Free Headstone by Ken Bruen Page A

asked,
    “Where is he? Do you think he’s gone on one of
    those biblical benders?”
    Stewart never replied instantly, took all the factors
    into account, then,
    “A ferocious lash, no. He’s drinking, sure, but not
    in his usual blitzkrieg blaze. Laura, the American
    woman, is due soon and I sincerely believe he has
    feelings for her. I’m almost afraid to voice it but I
    think he’s close to happy.”
    Ridge tried to envisage such a concept, said,
    “Jack and happy in the same sentence?”
    Stewart didn’t reply to this, moved like a cat from
    the chair, offering more tea, and Ridge confided,
    “One of my greatest fears is going to his apartment
    and finding he’s choked on his own vomit.”
    Stewart stopped in mid-stride. He’d imagined that
    very scenario more times than he’d ever admit.

    Torture should be inflicted as though
    completely disinterested.
    No more than a procedure to be
    carried through to its brutal
    conclusion.
    —Ex-freedom fighter [ sic ]
    I cringe when I think how easy they took me. Am I
    ashamed.
    You betcha.
    Mortified, in fact. Worse, it made me vulnerable,
    the worst sensation in the world when all you’ve
    got to protect yerself is…………yerself. Thing is,
    I’d been busy, oh fuck, like a banshee on a mission.
    Flush on my result from Loyola’s housekeeper, I’d
    nicked the photo of the cottage and muttered
    inanities
    about
    later
    visits.
    She
    seemed
    bewildered. Not my problem, least not then. I
    headed for Monroe’s at the end of Dominick
    Street. Huge place with the great asset of quiet
    corners. I ordered a Jay, Guinness black. Settled in
    to savor my triumph. I pulled the photo from the
    frame and bingo, all me ships coming in, the
    address was on the back.
    Just outside Oughterard. I knew beyond a shadow
    of a tinker’s doubt he’d be there. The loving way
    the housekeeper had glanced at it, he was there. I
    drained the Jay in one burst of elation.
    Told meself,
    “You’ve still got the moves son.”
    A hefty draft of the black and I was flying.
    …………………………..in the face of God?
    As the old people say.
    I was as close to delighted as I’d been since
    Galway won three All Irelands in a row.
    Glory days.
    I was having me some now.
    Muttered,
    “I found him, Jesus wept, I did it, cracked the case.
    This meant a serious bonus from the lizard Gabriel
    and Laura was due real soon. I could afford to
    have the apartment professionally cleaned.” My
    mobile shrilled, I signaled to the barman for the
    same again, answered,
    “Yeah?”
    “Jack, it’s Stewart.”
    “How’s it going buddy?”
    Stopped him, then,
    “You sound very . . . chipper.”
    Chipper?
    People actually used this outside British sitcoms?
    I said,
    “Laura’s arriving in jig time and . . . I cracked a
    major case.”
    His voice quickened,
    “You found who mugged Malachy?”
    Malachy, Christ, I’d forgotten all about him. I said,
    “No, but a case with a nice lump of change.”
    Silence.
    I figured he wasn’t counting my blessings. Then he
    said,
    “Malachy too poor to count?”
    Sarcasm leaking all over the words.
    I was fucked if I’d let him puncture my balloon.
    Said, with total ice,
    “Don’t lecture me pal.”
    And God forgive me,
    added,
    “You weren’t so damn righteous when you came to
    me whining about your dead sister.”
    I regretted it instantly, knew how horrendous it
    was. I can’t excuse it, was a low cheap wounding
    shot. Blame my state of euphoria.
    He sounded as maimed as I’d anticipated, said,
    “I called to tell you that I’d been checking on
    Ronan Wall’s sister.”
    Another case that had dropped way down on my
    priorities. As I fumbled for a way to erase or stem
    the pain, he said,
    “Ronan Wall is an only child.”
    But Bethany, the Goth girl I’d met?
    I said,
    “What?”
    “He doesn’t have a sister.”
    Clicked off.
    I worked on my second pint, considered calling
    him back to say . . . what?
    Instead, I used my mobile to get