The Emerald Lie (4 page)

I walked down Shop Street and the papers were telling us that some economic recovery was already apparent. But to whom? And promising us that the coming budget wouldn’t be so harsh. Just bullshit cover for the water charges due at the end of October. Despite the glut of scandals of fat cats stealing form the very charities they headed, there were still gangs of collectors on the street. And I mean gangs, no longer the lone supplicant, but groups, lest they be confronted.

A busker was massacring “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” and a tap dancer was only halfheartedly going through the motions. Two teenagers accosted me demanding I support some camogie team. I said,

“Gimme a break.”

I was sorely tempted to nip into Garavan’s for a fast Jay but figured I’d soldier on. Top of Quay Street, I looked down to see straggling hen parties looking as if they had been doused in disappointment. Two young tourists checked me out, decided I was reasonably normal, which in Shop Street is some feat these days, and asked if I might know where they would find the
craic.

I hadn’t the heart to tell them that since the new government decided to tax us into oblivion, the word had more or less lost
all meaning. I told them to check out Naughton’s pub. Pushing, they went,

“But is there music?”

I pointed down the street, said,

“There’s all kinds of tunes but I can’t vouch for any melody.”

I got to the docks as the sun made a late appearance. Glanced up at what was almost a blue sky, took a deep breath, and entered the office of Real Time Inc. An all-biz secretary/receptionist asked if I had an appointment. I said,

“No, but Mr. Clear will be glad to see me, I bring tidings of investigation.”

Lest I be IRS or worse, she picked up a phone, did some whispering, then said,

“Down the corridor, first on the right.”

I gave her my best smile but it didn’t seem to bring any sun into her sky. Brad Clear was one big guy, over six feet, looked like someone who’d played in the NFL but some time ago. He had one of those stomachs that seems to have a life of its very own. And as always, he emphasized it with the tightest shirt. A very expensive suit did absolutely nothing to hide the gut, nor did he seem to care. He was maybe in that indefinable good for sixty-five or terrible for fifty age bracket. What remained of his blond hair was long at the back and, I prayed, not in one of those god-awful ponytails.

The face though: a study in opposites, what they call a generous mouth below a nose that veered to the left and the hardest
dark eyes I have even encountered. The utter kill-all-the-hostages hue. Something else, too, a spark of malignancy and black amusement. He came from behind a massive desk, of course, with his hand extended, said in a good ole boy roar,

“Brad Clear, and you are?”

“Jack Taylor.”

He smiled, a dark and vicious thing, said,

“Tell yah, buddy, that don’t mean Jack shit to me.”

In that good ole tone.

I took back my almost crushed hand, my mutilated fingers already acting out, said,

“Tom Shea, the accountant, asked me to look into the death of his daughter.”

He stared at me, asked,

“Is that meant to clarify something?”

Now I got to smile, said,

“Thing is, she took part in some of your training videos.”

He stayed with the
Gee, shucks, buddy, you darn lost me there
act. I reached into my jacket, took out the photos of the girl, the postmortem ones, laid them on the desk, said,

“See if this jogs your memory.”

He reeled back in mock horror, said,

“That there is some real ugly shit, partner.”

You see truly shocking pictures and the range of reactions runs the gamut of

Shock

Through

Revulsion

Disbelief.

He wasn’t even in the neighborhood of giving a toss. I had gone there as a vague way of earning some of the accountant’s money and that would be it, in, out, adios. But this prick’s attitude changed all that. Before I could answer, he said,

“Fellah, I see so many chicks on any given day, it’s like a turkey shoot.”

I stared at him. Could he have chosen a more inappropriate simile? He moved back behind his desk, then slapped his leg up on the desk, displaying very fancy cowboy boots. I could see the hand stitching, ornate finish from across the room. He said,

“These here boots, made by hand in Airline, Texas. But that don’t mean diddly to you, right? My point being, small-time huckster like you, you wouldn’t make in a year what I laid out for these babies.”

