The Emerald Lie (9 page)

Determined.

For a person as paranoid as she was, she didn’t seem to think someone might follow her and took no precautions. I trailed her to an apartment block in Nun’s Island. It was that new popular fad: gated. We had come full circle, from a country that prided itself on not locking its doors to electronic gates and security guards.

Did we feel safer?

Did we fuck?

I watched her disappear inside a three-story building and wondered who she was when she got to her own space. Did she relinquish all the personas, let out her breath, and just be?

I’d wait until she took off somewhere and then break in. I needed to be sure she wasn’t likely to return and find me as she was quite likely to shoot me. Whatever her various contradictory
feelings for me, invading her space was not going to fly; she’d go berserk.

I headed back into town and all the speculation had worked up a thirst. A light fog was hovering over the city and made it seem like a serene place. Or maybe it was just so much mist. I went to Garavan’s and grabbed a stool at the bar. I didn’t recognize the barman and was grateful, chat was not on my agenda. Ordered a pint and a Jay. The guy knew his craft, let that pint slow-build. I held up the glass with the Jameson, the gold sheen promising so much. Never ceased to light up my hope. That what?

I’d find some peace, respite?

Not so much no more.

Those days were buried.

I was thus musing when a man stood beside me, ordered a large brandy, and let out a sigh, said to no one in particular,

“Tis a whore of a day.”

He looked like, as Daniel Woodrell once wrote, sixty stiches short of handsome. He knocked back the brandy, shuddered, muttered,

“Christ.”

I knew that feeling. Would it take or resurface? That pure moment of heaven and hell, then it righted and he belched, said,

“Fuck, I needed that.”

Now he could settle into drinking. He got a pint and drank a healthy half, then, at last, surveyed his surroundings, me. He said,

“Grand oul day for it.”

Indeed.

There would probably be an hour of bonhomie, then he’d begin spoiling for aggro. I debated on the wisdom of chancing another round before the curtain fell. He was falling into the
I love every-frigging-body
, and launched,

“I thought if I got married, nobody would notice how odd I was.”

This had the feel and texture of an oft-repeated refrain, so what the hell, I could do ten minutes, I said,

“Yeah.”

Neither a question nor agreement, just throw it out there. Safe. He said,

“Didn’t work.”

Like seriously, I could give a fuck?

I asked, sounding as if I cared,

“She left you?”

He gave me a look, bordering on pity, said,

“Don’t be daft. She went round telling everybody how odd I was.”

The Jay had worked some abandon and I said,

“Backfired, eh?”

Not good.

He snarled,

“What’s that mean?”

Fuck.

I said,

“Tell you what: you carry on drinking and talking shite and me, I’ll take my good self elsewhere.”

Before he could quite digest the insult I was moving, and the barman said,

“Nice one, Jack.”

Depends on which side of a good beating you sit.

I stopped to listen to a guy massacre “The Fields of Athenry,” got my phone out, and called Emily.

Answering machine that went,

“Hey asshole, you know the drill.”

Okay.

I said,

“Emily, got a lead on your plan for the Grammarian but it’s vital you meet me at the Twelve Pins in Connemara before five this afternoon.”

I got a large takeaway coffee from a deli and a half bottle of Jay, moved down to Nun’s Island, and settled down in a doorway to wait.

Superintendent Clancy had gathered the murder squad. He was caught between the prospects of landing a huge coup and a massive fuckup. He peered at the anxious faces of the Guards and detectives assembled, began,

“We stand on the precipice of a great success.”

Paused.

He did like his drama.

Then,

“Or a horrendous clusterfuck.”

He picked out Ridge’s face, said,

“Park, the suspect, has called for a lawyer and we know what that means.”

Did he expect an answer?

A guy at the back ventured,

“We have to beat the shite out of him now.”

Clancy nearly smiled then reined in, barked,

“That is not how we do things.”

Murmurs.

“Tear his house apart, bring me something that says this is the fellah.”

Ridge tried,

“We already have lots of suspicious items but nothing that is definite. He did have an inordinate amount of dictionaries.”

A moment as the crowd wondered if this was a joke.

