leaking. A name tag identified him as Dr. Ravin. Not Irish then but fuck, few were these days. They’d fucked off to where the money was.
He asked,
“You are a relative?”
Yeah, brothers in animosity, bonded in hatred, and related by booze. I said,
“Yes, first cousins; we are very close.”
Close to murder mostly.
He did the sympathy dance, I nodded idiotically, then he said,
“The padre…”
“Priest.”
I snapped.
How often do you get to correct the medical profession?
Yeah.
He said,
“My apologies, he has suffered severe trauma, he is in a coma and the next twenty-four hours are critical.”
“Will he die?”
He reassessed me. Then maybe acknowledging I was in shock, soft-pedaled. He said,
“He is not a young man and, alas, he has not taken care of his body very well, so, as I said, the next day will be crucial.”
“Cigarettes,”
I said.
He nodded then asked if I had a number I could be reached at. I gave him the mobile one. We shook hands and he headed off to do doctorly stuff, or maybe, if my smell was still vaguely intact, grab a sly cig. I was preparing to leave when a tall, stern-looking priest literally marched up to me. They ever needed a poster boy for the clergy or the Gestapo, this guy was it. A shock of steel gray hair, beautifully cut. I know, as I have the other kind. The cheap bad version. His black suit was immaculate. If Armani was doing a clerical line, he’d got the best of the bunch. Shit, I mean, if the current pope was releasing a CD wearing Gucci slippers, anything was up for grabs.
His face was deep tanned and I finally understood what an aquiline nose meant.
His eyes matched his hair.
Steel.
He moved like an athlete, assured, confident, and I thought,
“A player.”
A tiny pin in his lapel, shining in its gold almost-simplicity.
Opus Dei.
Memo to myself,
“Watch your wallet.”
He extended his hand, said, not asked,
“Mr. Jack Taylor.”
I took his hand, said,
“Yes.”
His grip was like the granite workers in Connemara. He smiled.
Fucking great teeth. I had great teeth but they weren’t my own.
He said,
“I’m Father Gabriel.”
Like I should know?
I asked,
“Like the Archangel?”
Too easy, but what the hell, how often do you get a Dan Brown moment, especially when he said,
“You know your angels?”
I countered,
“And my demons.”
The smile vanished. Just folded its tent and fucked off. He asked,
“Is there somewhere… less public we might talk?”
I bit down, asked,
“The confessional?”
He was seriously tiring of me, so I said,
“The River Inn, across the road, does a rather good lunch.”
I added the rather just to keep him off balance.
Some of the smile slithered back. He said,
“Capital.”
I mean, outside of Booker nominees, who talks like that?
He added,
“My treat.”
My cup fucking overfloweth.
A man brushed past me. I vaguely recognized him, a Down syndrome adult. I asked,
“How yah doing?”
He gave me a radiant smile, said,
“Wonderful, Mr. Tayor, thank you.”
Oh, God, if I’d only known, that brief encounter would feature large in what was to come. When I finally learned of the alley murder, I immediately thought of that lovely soul.
I just pray that I was as warm as he seemed to think I was. Gabriel was meanwhile moving fast and I had to hurry to catch up. The guy was a power walker and he stopped, noticing my limp, said,
“I do apologize Mr. Taylor; I’m accustomed to speed.”
Bollix.
I said, clenched teeth,
“Tell you what Gabe, you power on over there, grab the corner table and order up.
They do great bacon and cabbage.”
Like Mr. Perfect would ever eat such basic peasant food. He asked, smirk in place,
“And for you Mr. Tayor?”
“Pint and a Jay chaser, oh, and you call me Jack.”
His face ran a gamut of emotions, none of them exuding warmth.
He said,
“Righty-ho, see you anon.”
The fuck was this guy? Who on heaven’s earth spoke like that?
And he was gone.
Trailing coldness in his wake.
Whatever else I know, I knew bacon and cabbage wouldn’t be his.. . forte?
And I seriously doubted he watched True Blood.
I stopped outside the hospital, saw Gabe already disappearing into the River Inn, and reached into my jacket for my cigs. Yeah, yeah, I know,
“Smoking again.”
Rationing them, OK?
I cranked up my Zippo; it had the logo,
“Fifth of…”
And gulped down a lungful of Blue Superkings.
I moved over to the dismal smokers’ shed. It should have a sign proclaiming:
“Give me your huddled masses.”
A motley crew of: frazzled nurses, patients, I kid you not, trailing IVs, stunned relatives, and