I said,

“You’re correct, I don’t know a whole lot about the Lone Star State save for Shiner Bock and Maker’s Mark, but one of their sayings seems to fit you.”

He was digging this, having him a whole swell sweet time, asked,

“Is it what we call a swagger, walking?”

And he was laughing, not the kind of laugh you’d hear from a person who had much of a relationship to humanity but that cackle that seeps from the bottom of something rotten. I said,

“All hat and no cattle.”

Snapped him right back, the dark fire in his eyes again. He snapped,

“The fuck are you? You’re not the cops, you got any kind of … I … D?”

Aggression leaking all over his tone. I said,

“I was going to try concerned citizen but that’s more your letter to the
Irish Times
gig so let’s say I’m the outrider for an expedition force.”

This seemed to amuse him and he said,

“Wherever you’re heading with this, I don’t see it ending in Miller time.”

He gave me a long hard look. The true hard cases don’t do that; by the time you’ve got their attention, you’re already cold. He said,

“You’re some sort of washed-up cop or army, but from the state of your fucked fingers, your whole …”

Paused.

“Ensemble, I’d say at best you’re a poor excuse for a messenger boy.”

He sat down, shrugged, said,

“But you need to fuck off now, I’m tired of you.”

I took a slow appraisal of the office, then settled my eyes on him, said,

“Past ten years, I’ve met a whole array of sick fucks, crazies, killers, your whole tier of the very shite of society but I’ll give you this. You are the only one that might make it feel personal again.”

I bade a hearty farewell to the frosty receptionist but she didn’t even deign to raise her head. There was a huge tropical plant in the corner, I managed with difficulty to raise it and then, with more force than I knew I had, I hurled it at the plate glass window, said,

“Think of it as window dressing.”

That evening, I was having some quiet time, had walked the dog, who was now curled on the sofa, snoring lightly, all peaceful in his small world. I was watching Billy Bob Thornton in the TV series
Fargo.
Just wonderful, as good as the movie and that’s some claim. An all-time gold gig from Billy Bob. A knock on the door, so light it didn’t stir the dog. I was wearing a loose T with the faded logo

“
Black Mask
original.”

And worn to a thread 501s. My feet bare. I opened the door to a fast punch in the face, sent me reeling back, followed by two burly guys in dark clothing. The dog was off the couch and a kick flung him across the room. Without a sound, save
Fargo
muted, I got a systematic beating but all I could focus on was, was the dog all right? After a last kick to the face, one of the guys leaned forward, the smell of curry and tobacco on his breath, and hissed,

“Who is all cattle now?”

Would it have ended there? I don’t know, but a shout from the doorway of

“I called the Guards.”

Had them leave, without any great haste. Almost relaxed. My neighbor had shouted. Now he bent over me, said,

“The ambulance is on its way.”

“The dog …”

Was okay, if bruised, and his pride hurt that he hadn’t been more canine. Went for us both. I passed out then, thinking my toes were cold. I spent a day in the ICU but then was released to a ward. Ridge arrived with a surly guy in plain clothes. She stared at me with anything but sympathy. Said,

“Don’t you ever get tired of this shite?”

I managed to move my head, asked,

“No grapes?”

The guy with her put away his notebook, said to her,

“Let’s go; he has nothing to tell us.”

Ridge gave me a final disgusted look and I asked,

“Don’t you want to know who did this?”

Ridge said,

“Before we get to that, are you aware that a company called Real Time Inc. took out a restraining order against you? Apparently there was an incident involving a window?”

I had to hand it to Clear. He had snookered me and then had his goons beat the living shit out of me. Ridge said,

“We’re waiting … for the people who did this to you.”

I closed my eyes, said,

“Person or persons unknown.”

Ridge leaned over, right in my battered face, said,

“No more screwing around. You crop up in my sights again, I will have you for obstruction, and just about anything else I can drum up.”

After they left, a nurse came and did the fluff-up-the-pillows ritual they seem to do anytime you get comfortable. She said,

“You must be an important fellah having all those Guards visit you.”

