The Emerald Lie (3 page)

Butchery

Savagery, black dark evil.

He nodded.

I had no words. What can you possibly say when you are faced with the very worst that humanity has served up? A long tense minute passed and I stood, said,

“I’m going to need a drink and to throw up, just not sure what the sequence is going to be.” I paid, in a sort of numbed shell, left a decent tip for Frank and Cecily, and headed out into bright sunlight. It should have been dark, with all the theatrical attendants. He was right behind me. I stopped, asked,

“Have you got a cigarette?”

Ridiculous. He had all the look of a health guy, leastways before the photos. He shook his head so we crossed the road to Hollands. Mary, God bless her, was still working there. She beamed.

“Jack.”

I muttered some lame hello, nearly asked for her mother but had heard somewhere that the poor woman had recently passed. I said,

“Pack of Major, love”

We went to Garavan’s. I ordered a pint and chaser. Shea said he’d have a sparkling water, adding,

“I start to drink, I’m gone.”

Looked pretty gone as it was. We didn’t talk until I got on the heavy side of the drinks and finally let a breath out, said,

“Tell me.”

He was staring at the bubbles in the water, watching them dance, then,

“She was final year in NUIG. Like a lot of girls, she worked at various jobs for pocket money. She was told about a company doing videos for companies, supposed to be some sort of inspirational shit, like training videos. And hey, maybe some TV work.”

Sighed deeply, said,

“And everybody wants to be a star, right?”

He had to bite down, then,

“Real Time Inc., that’s the name, cover for torture porn. East European crew, led by a smart-mouth Yank name of Fletcher.”

I had to ask,

“The Guards?”

“Nothing they could do, no proof.”

“Where is she now, Karen?”

“A coffin.”

Fuck.

I had no idea what he wanted from me. He knew who did it. The Guards were useless. Not that I could tell him to move
on or any other Oprah horseshit. As if reading my mind, he said,

“I checked you out. You haven’t always worked within regulations.”

Meaning, I went rogue, took justice to the alleys. I didn’t have what it took to take the road again. He added,

“A few friends of mine are going to, um …

He searched for an efficient way of conveying
vigilantes.
I knew the signs. I’d been down this road in a very bloody fashion before. Vigilantes started out with maybe … maybe … a semblance of righteousness but always descended into mayhem. He continued,

“Find another solution.”

“Why do you need me?”

“They are unfamiliar with the territory.”

I knew he meant geographically and certainly not peacefully. Before I could answer, he added,

“I will of course be paying you handsomely for your time.”

“For murder.”

I spat.

He stood, said,

“Maybe I will have a drink after all.”

He returned with half a bottle of Jameson. Unheard of in any Irish pub unless it was in the wee small hours and you were assured of at least two off-duty cops in the vicinity. He offered to pour for me but I covered my glass with my hand. He took that as the insult it was.

I tried to rein in my racing mind, said,

“As one who has trod the road of revenge and retribution, and was nigh insane with grief afterward … The price was very high and you know what? No peace, either.”

He sank a shot, did another but it didn’t seem to do much, not even color his cheeks, then placed the glass carefully on the edge of the table, said in a very measured tone, as if he was controlling his temper more than a fear of slurring,

“Appreciate the little lecture on morals but you know what? You hold the twisted broken limbs of your gorgeous child, who has been ravaged in every possible way. The coroner said they placed objects in every …”

He faltered.

Looked away.

“In every orifice.”

Jesus.

I tried to ease some understanding into my words but like, what the hell, I said,

“I can’t get your absolute pain but neither can I be part of this.”

He mulled that over, then,

“Would you go and see the Yank who is overseeing the operation?”

“What possible good would that do?”

His body shook and he grimaced.

“Good? Who’s talking about fucking
good
? That went into the river with my daughter. I’m asking you for a bit of damn leeway, and don’t sweat—I’ll pay you for your time.”

More to ease him down than acquiesce, I said okay. He wrote down an address, said,

“The gentleman has offices here.”

Then he reached into his jacket, passed over a fat envelope, said,

“For your trouble.”

