Free Headstone by Ken Bruen

she slunk out, she began to better understand
    Jack’s loathing of the man.
    Anthony was waiting outside, dressed like the
    country squire, all pomp and damn little
    circumstance, and was that a cravat . . . with the
    emblem of the Galway Hunt? He barked,
    “Get in the car.”
    Ridge, never the most tolerant of individuals,
    already way past her simmer date, asked,
    “What?”
    To her horror, she noticed he was wearing his
    riding breeches as he strode to the BMW. He
    stopped, said,
    “We’ll discuss this at home. I had to pull a lot of
    strings to save your pathetic career.”
    She almost ran up to him, got right in his
    aristocratic face, said,
    “Pull this.”
    Instead yanked the cravat from his neck.
    He was about to protest when she said,
    “One fucking word, just one, and I’ll make you eat
    this piece of rubbish.”
    Turned on her heel and walked towards the city
    center.
    She had to stop at the Wolfe Tone Bridge as she
    realized her whole world was going down the
    toilet.
    She fumbled for her mobile, her hands shaking,
    called Stewart.
    No frills, she begged,
    “Can I stay with you for a few days?”
    If he was fazed, he didn’t sound it. Then, nothing
    ever seemed to get to him. He said,
    “A Garda in my house, fantastic.”
    One of the reasons she loved him, he never, never
    asked,
    “Why?”
    You find a friend like that, you’re freaking gold.
    That a convicted drug dealer and a Garda were
    tight was a conundrum neither analyzed. Jack had
    brought them together but even he never expected
    they would form a separate peace. They did share
    one quality, an indefinable regard for the train
    wreck he was. Both, in their separate ways, felt
    they might yet save him. When Ridge had begun her
    martial arts program, Stewart had encouraged her,
    offering Zen wisdom to beat the wall of pain. Jack,
    of course, true to form, on hearing of her
    enterprise, muttered,
    “I’ll rely on my hurley.”
    When Ridge arrived at Stewart’s house, he already
    had a room prepared. His home was on the edge of
    Cooke’s Corner. But a postmortem away from the
    fish shop where a body had been found in the
    freezer, and had been there for many years. Of
    course, the local wits had a field day, the very
    least of which was, “………………...Ah, he was
    always a cold fish.”
    Mafia jokes too, of course, not so much sleeping
    with the fishes as being on ice with them.
    Stewart was dressed in a silk kimono, black with
    gold dragons. It should have looked ridiculous,
    like Hefner on ludes. But his smooth, lithe
    movements, his air of total calm, carried it off . He
    hugged her and she nearly broke down. How long
    since anyone had done that and truly meant it. She
    could feel the easy strength of his body. He
    released her, said,
    “Tea’s on the pot, toast ready to pop, and my
    special omelet is just the right tone of crisp and
    delicious.”
    He ordered her to sit, served them both breakfast,
    commanding,
    “Eat first, talk after.”
    She asked,
    “Is that Zen?”
    He smiled, said,
    “No, that’s hunger.”
    The omelet was heaven, laced with a hint of a
    spice. She gasped,
    “God, this is good.”
    He said,
    “And not a magic mushroom in the mix.”
    Finished, they sat back, sipped the Darjeeling tea,
    and he told her about the new player, Mason, the
    official PI. She said she would run a background
    check, adding ruefully,
    “If I’m still allowed to use the computer at work.”
    Stewart wasn’t big on self-pity and asked about the
    attack on her.
    He considered, moved into a lotus position on the
    chair, said, “First Malachy, then a handicapped
    man murdered, and now you. And one of your
    attackers referring to your sexual orientation.”
    She asked,
    “You think they’re connected?”
    He wasn’t sure, said,
    “Sometimes, you need Jack’s crazy view on things.
    He sees weird patterns that a normal person would
    miss.”
    Ridge nearly smiled. Whatever else, Jack would
    never be condemned as normal. She