Free The Emerald Lie by Ken Bruen Page A

believe a conspiracy and keep the flame of vengeance hopping but there is one thing you have to concede.”
    Her eyes said she wanted to rip my head off but she went with,
    “What’s that?”
    “He’s in jail, done deal.”
    Now she laughed and, with fierce bitterness, asked,
    “In this country you know who the best lawyers are?”
    I said,
    “The ones not in jail.”
    She ignored that, said,
    “Protestants. They may have lost the land but they still have the juice and guess what, that bollix in jail is … da da, Protestant.”
    I was never going to get anywhere. I said,
    “How about you get some rest?”
    That lame line they trot out in B movies when they run out of script. She grabbed her bag, said,
    “I’ll see myself out and, oh, thanks for fucking nothing.”
    I fed the pup, left a bowl of water, and then took off after her. It was time to discover where she lived or stayed. She rented cars as she needed them but was now on foot.
    Determined.
    For a person as paranoid as she was, she didn’t seem to think someone might follow her and took no precautions. I trailed her to an apartment block in Nun’s Island. It was that new popular fad: gated. We had come full circle, from a country that prided itself on not locking its doors to electronic gates and security guards.
    Did we feel safer?
    Did we fuck?
    I watched her disappear inside a three-story building and wondered who she was when she got to her own space. Did she relinquish all the personas, let out her breath, and just be?
    I’d wait until she took off somewhere and then break in. I needed to be sure she wasn’t likely to return and find me as she was quite likely to shoot me. Whatever her various contradictoryfeelings for me, invading her space was not going to fly; she’d go berserk.
    I headed back into town and all the speculation had worked up a thirst. A light fog was hovering over the city and made it seem like a serene place. Or maybe it was just so much mist. I went to Garavan’s and grabbed a stool at the bar. I didn’t recognize the barman and was grateful, chat was not on my agenda. Ordered a pint and a Jay. The guy knew his craft, let that pint slow-build. I held up the glass with the Jameson, the gold sheen promising so much. Never ceased to light up my hope. That what?
    I’d find some peace, respite?
    Not so much no more.
    Those days were buried.
    I was thus musing when a man stood beside me, ordered a large brandy, and let out a sigh, said to no one in particular,
    “Tis a whore of a day.”
    He looked like, as Daniel Woodrell once wrote, sixty stiches short of handsome. He knocked back the brandy, shuddered, muttered,
    “Christ.”
    I knew that feeling. Would it take or resurface? That pure moment of heaven and hell, then it righted and he belched, said,
    “Fuck, I needed that.”
    Now he could settle into drinking. He got a pint and drank a healthy half, then, at last, surveyed his surroundings, me. He said,
    “Grand oul day for it.”
    Indeed.
    There would probably be an hour of bonhomie, then he’d begin spoiling for aggro. I debated on the wisdom of chancing another round before the curtain fell. He was falling into the
I love every-frigging-body
, and launched,
    “I thought if I got married, nobody would notice how odd I was.”
    This had the feel and texture of an oft-repeated refrain, so what the hell, I could do ten minutes, I said,
    “Yeah.”
    Neither a question nor agreement, just throw it out there. Safe. He said,
    “Didn’t work.”
    Like seriously, I could give a fuck?
    I asked, sounding as if I cared,
    “She left you?”
    He gave me a look, bordering on pity, said,
    “Don’t be daft. She went round telling everybody how odd I was.”
    The Jay had worked some abandon and I said,
    “Backfired, eh?”
    Not good.
    He snarled,
    “What’s that mean?”
    Fuck.
    I said,
    “Tell you what: you carry on drinking and talking shite and me, I’ll take my good self elsewhere.”
    Before he could quite digest the