Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [56]
“Brilliant, love, thanks so much.”
The young barmaid from the north side smiled, revealing a missing tooth. “It’s nothing. You’re a tad late this evening.”
“On the phone with my bride.”
Maura’s smile dimmed slightly, then she noticed his face. “What in the name of God happened to you?”
He touched the twin scratches the dead man’s fingernails had made on his forehead. “Low branches over near the Uni were thicker than they looked.”
She eyed him like a wife who had caught her man stepping out, then without a word headed past him to another customer.
He leaned onto the walnut bar and took a gulp of the pint. At home he rarely visited pubs. Even with the new job he found himself more at restaurants or, occasionally, at hotel bars. The atmosphere seemed to soothe him.
He nodded as two men plopped onto the stools next to him. Maura was in front of them before they had looked up.
The older man, maybe sixty, next to him just said, “Pint.”
Maura knew to draw a Guinness stout. The other man, a good ten years younger and wearing a light sweater, said, “Harp, my dear.”
The older man turned to him and in a loud voice said, “Harp, Jaysus Christ, didn’t know I was drinking with a girl.” He roared with laughter and looked around for support. Finding little, he settled back with his stout.
Reed cut his eyes to the loud older man who had what sounded like a Limerick accent. Too bad these two were at this bar. They would’ve been perfect except that he knew to never shit where you eat. But the longer they sat there the more enticing it became. The older one told bad joke after bad joke and then commented on every subject from the weather to the euro.
“I tell you, it’s a German plot. They want a consistent currency for the next time they take over the continent. Just more convenient that way.”
He and his friend finally started chatting about some- thing of interest. The younger one said, “Things are quieter in here since the damn butcher’s been roaming the streets.”
“Aye, that’s the Gospel truth. You’d think the Gardaí would be swoopin’ in here like the wrath o’ God.”
Maura walked by adding, “Does nothing for our business and I don’t walk home alone anymore. Three dead in three weeks. It’s a shame.”
The old man said, “Everyone’s hurting, love. Restaurants are closing. The cinemas have three people per show. Even the airport is empty as more and more people hear about our problems.”
Reed kept his mouth shut, not correcting the lovely barmaid that it was four dead in the three weeks. She’d know by tomorrow morning at the latest. Tomorrow would be his last one. That way he’d have plenty of people scared, and by doing it two nights in a row he avoided patterns the police would pick up on.
Reed said to Maura, “You know if Blue Balls are playing tonight?”
“No, they’re only at the International on Saturdays. But with the trouble they may not be playing at all.”
“A shame.” He left some bills on the bar for her and headed out the door, nodding to the few regulars. It was good to be seen.
He slept soundly after a shower and a few minutes cleaning his scratches. He wasn’t used to sleeping late. Usually the twins would start their day early by jumping into bed with him until he woke, pretended to be a monster, and tickled them until everyone had to lay back and catch their breath. The whole time the flat would fill with the smell of sausages as Rose prepared breakfast. It was a grand existence, but he didn’t mind just lying in a big bed as the sun climbed a little higher behind the clouds that seemed to constantly surround Dublin.
By 10:00 he was out of bed and checking his forehead for any sign of infection. Aside from being fresh, they didn’t look much different than the set of scratches he had on his neck from the day his old man lost twenty-five quid on some horse at Gowran Park. He shrugged. It was almost over and he