I looked at it, asked,

“You had the money ready? You knew I’d agree?”

He stood up, said,

“I’m an accountant; I know exactly what money can buy.”

I tried for world-weary, snapped,

“Everyone can be bought, eh?”

He was already leaving, said,

“No, just the empty ones.”

I stayed on for another pint after he left, the fat money envelope before me. Tried to tell myself that money has no feeling. You get it, you keep it.

M … m … m.

Decided I could go see the Yank and just play it as it presented. Thus unsettled, and with a tiny cloud of, if not unknowing, then certainly vague dread trailing.

I wasn’t striving to win.

Just wanted to mix up failure a bit.

Told myself I’d take the dog for a long walk, let the ocean blow away whatever ghosts were forming. Soon as I got to my door, I sensed something off. And could hear muted sounds
from within. Bracing myself, I pushed it open. The dog ran to greet me, wild love as if he hadn’t seen me for a year.

Sitting in my armchair was a woman, dressed like Annie Hall, smoking a thin cheroot. I kid thee fucking not.

Emily.

I said,

“Jesus wept.”

She gave that radiant smile, asked,

“Miss me, Jack?”

Already I was off balance, which is what I’d always been with her. No matter what tack I took, she was always out of left field. All you could do was hope the damage would be short.

I said, “See you made yourself at home.”

She shook the glass in her hand, said,

“I’m about ready for a refill.”

The dog gave me a delighted greeting then, the treacherous bastard, bounded onto her lap. She asked,

“What did you name him?”

I grabbed the bottle from the table, poured one, and refreshed hers. I said,

“Storm.”

She rubbed his ears, then,

“How very you.”

“Is there any point in asking you where the hell you’ve been?”

She seemed to be seriously weighing her response, then,

“First I have to choose an accent, add a little drama.”

I sighed, almost the way my mother did, her whole wretched life. Said,

“I suppose the truth would be too far a reach?”

She finished her drink, smiled, more to herself than the world, asked,

“But where’s the fun in that?”

The Annie Hall persona was already evaporating and a new hard force sliding in. She said,

“I worked for a hedge fund in New York; everyone should learn how to steal professionally.”

Ah, fuck.

I said,

“The banks here found it came naturally.”

A sharp tone.

“Don’t interrupt, Taylor.”

The dog gave her a look, like,

“Seriously?”

“I married a dude in Vegas and, believe me, that was plain tacky.”

She was beginning to sound a lot like Sinead O’Connor and that not even I could stomach. I waited.

“Then I took a holiday on Turks and Caicos, see how the superrich play. Guess what?”

“Bored the arse off you.”

And she laughed, genuinely, though with her, the term
genuine
was a tad misleading. She nigh sang,

“Exactly. No wonder I missed you. You’re so … hmm … sharp, for your age.”

She had the Irish knack of simultaneously patting your head and putting her shoe in your arse. I asked,

“And what, dare one inquire, are your plans now?”

She reached into her bag, a tote that had the logo

…
not friggin’ Gucci!

Cute.

Took out a gold cigarette case, extracted what appeared to be a Virginia Slim. I recognized the distinctive motif and, God forgive me, could even remember the slogan back in the day. I can’t bring meself to repeat it, it’s too folksy, and, fuckit, I can’t do folksy.

She lit it with a simple Bic, a girl with all the commercial contradictions. She inhaled like a redneck, all corpse-sucked-in-cheeks, then exhaled, got into lecture mode. Began,

“Jacky, our last adventure, adventures? Think of it like a TV pilot. Especially as you’ve such a hard-on for U.S. drama. Well, the good news is we’ve been picked up for a second season and hey, I’m not promising Golden Globes but we’re in the game.”

I reached for the cig case, and took out what appeared to be your basic cigarette, without a slogan, lit up, said,

“Staying with your analogy, I’ve decided to go solo, focus on my own series.”

If I had hoped to amuse her, I was wrong.

Very.

She near spat.

“Cunt, you are under contract.”

