Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [17]
I detoured to a section of town where, at that hour, there would likely be no foot traffic at all. Feigning illness, I pulled into an alley near dark as my heart. I got out of the cab, having already slid me sawed-off baseball bat up me trouser leg. When he came to look after me as I knelt on the cobbles pretending to retch up me lungs, I slammed the bat into his shins with such fury to snap at least one. I nearly orgasmed at the crackle of his shattering bone. He tumbled mightily, his head smacking a brick wall. Thud does not describe the sound of his skull against the stone. He was not dead, only damaged. I made sure to damage him well beyond dead. His face, what there was left of it, now red from blood and not from drink. I removed his watch, his jewelry, credit cards, the money from his wallet. I learned that from American TV.
“Was that a home run, fella?” I asked, tossing his pilfered wallet onto his body.
He was strangely silent.
There have been five more like him spread out over the last two years. I’ve made certain to alter the way in which I approach my victims, never again picking one up in me cab. They’re such suckers for the glad hand and blarney that there’s no challenge in it. They’re kittens to cream. Nor have I repeated the method I’ve used to murder them. I’ve stabbed one, poisoned another, beaten one to death with me fists, strangled one, and used a shotgun on the last. When the Gardaí seemed to be putting two and two together, not usually a skill they possess, I was forced to kill at random. Not a drop of red, white, or blue involved.
She was an Irish girl, pretty enough to interest the press. She was at Trinity studying some wanker named Kant. Had to swallow the laughter on hearing that. Dropped two rufies in her drink, diddled her every way to Sunday, and stabbed her with the same knife I used to do in the American. I cut her in just the same way as I did the Yank. I think of him as the Ugly American. Looked better when I was done with him than when I began.
I feel bad about her sometimes, like when I’m getting meself off. She’s the only one I rue. Might have been a future for me with her and Kant, but I had to confuse the Gardaí. Worked like a charm. They need a new calculator. I figure I’ll have to do the odd one every now and again. No more pretty girls, though. No philosophy students. Kants, the bunch of them. I’ll have to use that line. You think?
Shite, a fare out in front of Kavanagh’s Pub and I was having a tickle with you lot. Do me the favor of keeping your gobs shut until I rid meself of the fare. Then we can get back to our business.
“Where to, sir?”
“Just drive. I’ll tell ya when to stop.”
“American?”
“Yeah.”
Jaysus, I finally got a quiet one. No jokes nor brogues. And look at the face on him, Irish as a Galway swan and dour as a priest out of sacramental wine. I almost feel sorry for this one.
“Here on business or pleasure, you don’t mind my asking?”
“Business.”
“What kinda business you in?”
“Cop. I’m a cop.”
Fuck on a bike! An American cop, but nothing like the others. He didn’t even tell me where. Usually takes no more than a few seconds in me backseat before they show me their friggin’ shield and tell me how long till they’re vested in their bloody pensions. Then it’s to the war stories. As if I give a toss.
“Collins,” I said, reaching me right mitt across my body and over the seat.
“Jack,” he said, giving me hand a quick, uncomfortable shake.
Again, nothing like the others. All the others near crushed me hand, refusing to give it back until I pled for its release. Now as I see him in me rearview, I’d say he’s had a fair amount of drink, but he’s far from scuppered. He’s in turmoil, for sure, by the look on his face. Christ and His blessed mother, damned if I’m not concerned for the bastard.
“Is everything right by you, Jack?”
“Far from it, Collins.”
“Is there anything I can do to ease your troubles, sir?”
“Yeah, can you pull over here? I’m feeling sick.”
“It’s a rough part of the old town, Jack. Are you sure