Cross - Ken Bruen [9]
I took my drinks and moved over to the snug, a small cubbyhole designed to give you if not peace then a degree of privacy. The pint of Guinness was a work of art. Perfectly poured, the head a precise slice of cream. Seemed almost a shame not to drink it. Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano came unsought into my mind. If I'd only had a little foresight – the last lines of that terrifying book, they throw a dead dog into the grave, on top of the dead consul. I didn't see any connecting lines and what an irony be there.
You sit behind a pint like that, a pure gift, with the Jameson already weaving its dark magic on your eyes, you can believe that Iraq is indeed on the other side of the world, that winter isn't coming, that the Galway light will always hold that beautiful fascination and that priests are our protectors, not predators. You won't have the illusion for very long, but the moment is priceless.
I didn't have any more hope in religion, so I took worship at whatever altar provided brief solace. Of course, like the best shot at heaven, it was surrounded by hell on every border. Then I chided my own self, muttered enough with the deep shit, it's just a bloody drink, and I'd raised the glass when a man peered round the partition.
'Jack Taylor?'
I might actually have drank that time. This was my Russian roulette, Irish style. Each time I ordered a drink, I never knew if I'd actually swallow it, but I was fairly sure I would do soon, and deep down I hoped so. I looked at the man who had spoken my name with familiarity.
I was tempted to deny it. No good ever came of these inquiries. I didn't hide my annoyance.
'Yeah?'
He was big – over six foot – in his early sixties, with a weather-beaten face, a bald head and nervous eyes. Wearing a very fine suit and solid heavy-duty shoes, he said, 'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've been looking for you for quite a few days.' A slight testiness in his tone, as if he had better things to do than search for me.
I touched the pint. It felt good, if a little soured by the interruption.
'So you've found me. What's your problem?'
I didn't make any attempt to disguise my irritation.
He put his hand out. 'I'm Edward O'Brien.'
I ignored his hand, asked, 'And that's supposed to mean something? Tell you, pal, it don't mean shit to me.'
He gave an almost knowing smile. 'They told me you'd a sharp tongue but a good heart.'
Before I could respond to this piece of nonsense, he said, 'I need your help.'
More to get rid of him than out of interest, I asked, 'For what?'
'To find my dog.'
I nearly laughed. Here I was, fixing to find who crucified a man, and this lunatic lost his dog?
'You're fucking kidding, someone put you up to this, it's like some kind of lame joke.'
He was shocked. His face registering hurt, he said, 'I love that little guy.'
I shook my head, waved him away.
He didn't go, continued, 'I'm a professor at the university and I represent the residents of Newcastle. Are you at all au fait with the area?'
Au fait!
And being a professor, like that was going to cut some ice with me. The last professor I encountered had been a murdering bastard. I near shouted, 'Yo, Prof, I'm from Galway, I know where the bloody place is.'
He ploughed on.
'Five homes have had their dogs stolen. We heard you were good at finding things, and we'll pay you.'
When I didn't leap at the opportunity, he added, 'And pay well.'
The temptation to go Doggone was ferocious.
I said, 'Leave it with me, I'll see what I can do.'
He straightened up. 'Thank you so much. It means an awful lot to us.'
He was on his way when I said, 'They were wrong, what they told you about me.'
His face brightened. 'That you had a sharp tongue?'
'No, that I had a good heart.'
5
Cross-eyed.
Back in my apartment, I was preparing for my siesta. I had my own version of this deal: try to get some food down, half a painkiller/ tranquillizer and sayonara suckers. Pulled on a long