I nodded, said,
“Sure, wraps it up nice and tidy.”
The booze had calmed him. He leant back, his head on the seat, then asked,
“OK, you think if we get past this, you might really tell me how it went down?”
I considered for all of two seconds, said,
“I seriously doubt it.”
Ridge was on the front page of all the newspapers, banners proclaiming:
“Hero Ban Garda Prevents First Irish Columbine.”
The accounts narrated her overpowering the two brothers but despite her valiant efforts, she was unable to prevent the deaths of the ringleaders who apparently had, in a bizarre pact, killed each other. Sales of We Need to Talk About Kevin went through the roof. Gus Van Sant with Elephant and Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine sold out of HMV and Zhivago.
The papers speculated on the weird deaths of Bethany and Wall and concluded:…A love affair, fuelled on drugs and would-be celebrity, gone berserk when faced with the actual enormity of what they were about to undertake.
Yada fucking yada, on they went, fuel for the talking heads.
Most of the editorials called for Ridge to receive the President’s Medal of Honor. Promotion was a given.
She called me, demanded,
“We have to talk.”
“I don’t think so.”
A pause, then,
“Jack, I can’t accept credit for what I didn’t do.”
Jack!
I weighed my words, let loose,
“Stewart gave you shelter when you needed it. You open this can of worms, he might go to jail. Trust me on this, he would not be able to do time again.”
Slam dunk.
I hoped.
Then,
“Jack, I need you to tell me the truth on something.”
“Fire away.”
Tentative,
“Did you have anything to do with the deaths of the girl and Ronan Wall?”
I could see Al Pacino in Godfather Two as Diane Keaton asked him something similar, said,
“You get to ask me this just one time, right?”
“OK.”
“No.”
Did she believe me?
Did she fuck.
I could feel the cluster fuck of questions she had but she let them slide, said,
“So, I’m indebted to Stewart, then.”
“More than you know.”
“Jack…Bhi curamach…be careful.”
“Leat fein….you too.”
I had two calls to make. Rang Directory Enquiries and got the number of the new private investigator in town, Mr. Mason.
Rang and he answered with,
“Ultimate Investigations.”
I said,
“I’ve heard you are a great PI.”
Let him bask.
He did.
Then,
“Well, thank you, we do our best or, as our slogan says, our Ultimate.”
Jesus.
I said,
“I’ve some hot information for you.”
“Your name please?”
“David Goodis.”
He was all biz now, barked,
“So David, let’s hear it.”
I gave him Kosta’s address, said he was about to move a major mountain of coke at seven o’clock that evening but to be careful, he carries a Glock always and is extremely dangerous. “He was involved in the killing of that Ronan Wall.”
Rang off before he could quiz me.
Then called Kosta, opened with,
“It’s Jack.”
He didn’t sound surprised. If anything, he was almost friendly, said,
“Thanks for returning my car.”
I launched,
“You helped me in so many ways so, to clean the slate, I wanted to warn you that a guy posing as a PI is going to arrive at your home at seven. He’s been hired by the Romanians to avenge Caz’s death. I don’t know how they manage to get their information but they do. Maybe, the daily threat of deportation has them on constant alert.”
He digested this, then,
“Thanks Jack, maybe after this… matter, we can be friends again?”
I let that dance, said,
“We’ll always be close.”
He laughed, said,
“A bottle of Stoli is waiting in the ice bucket, my friend.”
On ice.
I said,
“Works for me, hermano.”
He finished with,
“Del corazon, mi amigo.”
Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win.
– Irish saying
Kosta phoned the following evening, just after the Angelus bell had tolled. Outside, a fierce storm was blowing, one of those sudden blasts of terror that come without warning. The windows in the apartment shook from the power of it. He said,
“Yesterday evening was as you had forewarned me, thank you.” I already knew how it went down. Had called the Guards’ hotline and told them a crazy man was going to try and trespass on Kosta’s property. They were waiting for him and he was now in custody, trying to Brit his way out of a gun charge and various other violations.
“You are all right?”
He laughed, said,