Nope.

She continued,

“The suspect seems to be disoriented. We think he administered a DIY version of ECT.”

Clancy took a moment to figure this, then,

“You mean he shocked the be-Jaysus out of his own self?”

He was interrupted by a young Guard who said,

“He’s lawyered up.”

Said it just like in the movies. Clancy said,

“Fuck.”

He snapped at the young guy,

“Is he a Prod?”

The guy did know he meant Protestant but wasn’t altogether sure what one looked like. He’d grown up in the years such nonsense didn’t rate, he tried,

“Should I ask him, sir?”

Clancy raised his eyes to heaven, muttered,

“Give me fucking patience.”

Then to Ridge,

“Get me evidence. We’ll stall this shithead as long as we can.”

The lawyer, named Pearson, knew he had a headline case and had alerted the press, and put on his Mason’s tie for the doorstep lecture he’d deliver. If he handled it the right way, he’d get a book out of this and use that to claim an artist’s tax exemption. It was win-win. Clancy came out of his office, all fuss and blunder, said,

“Be just a moment while your client is having a wee cup of tea.”

Pearson smiled, said,

“Well, Superintendent, it’s like this: you can opt for the small fiasco or go large when I add police brutality to the sheet.”

Clancy looked as though he might wallop him, then asked,

“I know you?”

Pearson gave a well-fed, well-rehearsed chuckle, then,

“Not yet but by Christ you will.”

Clancy thought,

“Yeah, a Prod.”

I watched Emily drive out of the gated building. She was driving an Aston Martin. She seemed to have unlimited access to cars, like everything else.

I got across the road before the gate clanged shut, and getting into the main block took a good five minutes. I had a fine-tuned set of burglar keys given to me by a guy who now sat on the new water board. Still picking people’s pockets but with sanction, if not approval. The door to her apartment gave me a moment of pause. Would she booby-trap?

Oh, yeah.

So I was extremely careful, my heart hammering.

Finally the door opened and I stepped inside. An OCD wet dream. Spotless and everything in white: walls, sofas, coffee table. A lingering aroma of weed and patchouli. Not unpleasant.

There was an open-plan sitting room leading to a kitchen and bedroom. On the main wall was a large framed photo of a man with his collar turned up, heading into a dark alley. It was black-and-white and, dare I say, arresting.

“Fuck,”

I said,

As

I realized it was me.

Jesus.

Shaking my head, I headed for the kitchen, a solid steel fridge, opened to reveal a full-stocked range of supplies. Six-pack of Shiner Bock; had me one of those cold babes. Still hadn’t decided if I wanted her to know she’d been invaded. On the kitchen table was this:

A solid gold Colt .45, fully loaded, ready to rock. It was a beautiful piece. Yeah, I’d confiscate it. Slid it into the waistband of my jeans. Felt better already. If she came home suddenly, I could simply shoot her.

A small shelf had some books, titles were

All My Puny Sorrows.

Probably among the finest novels ever on suicide and indeed family fuckup.

Then,

David Foster Wallace essays.

And

Anne Sexton poems.

Why was that not a surprise?

I finished the beer, thought,

“Go another?”

Yeah, why not?

Pulling drawers open at random, I found a faded photo, four men, one I recognized as Emily’s murderous father and, beside him, a man whose head was circled in red, and a red label above proclaiming/asking?

“The Grammarian?”

The other two I knew from a high-profile case where they had been convicted of assaulting young girls. I said,

“Fucking motley crew.”

In her closet I found a metal chest, opened to see stacks of banded cash, muttered,

“Holy shit.”

Tempted to grab a wedge but, hey, taking the gun, that was simply disarming her. But taking money—that was outright stealing. Put a pack in my jacket, hundreds of euros. Moved across the room and opened a closet and, oh, fuck

Reams and reams of baby clothes. I shut that quick, my heart scalded. Said,

“I am not going to think about that, no fucking way, I didn’t see it.”

I moved to the door, looked back at her life, barren, cold, empty, and like, I had something better?

