Free Headstone by Ken Bruen Page B

Directory
    Enquiries, got them to connect me to the best pub in
    Oughterard. It rang a bit, then a gruff voice
    answered.
    I said,
    “Liam, it’s Jack Taylor.”
    Another ex-Guard, took early retirement, bought a
    pub/restaurant, we have some history, most of it
    fairly good. He needed a moment, then,
    “By the holy, Jack Taylor. I was beginning to think
    you were a rumor running round as a fact.”
    You don’t have to be Irish to decipher that, though
    it helps to remove logic from such conversations. I
    asked,
    “How’s biz?”
    He sighed, said,
    “Sweet Jesus, bollixed. The usual crop of
    Christmas parties, and they bring in major cash,
    would usually be booking now but they’re scarcer
    than a politician with the truth.”
    I didn’t sympathize. That would be as much help to
    him as an audit. I said,
    “A lady friend and I were hoping to have dinner
    there this Saturday.”
    Jesus, it felt odd to say that, strange and wondrous.
    To be, in fact, no longer singular. He laughed,
    astonished, said,
    “There must be a rib broke in the devil. Jack
    Taylor finally hooked.”
    Now for the lure, I said,
    “I was hoping to introduce her to Loyola”
    (deliberately omitting the Father; get that hands-on
    friendship gig going).
    He paused.
    Few are as loyal as an ex-Guard and especially
    when they are protecting a disgraced priest. Our
    history was riddled with such precedents.
    Carefully, he asked,
    “You know him?”
    Time to kick for the sympathy/guilt trip, said,
    “When my poor mother passed, may she rest in
    peace, he was a tower of strength, arranged
    everything. I don’t know how I’d have got through
    without him.”
    Dumb fuck bought it.
    Nothing like
    priests,
    dead mothers,
    and guilt
    to shake the bastards.
    He flustered,
    “Jack, I meant to get to the funeral, to send a mass
    card, to . . .” Enough of this shite. I cut him off at
    the knees, said, adding a wee sting,
    “She always loved you, Liam.”
    Then before he could regroup from that shovelful
    of polite recrimination, I asked,
    “Is he still partial to the old drop of Paddy?”
    Anxious to move on, he rushed,
    “Oh, Lord yes. Only yesterday, I made him a hot
    one.”
    Gotcha.
    I said,
    “Liam, put one of your oldest vintages aside, cost
    no problem, and don’t tell him we’re coming. We
    really want to see the look on his face.”
    “Honest to God, Jack, my lips are sealed.”
    “See you Saturday mate.”
    Rang off.
    Man, I was hitting them out of the freaking
    ballpark. Sank my second Jay in pure delight. It
    burned, like the Resurrection. I needed nicotine for
    the best call of all. Settled my tab with the barman
    and added a twenty for his trouble. He had to
    know, asked,
    “Jack, you’re all lit up, you win the lotto or what?”
    I gave him my best smile, said,
    “Only the ecclesiastical version.”
    More’s the Irish curse, I actually believed it. The
    next day, I’d arranged the cleaning service. They’d
    be done by evening. I made strong coffee, and it
    kicked in about the same time as the Xanax. Now
    for the fun part. I rang Gabriel; he answered on the
    second ring. I said,
    “It’s Jack Taylor.”
    He replied with a terse,
    “Well?”
    Boy, I’d be so glad to be free of this shithead. I
    decided to skip the frills, just lunge in, said,
    “I found Loyola.”
    He couldn’t hide his astonishment, went,
    “Already?”
    Trying, if not much, to rein in my smugness, said,
    “What you paid for.”
    The guy was really up now, said,
    “That is capital. You’ve done splendidly and more
    than earned your bonus.”
    I gave him the details and location of the cottage. A
    tiny voice niggling in my head, intoning,
    “Thirty pieces of silver.”
    I put the phone down and the Xanax dissipated my
    feeling of unease. I focused on Laura; two days and
    she’d be here. I was excited, as close to happy as
    it gets. I said aloud,
    “Ton of cash imminent, Laura arriving, it’s almost
    too good to be true.”
    I should have paid more