Free The Devil by Ken Bruen Page A

we'd come in on.
    'What's this mania for America you have?'
    I told h i m of the time before when Ridge and Stewart got
    me a ticket, she got sick and I had to defer, then this time
    was refused entry. But to answer his question I said,
    'I loved my dad, he always told me America was the
    promised land, that you could be w h o you really were, free
    of the baggage of the past, and of their deep love of the Irish,
    their help all through our bedraggled history, and h o w they
    took you as you were, not what some gobshite said you
    were - I thought if I could go there I could be free of all the
    terrible stuff I've been caught up i n , and their books, their
    attitude, seemed like real freedom to me.'
    I was drained.
    H a d n ' t spoken such a full sentence since I took my pledge
    as a y o u n g G u a r d at the passing-out ceremony at
    Templemore.
    He asked,
    ' Y o u ever read A n t o n LaVey?'
    I'd never even heard of h i m and said so.
    He smiled, impossible to decipher, said,
    'Check h i m out, he's relevant to our earlier talk. Anyway,
    he always referred to his homeland as "The United Satanic
    States of A m e r i c a " . '
    I was about to mention the demon again when he held up
    his hand, made the European sign of warding off the E v i l
    Eye, said,
    'Jack, don't tell me. I don't want h i m to take an interest in
    me.'
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    KEN BRUEN
    As if on cue, his mobile rang. He had that awful ring tone
    T k i l l y o u ' . Spoke rapidly in what I presume was Romanian,
    slid off his stool, closed his mobile, said,
    'Gotta go. Jack.'
    A n d was gone.
    I paid for the pints.
    I gave the gorgeous girl a tip and she gave me an icy glare.
    Caz leaving abruptly was my fault, she seemed to imply,
    and I thought she might have a point.
    Naturally, I Googled A n t o n LaVey.
    Went ' O h fuck' as I read.

The night before the first of M a y is the Satanic festival of
    Walpurgisnacht. In 1969, an ex-carnival roustabout and
    part-time crime-scene photographer, LaVey, set up the
    C h u r c h of Satan.
    N o t a guy for half measures, he plunged right i n .
    In short order, he got himself a house, painted it black, got
    a whole new wardrobe in yeah, black, and even purchased
    a black panther.
    The animal, not the movement.
    H i s star seemed to be rising as he gained some brief pass-
    ing fame with a cameo i n Rosemary's Baby. A n d the guy
    knew how to play the press, leaking them all sorts of lurid
    stories that led to them dubbing him the Black Pope.
    Euphoric on his brief fifteen minutes of infamy, he set up
    his o w n church.
    W o r k e d for H u b b a r d .
    H i s gimmick
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    THE DEVIL
    N a k e d altar girls.
    An ecclesiastical lap dance before his time.
    A n d it w o r k e d .
    For a time.
    G o t Sammy Davis Jr and the then hot-to-trot, Jayne
    Mansfield.
    It blew fast, luridly and tragically.
    He had a hard on for Mansfield's lawyer, w h o knew h i m
    for what he was.
    A n d LaVey laid a public curse on the lawyer.
    Went badly wrong.
    The lawyer died in a car crash, but Mansfield was in the
    car w i t h h i m and was horrendously decapitated.
    I paused for a moment, lit a cig with the now well-oiled
    Z i p p o and couldn't help but think, Headless canines?
    I stood for a moment, took a X a n a x , trying to make some
    sense of h o w all this tied in w i t h my situation, then poured
    a wee Jay, and thus fortified, sat d o w n to read the
    conclusion.
    LaVey died in 1997 in a Catholic hospital. An enterprising
    reporter named Cathi Unsworth w h o went on to become a
    fine novelist discovered LaVey was . . .
    Jewish.
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    12
    ' "Devil" and "diabolical" come from the Greek tvord
    diaballein, meaning "to slander".'
    11
    I went to a pub in lower Salthill.
    N o t my usual stomping ground.
    It's not quite upmarket.
    Yet.
    But getting there.
    The barman had a dicky bow, but alas, had neglected to
    iron the almost-white shirt.
    I could tell by his eyes, he was probably the best customer.
    I ordered a pint. Unlike in the U K , here you don't