That evening I was sitting in Garavan’s, pint and chaser in play, feeling tired. I’d taken the pup for a long hike and he was now home, knackered. I was in the snug in the hope of no one bothering me. I had about as much chat in me as the government had credibility.

A woman came in, stood before me, in that indeterminate age group of forty-fifty. Well groomed, long black coiffed hair, and a face that was striking more than pretty. Her clothes quietly whispered,

“Money and, yeah, class.”

I don’t know if God donates class but I was pretty sure that the devil handed out style. Whatever she was selling, I didn’t want it. I raised my glass, conveying,

“Take it elsewhere, lady.”

She sat. I mean, fuck it, just sat. Said,

“You are Jack Taylor.”

How many times I’d begun a case with just those words and never, fuck never, did it end well. I looked her right in the face, measured,

“I don’t care whether your husband/dog is missing or whatever, your son/daughter/ … you hear me? I can’t help you.”

She was unfazed, just leveled those lovely sad eyes on me, said,

“It’s my nephew, Parker Wilson.”

Name rang a bell but I couldn’t be bothered figuring it, said,

“Please go away. Find somebody who gives a rat’s arse.”

She leaned into me, said,

“They are calling him the Grammarian.”

Whoa.

Had to do a whole double take, then,

“Well, lady, he is fucked, signed, sealed, and delivered. Get him a good lawyer, cop for insanity.”

She sat back, took me in with a full eye search, and nothing warm was there. She said,

“You have a rep for finding information that the Guards can’t.”

I shrugged, said,

“You need a miracle, I don’t do miraculous.”

She put a fat envelope on the counter, said,

“I believe you can be … bought.”

Was I outraged?

Indignant.

Nope.

I could be bought—and cheaply.

I asked,

“What is it you want?”

As I asked, the strangest feeling hit me. I began to feel a tingle all along my spine, as if someone trod heavily on my grave, and fuck, barely recognized the feeling, it had been so long, so dormant.

Attraction.

Ah, shite, I needed that like a wallop to the head. My mind muttering,

“No way, no fucking way, not going through all the shit again.”

Even as my treacherous heart began to sing. And I swear, she saw it, in that uncanny way that women have. A tiny smile at the corner of the mouth as she sussed it.

She said,

“My name is Sarah, Sarah Compton, and I want you to prove that Park is innocent.”

Piece of cake.

All biz, I asked,

“Where is he now?”

She looked at her watch, slim Rolex, said,

“Just about making bail.”

As Park was being released, Sergeant Ridge was standing beside him, whispered,

“Enjoy the brief outing. I’ll have your arse back in here so quick …”

He looked at her like a total stranger, then murmured,

“Mind your language.”

Sarah had a car arranged and before the press could engulf him she had him in the back and sped away with cameras flashing at its taillights. Park’s mind was beginning to settle but words and letters still created a small rainbow at the edge of his vision. He said to Sarah, vague distress lining his tone,

“All the letters are lowercase.”

She looked to see if the driver had heard, then said,

“We’re going to bring you to my house. It’s peaceful there.”

He was quiet for a bit, then asked,

“Do you have a Fowler’s
Modern English Usage
there?”

She thought,

“Uh-oh.”

Said,

“Park, best if you concentrate on getting rest for now.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then said,

“Lowercase implies capital catastrophe is imminent.”

Sarah thought,

“Mad as a hatter.”

But family.

“The art of punctuation is of infinite consequence in writing; as it contributes to the perspicuity and consequently to the beauty of every composition.”

This edict of Joseph Robertson was running through Park’s mind like good news. He knew it signaled a return to his former self and his dormant energy. His aunt Sarah had fussed over settling him in the guest room, insisting,

“Rest, you need to rest.”

“No.”

He thought,

“I need to kill somebody.”

And he remembered how the female sergeant had scoffed at his language, had sneered,

“Afraid of a little bad grammar, are we?”

The construction of that sentence infuriated him and the casual way she abused and tore apart the very basics of structure revealed the barbarian she was.

He lay on the bed and ran the rudiments of his favorite linguistics, and running alongside this pleasure was the idea of shutting the Guard’s mouth permanently. He asked aloud,

… “Affect or effect?”

