Dr. Ravin.
I know my kin. For once I did the decent thing. I pretended not to see him. A man, my age, with a jaundiced pallor, on crutches, said,
“Hiya Jack.”
I did the Irish gambit, when you haven’t one flogging notion of who they are, said,
“Jesus! Haven’t seen you in ages.”
He moved closer to me. He had the scent of death on him, I know it from familiarity. He said,
“I’m Gerry Malloy.”
I didn’t ask,
“So how are you?”
He was on crutches, looked desperate.
He was fucked.
I lied,
“Great to see you Gerry.”
He looked furtively around, then confided,
“I’m hoping to get a big claim out of this.”
I ground my cig under my boot, said,
“My fingers crossed for you.”
He licked his bottom lip, a gesture like the onset of dementia, said gleefully,
“If they cut off my right leg, I’m set for life.”
OK.
Before I could hazard,
“Good luck with that,” he asked,
“Jack, could you spot me a twenty? You can see I’ll be rolling in it so no worries about payback.”
An arm and a leg as they say.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
I gave him the note and as I limped away, he shouted,
“Big hug to your blessed mother.”
I waved… yeah.
She was dead five years but I had a feeling he might be able to deliver the hug in person sooner than he reckoned.
A lapsed Catholic is simply one who is hedging his bets.
– Ken Bruen, from
“Reading at Random,” in Collected Essays, 2001-2005
I arrived at the pub, a long fifteen minutes after Gabriel. He’d found the corner table, and a lone ray of sunshine was beaming through. Did it illuminate him?
No.
Seemed to emphasize the aura of darkness around him-or maybe I just needed a frigging pint.
He was finishing their famous handmade soup, dabbing at the corners of his mouth like a petulant nun. A lone pint of Guinness, forlorn in its solitariness, opposite him, like a sin he’d refused to absolve. I indicated the chair across from him and he waved me to it. The waitress, a rarity-she was Irish-approached, greeted,
“Hiya Jack.”
He gave me the look, like, how often are you in here?
I gave her my best smile and meant it. She turned to Gabe, asked,
“Father, have you decided on your main course?”
He had.
Demanded, not asked,
“The Dover sole, lightly grilled. Are the vegetables fresh?”
“Yes, Father, we had a fresh delivery just this morning.”
He never looked at her. This guy was accustomed to hired help. He said,
“I’ll have the brussels sprouts, a side salad of coleslaw, red onions, and, of course, in olive oil dressing.”
She risked a glance at me, her eyes saying,
“Bollix.”
She asked,
“Usual Jack?”
“That would be great and thanks.”
He looked up, queried,
“You eat here regularly?”
“Drink, I drink here… regularly.”
Like this was news to him. He reached down, fetched a beautiful brown leather briefcase with a symbol on it:
T. B. E.
I thought I knew it but couldn’t bring it to mind then.
I would later, ruefully… as I learnt it meant The Brethren, Eternally.
I said,
“You didn’t have that in the hospital.”
He was mildly impressed, said,
“A keen observer, that’s good, very good. My driver brought it over.”
He had a driver? I asked,
“DUI, that it?”
The briefcase was snapped open-and I mean, snapped. Then he rested his tanned hands on it and, fuck, were his nails… manicured?
His tone was now that of a stern parent to an unruly child. He said,
“I know all about your smart mouth, your-how shall I put it- cynical repartee, but it’s wasted on me so let’s drop the smart-alec pose, shall we?”
I threw him with the monosyllable
“Fine.”
His chastisements obviously carried huge freight in his usual circles. He asked,
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isn’t Jesus about love, spreading the joy, or are you more the school of,
Man is born of woman and is full of misery?”
He leant back, folded those perfect hands in his lap, said,
“You remember your Catechism.”
“No, I remember me funerals.”
His food came. He snapped at the girl,
“Glass of sparkling water, very thin wedge of lemon.”
Waved her away. I said,
“Bon appetit.”
I hoped it choked him. He didn’t answer, set about his food like a rabid dog, ate with a ferocious determination. This was his food and by Christ he was going to have every last bite. I drank, thanked the girl when she brought my Jameson, and waited for whatever this prick had in mind.
Finished, he cleaned the corners of his mouth, delicately, with the napkin, took a sip of water, said,
“To business.”
“I can hardly contain myself.”
Briefcase flicked open again. He took a fat envelope, passed it over to me, said,
“A retainer.”
I didn’t touch it. He stared straight into my eyes. I knew he didn’t much care for what he saw there. He said,
“The church, as you are well aware, has been under intense scrutiny; the errors of the few have cast a
