The Emerald Lie (8 page)

No

One

Weeps

on

Sesame

Street.

“Catchy,”

I said.

She seemed pleased with that, and then,

“I’m going to write a
crime
novel channeling David Foster Wallace, blend in the rules of grammar, have a broken-down PI, an enigmatic femme fatale, and oh, for the punters, a lovable scamp, as in the dog, not the PI.”

I smiled with no feeling of amusement, said,

“You really love to mind-fuck.”

She shook the e-cig as if that would miraculously provide the needed hit, said,

“Not just the mind.”

Before I could counter that, a man came bustling in, walked rapidly to the table, extended his hand, said,

“You did it, big man. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

It was Tom Shea, who had recently fired me from the investigation into his daughter’s death, and he seemed genuinely delighted. I asked,

“What are you talking about?”

He gave Emily a quizzical look, asking,

“Can we speak in front of her?”

Emily said,

“I’m his lover.”

Took him … and me … aback.

She smiled, added,

“In truth I’m his trophy wife. We have a love lust gig going. He loves me and I do the lust bit.”

He took a moment to rally, then,

“I thought you were a deadbeat, Jack, and then you take out the whole office on the docks, and the American bollix is in there.”

The fire I’d heard about on the docks, Jesus.

I said,

“Good grief, I didn’t do that.”

He winked, fucking winked, said,

“Smart.

Deny

Deny

Deny.”

I’m on that page.

“Needless to say, if the Guards ask, I can provide an alibi for you and there will be a sweet bonus in the mail. Payback is a lovely bitch.”

And he was gone.

I tried to get my mind around the office being burned and, worse, a man dead. I looked at Emily, said,

“I swear on my father’s grave …”

She held up a hand, said,

“I know you didn’t do it.”

I felt a giddy relief, stammered,

“Thanks. Thanks for believing in me.”

She gave a harsh laugh, said,

“Idiot, it’s not that I believe in you. It’s more that I set the fire.”

Back in the ’70s, I was stationed briefly in Dublin. I can still remember the first guy I saw wearing bell-bottom pants. Drugs were just becoming part of the culture and dopeheads were beginning to appear and get busted. Our directive was crystal clear.

Guys with long hair, fuck ’em.

And we did, with feeling.

Those months gave me a sense of the street that has saved me many times. I was fit from playing hurling and full of piss and vim. Drinking wild but then so was everybody else. Least anyone I knew. There was a legendary drug cop named Lugs Brannigan, out and about in the ’60s, he was the sort of man that Gene Hackman was born to play. October 2014, the first ever bio of him was published. He used his fists to settle most disputes and nobody seemed to think it was worth noting, but he got the job done. He never used a baton, opting for a pair of heavy black gloves, and would lash thugs across the face. This not only got their full attention but had the invaluable ingredient of shame.

Reprimanded once by a judge for his methods, he answered,

“Nothing like a belt in the mouth to stop their actions.”

The powers that be kept him to never more than sergeant rank. He had the best approval though. On his retirement, the working girls of Dublin gave him a set of Waterford crystal to say thank you for his protection from abusive men.

I was seeing a girl from Athlone named Rita Lyndsey. Her father was a fire chief so we were somewhat in the same territory. She had a head of gorgeous dark brown curls and I think I was well smitten. She loved to dance, I loved to drink and, when I drank, I could, um, like dancing.

The primo duty in those days was security for visiting rock bands and phew-oh, we got some heavy numbers in those days. Led Zep, the Stones, and even a flying visit from Black Sabbath. As a Guard, I was meant to listen to

Show bands

Country and western.

A duty on a concert by Taste introduced me to Rory Gallagher, and shortly afterward I caught Skid Row, the band that fired Phil Lynott. Gave me a lifelong admiration for guitar heroes. The last few years, I went on a binge of curiosity about what happened to all these guys and I read

Nick Kent

Nina Antonia

Mick Wall

Robert Greenslade

Philip Norman

For some weird unconnected reason, all this fire ran through my mind as I tried to grapple with Emily being the arsonist. Close to babbling,

I said,

“I don’t know which is worse: that you did it or that you didn’t and are claiming it.”

She said simply,

“They beat you up, I got payback.”

I tried,

“But a man is dead.”

She smiled, chilling in its simplicity, said,

“He was a piece of shit.”

Park heard the doorbell sound again and now it had that impatient shrill. His mind was still in the white zone, letters tumbling around like confetti. He felt weightless and yet strung out. He opened the door.

A woman in a dark coat and a tall Guard behind her. Beyond her, he could see Garda vans and cars. He thought,

“Uh-oh.”

The woman flashed a warrant card and a formal-appearing sheet of paper. She barked,

“I’m Sergeant Ridge, and this here is a warrant to search your home. You are Parker Wilson, I presume?”

Park found all kinds of wrong in the way she formulated the statement and question. It was in the wrong order.

He asked,

“Shouldn’t you at least attempt civility?”

Then his mind flipped and he lunged at her, but halfheartedly. The ECT had weakened him so it was, at best, a feeble effort but sufficient for the tall Guard to push her aside and tackle Park, bring him down heavily with a severe blow to the back of the head. Add this to the gin and the shock treatment and Park was out.

Ridge muttered,

“Jesus.”

Guards were running toward the house and she got control, ordered,

“Get him in the van, and search this house top to bottom.”

She looked down at the limp form of Park. The Guard asked,

“Is it him, do you think?”

Ridge felt that tingle of greatness hovering, the opportunity to score big. She took a breath, managed a smile, said,

“He is certainly now a person of interest.”

The Guard, a recent convert to U.S. idiom, said,

“Fucking A, sister.”