Even the dog moved under the chair at the vehemence; he’d been reared on aggression. I kept the steel out of my tone, said,

“Endgame, lady, time to fold the crazy tent and bring the bazaar to further shores.”

She was on her feet, all five-foot-four of her, all of it mad as a loon. She snarled,

“I know where the bodies are buried. The nails? Remember them, that they took out of my dear dad and the asshole who killed your dog?”

This was literally the whole summary of my last horrendous case. I took a breath, said,

“You drop a dime on me, bitch, you go down too.”

And she laughed, said,

“You dumb Mick—down is where I live.”

Before I could reply to this, she reached into the bag again, pulled out a package, said,

“Got you a present, homey.”

Fuck.

Hard to flow with her changes. The dog, seeing the package, was all ears, maybe he’d score. I took the present, said,

“Thank you.”

And got the radiant smile. Then,

“Well, come on, boss, open up that sucker.”

I held it up to my ear, listening for ticking. Pulled the paper off and there was a fancy box, containing a watch, Patek Philippe. I was lost for an answer, I mean, the usual shite, like,

“Gee, you shouldn’t have.”

Always sounded so awful, but I had nothing else. She was amused at my dilemma, said,

“Not used to kindness, yeah?”

I tried,

“It is just … so much!”

She was gathering her stuff, preparing to leave, nudged the dog’s ears, asked,

“How’d you know it’s not a knockoff?”

“I dunno, you seem like the real deal sometimes.”

That seemed to trigger a memory and she zoned for a moment then snapped back, said in a harsh tone,

“Whoa, Jack, beneath the shallow surface is … ice.”

Then in an effort to rein in, added,

“Anyway, as they say in the soaps, you will always have a little bit of time for me.”

Lot of ways I could go on this but I took,

“Supposing it’s real, real time that is.”

Intrigued her, asked,

“If it’s not?”

“Then I’m back to my usual act, faking it.”

The Grammarian fucked up. After, he’d think,

“Who let the dogs out?”

He had heard a man use and abuse the language in a way that seemed to proclaim,

“I’m freaking ignorant and proud of it.”

Uh-oh, no way.

He’d tracked the guy back to his home off Devon Park. Nice quiet residential area and no neighborhood watch. Perfect. The guy had gone in his front door so he went round the back. Small garden, good. He checked he had the letter, a vowel, ready then began to make his way up the path and fuck.

A dog.

Big.

And in the lunge, narrowly missed G’s face. But undeterred, the dog swirled, fast, ready for another try. G picked up a water bucket and let rip. Knocked the dog back as the back door opened and the man, screaming,

“Was you want, I’ll kick your arse”

G scrambled back over the fence and ran for his life, thinking

“… Was you want?”

What on earth kind of language was that?

The accountant who had asked me to look into the death of his daughter. I checked him out. He was serious money. Had all the heavy accounts in the city and beyond. A little more checking and discovered he had served as an officer with the UN so his saying he had
friends
who would
help
him was definitely a sign he had been telling the truth. The company that employed his daughter and was responsible for her death, Real Time Inc., was situated close to the docks. Brand-new state-of-the-art building, so lots of cash. The managing director was Brad Clear, which told me exactly nothing. Had an MBA in business from some midwestern college.

I thought,

“Okay, let’s go pay Brad a visit.”

I wore my Garda coat, still being demanded back by the Department of Justice. Despite the recent firing/resignation of the minister of justice over Garda whistle-blowing, it seemed my coat was still a vital necessity to them. No wonder they were fucked. I had a crisp new white shirt, bespoke in Jermyn Street, or so the collar claimed, and cost me five euros in the charity shop. Black 501s and Doc Martens, street scuffed. Ran my fingers through my hair to give that overall look of an eccentric writer or someone who could give a careless fuck. I had the news on and aw, damn it, Joan Rivers died. A true loss, so few left who actually said the things most of us were afraid
to even think. And she pissed on PC. How could you not applaud that, when people were so afraid of offending somebody with any opinion they nervously aired? She had brought not so much joy as a wicked glee in taking down celebrities and other riffraff.