I held up my damaged hand, said,
“Sh… ussh.”
God forgive me, it’s a rush to do that to a priest. They’d been trying for bloody centuries to keep us quiet, so throwing it back was a blast, if not indeed blasphemy. I put the Mossberg on the oak desk, would love if he tried for it, reached in my jacket, took out a slim silver recorder. Bought it earlier in the day from the Army and Navy Shop. They even sold grenades, collector’s items. Asked,
“Ready?”
Hit the play button.
His face took a serious drop as he heard his rich, clear voice.
I let it play, then pressed stop.
Put it back in my jacket, said,
“There will be two copies of this. One goes to Garda headquarters in Dublin, unless your golfing buddy Clancy really wants a copy? And the second to my friend Kosta.”
He was speechless. Maybe he could join a Silent Disorder.
I continued,
“Kosta I don’t think you’d like much. He hates priests and for some odd reason has a real hard-on for you. He got me the Mossberg and, cross my bedraggled heart, I love him dearly but it has to be said, he’s a nutter, your out-and-out psycho. The kind of guy who’d cut your balls off and shove them in your mouth. Or so they say. I haven’t actually seen it but I think it’s probably true. And here’s the best bit. You ready? He regards me as his great friend. Go figure, huh? Anyway, sorry for rambling on like a priest on a Sunday sermon, the point is, if anything… anything happens to me, I were you, I’d hope the Guards came before Kosta. So you see, I don’t like to be crude but I have you by the… nuts.”
I stood up, drained my glass, put the gun back in my jacket, said, “Keep it in your pants, padre.”
The housekeeper was standing by the door, her face ablaze with anger and fury. She glared at me. I said,
“Alanna, I’m not the enemy. Your boss in there, he had the previous occupant of this house put in the river.”
She spat in my face.
I let the spittle dribble down my cheek, no attempt to stop it, stared at her. She began to move back. I pulled off the glove, put my stumped fingers right in her face, lied,
“Your precious employer, the saintly Gabriel in there, he did that to me because he suspected I knew some things. I have one question for you.”
She was transfixed by the ugly remains of my hand, muttered,
“What?”
I pulled the glove back, asked,
“What does he think you know?”
Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there.
– Miles Davis
The call from Kosta was unexpected. He began,
“Jack, you extended me the hospitality of your home. I’d like to repay the courtesy.”
It occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about him, and yet we had a deep, almost ferocious, bond. I said,
“Of course.”
He gave me the address, in Taylor’s Hill, our own upper-class part of the city, home to doctors and other professionals. He asked if I could be there by five and I said, sure. Then he added,
“I need your help, my friend.”
“You have it.”
A pause, then,
“Thank you. Please bring the Mossberg.”
Jesus.
Was I being invited to dinner or murder?
Taylor’s Hill still retains those glorious houses, set well back from the road, with large carefully tended gardens. Kosta’s was midway, huge hedges almost shielding it but you could glimpse the majesty of the building. Built when money was used lavishly on homes. I opened a heavy wrought iron gate, and, instantly, two heavies were on me. Front and back. I said,
“Whoa, easy guys, I’m Taylor, and expected.”
The one facing me, all hard mean muscle, gave me a cold calculating look, then spoke into a lapel microphone, waited. Everybody wanted to be an FBI clone. He motioned,
“Pass.”
Not big on chat those guys. I moved up to the house, three stories of Connemara granite and kept scrupulously clean. I rang the bell and wondered if a maid would answer the door. Did people have them anymore? Apart from the clergy, of course. Kosta answered. He was dressed in a navy blue tracksuit, not unlike Ridge’s, trainers, a white towel round his neck. He greeted, “Welcome to my home, Jack Taylor.”
Waved me in. A long hallway was lined with paintings. I know shite about art but I do know about cash and here was serious dough in frames. The only painting I had was of Tad’s Steak-house in New York. He led me to a book-lined study. Not the books-for-show variety; you could see they’d been well used. Comfortable armchairs in front of a roaring log fire. Few things as reassuring as that. When I looked closer, I could see it was turf. A man who knew the country. He indicated I sit after I shucked off my coat. Left it close by. He offered a drink and I said,
“Whatever you’re having yourself.”
“Gin and tonic?”
“Great.”
He didn’t ask about on the rocks. Serious drinkers don’t do ice. I settled in the chair, putting the Mossberg on the carpet. Maybe he wanted it back. Got my drink, and he sat, reflected for a moment as he gazed into the fire, the flames throwing what seemed like a halo on his bald skull. Like Michael Chiklis in The Shield.
The Mossberg rested-a lethal snake-near his feet. He said,
“To good friends.”
“Amen.”
He liked that answer. Took a large wallop of his drink, savored, then swallowed, said,
“Genever.”
Dutch?
I’ve found nodding sagely stands you in good stead when you don’t have a fucking clue.
I nodded sagely.
He let out a deep….Ah.
I knew we were now at the main event. He said,
“Jack, like you, I live my life to the minimum.”
He was kidding, right?
Bodyguards, a huge house… not really Zen. He continued, “I have few friends, and you I regard as one. My history is violent but we don’t need to dwell on that. I have one daughter, her name is Irini
… means peace.”
Stopped.
Fuck, I hoped we weren’t in sharing mode. No way was I reliving Serena-May and the tragedy.
Pain ran across his eyes, took hold as he said,
“She is… otherworldly. Very beautiful, with a true purity of spirit. I have always, siempre, always protected her.”
I believed him.
He said, slowly,
“But I was detained for nearly two years. She met a man named Edward Barton.”
He spat into the fire, continued,