I.e.,

The sergeant was affected by the effect of the hatchet.

Emily was standing in the center of my apartment, so enraged that the pup hid under a chair. Loud voices freaked him; didn’t do a whole lot for me either.

Like this,

“My place was burgled, you believe it?”

Oh, I not only believed; I
knew.
When she was in full riot, her eyes seemed bright green. She was spitting from anger, continued,

“Going through my private stuff, and you know who did it?”

A question or a touch of rhetoric?

I frowned accordingly. She threw her hands in the air. Spat,

“That cunt cop.”

Whoa …

I asked,

“What?”

“Ridge, the gay bitch, she’s had it in for me since I rubbed her nose in it.”

Had to close this down, said,

“Seriously, I don’t think breaking and entering is part of their remit.”

She spun around, eyes spitting iron.

“Ah, you dumb, deluded sap.”

Couldn’t let that go, said,

“I don’t think they use
sap
outside of earnest chick lit.”

Then she had a sea change, touched my face, tenderly, her eyes now soft, said,

“Ah, Jack.”

And a lightbulb went on. I realized something.

She

Had

Feelings

For me.

Oh, sweet fuck.

How could I not have seen? The huge framed photo on her wall. Always there for me. As I tried to process this, she asked quietly,

“Jack, can we talk?”

Lord above.

I resolved, in my utter blindness, to let her down easy.

Aw, fuck, the arrogance and sheer stupidity. If only I could blame drink, dope, stress, but no, it was all on me, my total lack of
cop on
is absolutely appalling. I have no excuse save pure bollix.

Me.

I said (oh, the generosity and sensitivity!),

“Let’s go and have dinner, my treat, and we can talk.”

I cringe as I recall the smugness of my tone.

She said,

“Oh, thank you, jack. I knew you’d get it.”

My name in lowercase there as that is how small I feel now.

I need to see Emily’s mother and find out about the four in the picture. Two had been convicted of sexual offenses and, as is the case now with Irish justice, they were on holiday in Marbella, awaiting appeals. Emily’s father was dead and that left Park Wilson, the alleged Grammarian. I needed transport and knocked on my neighbor Doc’s door. He had been many times in my apartment but I had never set foot in his. He had a fairly new Austin and that would do my trip nicely.

The pup was on his lead and his tail wagging gently as I knocked. Took a few minutes and then the door opened a fraction, the way you do for TV license inspectors, giving not an inch. Doc’s head appeared. Looking startled, he gasped,

“What?”

Fuck, not a good sign, he had never been anything but warmly friendly. The pup tried to push in but Doc snapped,

“Not now.”

Sharp.

Jesus.

Maybe I could rent a bloody car.

I said,

“Really sorry to disturb you.”

He actually went,

“Whatever!”

Now if ever a comment deserved a slap in the mouth, it’s that. I tried,

“I was hoping to borrow your car, I’ll pay for the petrol and …”

He cut me off, muttered,

“Jesus.”

Went back inside and did I hear a whispered conversation?

Then he was back, handed me the keys, and shut the door. The pup stared at the door, crushed, his tail beneath his legs. I said,

“Ah, fuck him, come on, we’ll have a wild spin.”

Thing with dogs, they instantly forgive but they don’t forget.

Me neither.

The Grammarian would kill me for that sentence.

I put the pup in the shotgun seat and then went,

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.”

Not the pup, not a stick shift. Damn automatic. I could with some difficulty manage but said to the pup,

“Gonna be a bumpy ride.”

He seemed to trust me. I said to him,

“See, the old ways, they had some style. Did I ever tell you of the old Galway cures?”

He turned his head to the side so I figured, no. I began,

Baldness: Beef bone marrow rubbed on the bald pate.

Corns: Paraffin oil on cotton wool and rub in slowly like sarcasm.

I swear the pup found that amusing.

Chesty cough: Hot water in a mug with honey and a mass of carrageen moss.

Toothache: Drop of Jameson with salt added and rub gently on the gums. If that failed, drink more Jay.

The radio was playing and a news bulletin, P. D. James had died.