“Trust me, importance has very little to do with it.”

She stood back, hands on hips, asked,

“Are you after getting yourself in a small bit of bother?”

I nearly laughed but the broken ribs advised otherwise. I said,

“Not sure small would quite cover it.”

She gave that tolerant humph that Irishwomen are born with, asked,

“How will your wife take this?”

Now I did laugh, pain and all, said,

“She shows up, that might be the biggest beating of all.”

She considered that and just as I thought I might have won her over, she flourished,

“Ah, you’d need to get over yourself.”

I woke in the middle of the night, desperate for a pee. Managed to get out of bed and struggle down the ward. Outside the bathroom were two patients, trailing IVs and looking for all the world like …

They were on sentry?

I asked,

“What’s up, guys?”

One of them, a guy named Scanlon, former bus driver, now on permanent disability, like so many of the city’s civil servants, said,

“Cig vigil.”

What?

“Like you’re mourning them?”

He gave a small laugh, moved his IV line like a dancing partner, said,

“See, you can’t smoke on the hospital grounds or on any of the businesses across the road, so, what? A guy is going to trail his line half a mile to grab a smoke?”

I could see the logic, asked,

“So can I like, you know, get in?”

He moved aside, shouted,

“Okay, guys, he checks out.”

Inside, it was Dante’s Seventh Circle. Clouds of smoke. I did my biz, was heading out amid the throng of smokers, when Scanlon appeared out of the mists, asked,

“Wanna drink, Jack?”

I smiled, said,

“Next you’ll have a card game going.”

Without missing a beat, he said,

“Booth three, five-card stud.”

I declined and Scanlon said to me,

“Before I came into hospital, I bought a scratch card.”

I waited, this could be …

“I won fifty thousand and gee, I’m a little short until I get the money so I was thinking …”

“I’m buying a villa in Portugal.”

Nope.

Like this:

“I got three stars and sent it to the TV show.”

This was supposed to make some sort of sense and true, I do try to keep up with … um …
popular culture
, but
The X Factor
had eroded any chance of ever making intelligence out of the abyss of stupidity we had reached. He continued,

“Thing is, I got my name called and now I’m due on the show to win the big prize in two weeks.”

He sighed, said,

“But I’m on disability, right? So, you think they’d cop if my brother went in my place?”

Jesus, grand criminal enterprise. I asked,

“He willing to do it?”

He gave me the look, like,

“Are you
not
paying attention?”

He said,

“Fuck sakes, Jack, he is as thick as a government backbencher.”

Okay.

I’m sure there was some ironic conclusion to this yarn but I was suddenly tired, of the whole damn country and people having to scratch their way to anything resembling a life of dignity.

Early next morning, I was awakened by the nurse and two porters. In hospital, everything happens early, especially death. I said to her,

“Kicking me out, I hope.”

She gave me that Irish look that translates simply as

“Ah, shut up.”

She said,

“You’re being moved.”

Get this—

To a private room.

Yeah, fuck.

When people are being left on trolleys for days on end, and there is barely standing room for most, a private room is unbelievable. They got me up there and when I was settled in the bed, the nurse said, not in admiration but with malice,

“You must have powerful friends.”

I said, half meaning it,

“I’ll give it to somebody who really needs it.”

She considered that, then,

“You might just do that but this hospital runs on paper, administration, and once it’s written down, bad or stupid, it gets done.”

I asked,

“Would it help if I feel undeserving?”

She nearly smiled, said,

“We agree on that, the undeserving bit.”

As I surveyed the spacious room she turned to go, paused, then,

“You know, I’d say, in your day, you were a fine thing.”

Okay.

Not wanting to fuck with that, I very nearly shut it, but …

But

I asked,

“And now?”

“Now, you know, you’re just like old.”

Come noon, high or otherwise, a young doctor appeared with the ubiquitous chart. He looked all of sixteen, said,