Free Green Hell by Ken Bruen Page B

dying black children with Eva Cassidy singing in the background. Shaming, bullying, and cajoling a bankrupt people into donating what few euros they retained. If the people hated any song, they now hated “Fields of Gold.”
    Em had agreed to actually tell me who/what she was, if
    I got wasted with her.
    Her words.
    Meaning, go on the piss. Twist my arm.
    She insisted we go to the G Hotel. Already noted for its theme rooms, as in: you wanted peace, you opted for the purple room. Em said,
    â€œGuy in the bar there shakes one mean, multifucking cocktail.”
    I said,
    â€œI don’t do fancy.”
    She got the look, she asked,
    â€œYou want the gen on me or not?”
    â€œGuess I could go for a frozen margarita.”
    She laughed, said,
    â€œDress to impress, slick.”
    Been a time since I hit the charity shops. With the recession, the new scandal about top executives of the leading charities on massive salaries, the people on the ground, the actual working staff, were bearing the brunt at the Vincent de Paul shop. Rita greeted me,
    â€œJack, we thought you’d brought your business to T.J. Maxx.”
    And swear to God, she gave that Galway hug:
    Real,
    Warm,
    Felt.
    And fitted me out with a dark suit that hung a little loose but I can do loose. A Van Heusen shirt and brand new Dr. Martens. The cost—
    fifteen euros.
    I kid you fucking not.
    Heading for the G in my splendor, I shucked into my Garda all-weather coat and was, if not hot to trot, at least ready to limp with attitude.
    We were sitting, not close but not distant. From left field she just launched.
    â€œMy old man sends me hefty checks for the guilt.”
    Uh-oh.
    â€œWhat guilt?”
    â€œFor diddling me in every orifice until I was sixteen.”
    Then she swiveled in her seat, exclaimed,
    â€œOver there, I saw Iain Glen. Be still my heart. He’s got that intense brooding gig going.”
    Then switched again, said,
    â€œThink of me as a cocktail. You take,
    Carol O’Connell’s Mallory
    A note of Sara Gran’s Claire DeWitt
    A sprinkle of angel dust
    Shake that mojo
    And
    Out
    Pops
    Me fein (me!).”
    Before I could comment she added,
    â€œYou only need to know I’m less Sylvia Plath and more Anne Sexton.”
    I said,
    â€œOr you could just be full of shite.”
    We were on our second margaritas and those suckers were sliding down bad and easy. Em took out an e-cig, the green light glowing against the tequila sheen in her eyes. She said,
    â€œI descended into a complete full madness and if you can know and accept that, you can function on a whole other level.”
    I watched her exhale the nicotine-based water vapor and felt a powerful urge to smoke. A kick-in-the-gut, honest-to-God, unfiltered Lucky Strike. Em continued,
    â€œSome people, before bed, they lay out the next day’s clothes. Me, I lay out a slew of personalities, then, come morning I wake, pop an upper, chase it with a double espresso, and see who I’m going to be that day.”
    I asked,
    â€œIsn’t that tiresome?”
    Now, she was coming to it, asked,
    â€œJack . . .”
    Pause.
    â€œDon’t you ever want to be somebody else, even for a little while?”
    â€œI’d settle for being some where else, even for a little while.”
    I could feel the tequila, settling then whispering, so I let it talk, said,
    â€œTruth is, I only ever wish to be a fictional character.”
    She was delighted, asked,
    â€œOh, do tell, and please . . . sweet Jesus, don’t be predictable and do a James Bond shite song . . . let it be colorful!”
    I said,
    â€œRaylan Givens, as written by Elmore Leonard. Gets to wear a cool hat and not look like an eejit, has a side that is pure mellow. He’s a U.S. marshal.”
    She was disappointed or maybe the booze was on its rota of up/down swings, she said,
    â€œYou like him because of the hat?”
    â€œNo, because he legally shoots