RIP.

She wasn’t exactly noted for her sense of humor but, at a book signing, in Australia, a long line of people and with each customer she tried to write the buyer’s name and have a word.

One woman handed over the book and when P. D. asked, she wasn’t sure she could spell the name correctly but gave it her best shot

… Emma Chessit.

As she handed back the book, she realized the woman was asking the price of the book.

I’d once given a copy of

An Unsuitable Job for a Woman

To Ridge.

In the days when we were still friends, before the death of our beloved friend, Stewart, Ridge had asked me to suggest some crime novels and she had loved James Lee Burke

Hilary Davidson

Patti Abbott

Sara Gran

So, emboldend, I’d given her the P. D. James and she stared at the title, snarled,

“What? You trying to tell me something, Taylor?”

Ah, just fuck off already.

A Swollen Red Sun

By Matthew McBride, which is among my ten favorites, I decided she would not now be getting. Let her go back to fucking chick lit.

Emily’s mother’s house was still bright, clean, and alive. So, still sober, then.

I left the radio on for the pup, a few treats, said,

“Back in a sec, buddy.”

He looked as if that seemed unlikely. I approached the door with a certain amount of trepidation. Rang the bell, and in a beat, there she was. She asked,

“Yes?”

“I am so sorry to bother you. I’m a friend of Em …”

Didn’t get to finish. She rasped,

“Taylor.”

Uh-oh.

Not good.

I tried,

“So sorry to disturb you.”

“No, you’re not, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Fuck…. Okay … deep breath.

Think I liked her better as a drunk.

She stared past me, asked,

“What kind of person leaves a pup locked in a car?”

Jesus.

She motioned for me to get him, and added,

“Wipe your feet.”

To, I suppose, accessorize her wiping the floor with me. I could have of course just said,

“Aw, fuck off.”

And fucked off me own self.

But I never

Her house was spotless, OCD in huge evidence or maybe just being sober. She got a biscuit and broke it in half for the pup. She asked,

“What is his name?”

In a futile attempt at humor, to lighten the mood, I used the line from my favorite western:

“Never name something you might have to eat.”

Whoops.

She glared at me, spat,

“That’s not even remotely amusing.”

Phew-oh.

I noticed a framed print with the words

KISS

The acronym KISS is applied from principles of business, advertising, computer systems. Einstein said, “Everything should be made as simple as possible but not too simple.”

Like most alkies I had a passing knowledge of AA slogans but this was new to me. She saw me looking at it, asked,

“You know who wrote that?”

“Einstein?”

She literally puckered her lips in dismissal, said,

“My dear friend Parker Wilson, the poor man they are accusing of horrendous things.”

Which is the whole reason for my visit and now I had an in. I asked,

“You knew him well?”

“Define well.”

Fuck me, I definitely liked her better as a meek drunk. This new abrasive bitch was beginning to piss me off. I went offensive.

“Not a difficult question and, might I say, you seem to have come on in leaps and bloody bounds.”

She sighed as in,

“God spare me imbeciles.”

Said,

“My therapist stressed I need to be assertive.”

I nearly laughed, said,

“Trust me, it’s working.”

She rubbed the pup’s ears. That eased me a bit, not a lot, but climbing down, she said,

“My late husband, Park, and two other men had a group based on golf, sex, and money, and they rather fetchingly called themselves 4-Play.”

Fetchingly!

I snarled,

“Was this before or after your husband molested your daughter?”

Bull’s-eye.

Her face crumbled, the force behind her eyes dimming, and she looked as though she might fall down.

I could give a good fuck.

She tried,

“I didn’t know, I couldn’t have known, I thought she was just …”

Um.

“… a quiet child.”

I let that hover before I shot,

“The wife never knows, eh? And now you
do
know and you have a saying by one of his …”

I had to search for the word:

“
Mates

Displayed on your fucking wall.”

She said, very quietly,

“Please don’t curse.”

I took a deep breath, then,

“I know two of the men, in a photo Emily has, were already arrested, your husband is … um … out of the picture, so that leaves Wilson, and I have been asked to try and clear his name.”