A storm had been threatening the city for weeks. The government focused on this to lure us away from the horrors of the water charges but it wasn’t working. Large-scale marches of ordinary, decent people were increasing and the ministers scoffed. The leader of the Labour Party had been especially condescending about the protesters until

She was trapped in her car by them for over two hours.

Ebola continued to wreak havoc in Africa. Of course what do the powers that be do when they want to distract the public? Fall back on the old reliable scare:

… Bird flu.

Yeah, time to float that handy threat again.

In the European qualifiers after a wonderful draw with the world champion, Germany, we were beaten by a newly invigorated Scottish side. Bob Geldof resurrected the Band-Aid single with a whole new cast of young singers to help the Ebola-stricken countries.

George Bush brought out a book about his dad and wrote on his friendship with Clinton! Ireland decided it needed an Irish fiction laureate and drew up a list of the usual suspects that nobody read.

I was walking the pup along the prom when I met a slow-moving elderly man. He raised his cane, boomed,

“Well, I declare, Jack-een Taylor.”

There was no warmth in that, none at all. I didn’t recognize him but nothing new in that. He was one of those who didn’t see the pup. That was all I needed to know. I gave a terse,

“Hello”

Kept going.

But he wasn’t done, said,

“Getting very high and mighty, are we?”

I sighed, wondered if I should just get honest, slap him in the mouth, be done with it. I looked at him, said,

“Hey, I don’t know you and I have no desire to remedy that.”

He smiled, showing some seriously bad teeth, said,

“I had a pub in Forster Street and you were more than a regular.”

I moved to go. The pup was showing signs of maybe gnawing on the guy’s leg and I wasn’t sure I’d stop him. Before I could answer, he added with a smirk,

“I barred you.”

That didn’t really jog my memory a whole lot. I’d been barred from the best and the worst. I said,

“You take care now.”

I leaned on the
care
letting it be something else entirely. He seemed reluctant to let it slide, said,

“They caught that lunatic, the guy who was killing people for speaking badly.”

I thought, Emily will be pissed. He was on her to-do list. I looked out at the bay, dark clouds were forming on the horizon, I said,

“You need to get home before the storm.”

He laughed, near spat,

“Weather never worried me.”

I gave the pup a rub on his ear, turned to go, and asked,

“Who’s talking about the weather?”

Emily was curled up on my couch when I got back. The pup, with no fanfare, leaped onto her lap, settled down for a kip. I said,

“Feel free to break into my apartment as the feeling grabs you.”

Then I saw the tears on her cheeks. I asked,

“Hey, you okay?”

She made a supreme effort, focused, then spat,

“Do I seem
okay
? But I’ll be fine. I’m always fucking fine.”

I let out a slow breath, said,

“Whoa, just trying to show some concern.”

She rubbed the pup, said,

“Keep it for some fool who gives a fuck.”

I didn’t answer, let the harshness be its own resonance. She heard it, tried,

“Sorry, I’d been reading India Knight and, you know, I used to admire that cow, then she demolishes women without children with the cruelest sentence in the language.”

I said,

“But you’re young, you can have a whole hurling team of kids.”

She scoffed, intoned,

“You see me as the mothering type. I mean, seriously?”

Hmm.

I said,

“Some breaking news: they got the Grammarian.”

Got her attention. She said,

“That’s awkward.”

Of the many things I thought it was, that wasn’t the first to spring to mind. I asked,

“Why?”

“Hard to kill the fuck in jail. Not impossible, but difficult.”

To argue with her would just be wasted energy. I said,

“Let it go. If the guy is guilty, he’s done.”

She gave me a long look, said,

“Sometimes, you might well be the weakest shite I know.”

Ouch.

I went with a smile, said,

“But you keep on coming back.”

Shook her head, said,

“Don’t flatter yourself, Taylor, I love the pup.”

I opened the door, asked,

“If there’s nothing else?”

She put her hands on her hips, glared, said,

“You don’t get it, do you?”

I headed for the fridge, pulled out a longneck, and, like a good ole boy, flipped off the cap. Looked impressive, I think. Said,

“I get that you are some weird hybrid of
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
and Carol O’Connell’s Mallory. You should read Boston Teran’s
God Is a Bullet
, but alas, the novelty has worn off and I am seriously tired of you so here’s the thing: fuck off.”

I drank off half the bottle then moved to physically grab her and sling her. She recoiled in total ferocity, hissed,

“You put a hand on me, I will tear it from the socket and feed it to the pup.”

Spittle leaked from the corners of her mouth and her eyes were locked on derangement.

She took a deep breath, said,

“This fucker, this
Grammarian
, he was part of my father’s circle. You remember dear old Dad, right? Who liked to rape girls.”

Phew.

I said,

“Your father is dead and any talk of a circle of … others … was never proved.”

She was violently shaking her head, said,

“You seriously believe my father operated for so long on just …
luck
?”

I tried to keep a conciliatory tone, said,

“I understand you’d want to believe a conspiracy and keep the flame of vengeance hopping but there is one thing you have to concede.”

Her eyes said she wanted to rip my head off but she went with,

“What’s that?”

“He’s in jail, done deal.”

Now she laughed and, with fierce bitterness, asked,

“In this country you know who the best lawyers are?”

I said,

“The ones not in jail.”

She ignored that, said,

“Protestants. They may have lost the land but they still have the juice and guess what, that bollix in jail is … da da, Protestant.”

I was never going to get anywhere. I said,

“How about you get some rest?”

That lame line they trot out in B movies when they run out of script. She grabbed her bag, said,

“I’ll see myself out and, oh, thanks for fucking nothing.”

I fed the pup, left a bowl of water, and then took off after her. It was time to discover where she lived or stayed. She rented cars as she needed them but was now on foot.