

Jeremy smiled as the guy bristled, said,

“They’re keen is all.”

The guy tried,

“Boss, we can’t have riffraff hanging around.”

I breezed past the guy, his hands itching to clout me. Jeremy said,

“Have a cocktail on the house.”

I nearly smiled, said,

“Far from cocktails I was reared.”

He shrugged, his eyes scanning the room, like what he saw on
NCIS.
I asked,

“This your living now?”

Couldn’t stop the vague contempt that leaked over my tone.

He did that body look, head to toe, that sneers,

“You actually bought that shit you’re wearing? How cheap are you?”

Before I could answer, he added,

“Thing is, Jack-o, there’s great opportunity in the security biz and you, being once a Guard and all, you could nail down some serious change.”

All this crap in a quasi-American accent. I shook my head, moved to the bar, got a double Jay in, then saw what appeared
to be a young Deborah Harry waving at me from the dining room.

Emily.

Jesus.

Jeremy looked at her, asked in disbelief,

“You snaring that, huh?”

“Go away,”

I said.

I knocked back the Jay, headed for Blondie. She rose to greet me, did the frigging air kiss, exclaimed,

“Jack, you look …”

Searched for a word,

Got,

“Different.”

I said,

“You have that Debbie Harry gig down.”

Sounding not un-American my own self.

Shit is infectious.

“Who?”

Right.

She seemed up, energized, and I felt bad at how I was going to blow her buzz.

Rain on her parade.

Shit on her doorstep.

Well, you get my drift.

She said,

“Punctuation is so important.”

WTF?

Was everyone obsessed with grammar? I ignored that, asked, as if I cared,

“How’d you survive the storm?”

This seemed to amuse her highly and she said first,

“You have to know that men name storms and they’re always female. Why is that?”

I tried a half-arsed smile myself, said,

“The ferocity and, I suppose, the unpredictability.”

We sat at a table as we waited to be summoned to our dinner. A woman appeared, dressed in black waistcoat, ultra-white blouse, short black skirt, and driller heels. She said,

“Good evening, folks, I will be your server slash host this pleasant occasion and anything you need, don’t hesitate to call.”

I sighed.

We had truly adopted most of the U.S. culture. I said,

“Couple drinks would be a start.”

She almost glared. I was not the type of diner she anticipated. She ran with it, addressing Emily, cooed,

“Would madam wish to peruse the cocktail menu?”

Madam would not.

Snapped,

“Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, twist of lemon.”

In bourbon?

Was JD even bourbon or sour mash?

I had the Jay, no rocks. Emily fixed her gaze on me, said,

“I was thinking of you last night as I was reading.”

Uh-huh.

I gave her my interested look, which basically reads,

“Bore me.”

She continued,

“John Kennedy Toole, David Foster Wallace, both suicides and both with controlling mamas.”

Did she require an answer?

She did.

I said,

“As I had the mother from hell and I don’t write, why would you think of me?”

The drinks came and Emily looked at her glass, asked,

“Is that lemon fresh?”

Our server muttered something vague and fucked off. I felt her love of us was waning. Emily returned to her searching scrutiny of me, asked.