Free The Emerald Lie by Ken Bruen

that.”
    He smiled, showing some seriously bad teeth, said,
    “I had a pub in Forster Street and you were more than a regular.”
    I moved to go. The pup was showing signs of maybe gnawing on the guy’s leg and I wasn’t sure I’d stop him. Before I could answer, he added with a smirk,
    “I barred you.”
    That didn’t really jog my memory a whole lot. I’d been barred from the best and the worst. I said,
    “You take care now.”
    I leaned on the
care
letting it be something else entirely. He seemed reluctant to let it slide, said,
    “They caught that lunatic, the guy who was killing people for speaking badly.”
    I thought, Emily will be pissed. He was on her to-do list. I looked out at the bay, dark clouds were forming on the horizon, I said,
    “You need to get home before the storm.”
    He laughed, near spat,
    “Weather never worried me.”
    I gave the pup a rub on his ear, turned to go, and asked,
    “Who’s talking about the weather?”
     

    “… self-dramatizing types with small, unpeopled lives.”
    (India Knight, writing about women who have no children)
     

    Emily was curled up on my couch when I got back. The pup, with no fanfare, leaped onto her lap, settled down for a kip. I said,
    “Feel free to break into my apartment as the feeling grabs you.”
    Then I saw the tears on her cheeks. I asked,
    “Hey, you okay?”
    She made a supreme effort, focused, then spat,
    “Do I seem
okay
? But I’ll be fine. I’m always fucking fine.”
    I let out a slow breath, said,
    “Whoa, just trying to show some concern.”
    She rubbed the pup, said,
    “Keep it for some fool who gives a fuck.”
    I didn’t answer, let the harshness be its own resonance. She heard it, tried,
    “Sorry, I’d been reading India Knight and, you know, I used to admire that cow, then she demolishes women without children with the cruelest sentence in the language.”
    I said,
    “But you’re young, you can have a whole hurling team of kids.”
    She scoffed, intoned,
    “You see me as the mothering type. I mean, seriously?”
    Hmm.
    I said,
    “Some breaking news: they got the Grammarian.”
    Got her attention. She said,
    “That’s awkward.”
    Of the many things I thought it was, that wasn’t the first to spring to mind. I asked,
    “Why?”
    “Hard to kill the fuck in jail. Not impossible, but difficult.”
    To argue with her would just be wasted energy. I said,
    “Let it go. If the guy is guilty, he’s done.”
    She gave me a long look, said,
    “Sometimes, you might well be the weakest shite I know.”
    Ouch.
    I went with a smile, said,
    “But you keep on coming back.”
    Shook her head, said,
    “Don’t flatter yourself, Taylor, I love the pup.”
    I opened the door, asked,
    “If there’s nothing else?”
    She put her hands on her hips, glared, said,
    “You don’t get it, do you?”
    I headed for the fridge, pulled out a longneck, and, like a good ole boy, flipped off the cap. Looked impressive, I think. Said,
    “I get that you are some weird hybrid of
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
and Carol O’Connell’s Mallory. You should read Boston Teran’s
God Is a Bullet
, but alas, the novelty has worn off and I am seriously tired of you so here’s the thing: fuck off.”
    I drank off half the bottle then moved to physically grab her and sling her. She recoiled in total ferocity, hissed,
    “You put a hand on me, I will tear it from the socket and feed it to the pup.”
    Spittle leaked from the corners of her mouth and her eyes were locked on derangement.
    She took a deep breath, said,
    “This fucker, this
Grammarian
, he was part of my father’s circle. You remember dear old Dad, right? Who liked to rape girls.”
    Phew.
    I said,
    “Your father is dead and any talk of a circle of … others … was never proved.”
    She was violently shaking her head, said,
    “You seriously believe my father operated for so long on just …
luck
?”
    I tried to keep a conciliatory tone, said,
    “I understand you’d want to