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first Mayor.

      Michael Crowe, one of the brothers who owned the bar, was indeed the mayor and a good one. Stewart was from a middle-class family, reared in Devon Park, which in my day said,

      “You’re posh.”

      Not really, but the notion was there, still lingered. Meant that Stewart didn’t know the family and Stewart made it his business to know almost all the players. I was sitting at the bar, groaning at a sparkling water, discussing hurling with Ollie Crowe, when Stewart arrived. In yet another fantastic suit. Coming in the swing door, he brought the sun with him. Ollie muttered,

      “Hell of a suit.”

      Moved off.

      After the usual fandango about Stewart’s herbal bloody tea, we moved to a table. Stewart had a serious expression, laid out the clippings I’d given him, the note. Said,

      “Take another look.”

      “Why? I remember the damn thing and C33, or whatever the fooking number is.”

      He leaned on the notes so I reached, took them. Made a show of concentrated interest. Stewart took a genteel sip of the tea, then said,

      “Rourke, the guy due in court?”

      I said,

      “Sounds like a nasty piece of work.”

      “Not anymore.”

      “Why?”

      “Apparent suicide, from the lonelamp post on Nimmo’s Pier.”

      “Apparent?”

      “I had a chat with Ridge.”

      I sneered, bile leaking over my tone.

      “And ye concluded what?”

      “He’d been tasered first.”

      I digested this, mulled over a few ideas. PIs are renowned for mulling. I said,

      “Either way, the bad bastard is no loss; good riddance.”

      Stewart never quite came to terms with what he saw as my cold heart. If he only knew the half of it. He asked,

      “What about the note, the phrase Your turn?”

      I had a longing for a short sharp jolt of Jameson, so intense I could taste it. Tried to shuck it away, said,

      “Another eejit, the city is full of them; some of them are even running it.”

      Stewart had that light in his eyes, meant he’d done some digging, gone that extra mile. He said,

      “The skateboarder who was shot? He was dealing dope.”

      I took the shot.

      “You dealt dope.”

      He took the hit, not well but ran with it, said,

      “This guy dealt to schoolkids.”

      I finally got it, did a double take, asked,

      “You think somebody took out . . . killed . . . those wrongdoers?”

      Made a mental note to seriously stop thinking in italics, added the dreaded word, in mocking fashion,

      “Vigilante?”

      He stayed the course, said,

      “Worse.”

      Surprised me, and before I could speak, he added,

      “And I think he wants you to play.”

      5

      He looked at her again, at the white body by the black water, surrounded by dark spruce trees. The scene had nothing of violence in it. In fact, it looked peaceful.

      —Karin Fossum, Don’t Look Back

      I’ve never seen much good press on purgatory.

      Galway nun

      Sister Maeve gave nuns a good name. My history with her had started real fine. Even went for cappuccino and croissants, her joy in such a rare treat. Then, par for my course, things hit the shitter, bad and ugly, and she deleted me from her life. Few can freeze you like the clergy, and the nuns learn early in nun school how to deliver that withering look.

      I’m stunned, a compliment almost!

      Then, busting a rib in the devil, she came to me for help in a delicate case of missing funds and I came through. I wasn’t back on her prayer list but neither was she watching the papers for my obituary.

      I was in Java, the designer coffee shop, when she found me. I didn’t recognize her as she was in civilian clobber. And thank fook I didn’t burst out with,

      “Didn’t know you without your habit.”

      She said,

      “Jack.”

      Her smile was hesitant, but still had that radiance leaking at the corner of her mouth. A Cupid’s bow that, Ridge said,

      “Was fecking wasted on a nun.”

      Maybe.

      I said,

      “Sister, good to see you.”

      I offered a seat and she demurely took it. Nuns, if this isn’t too weird, have a trait in common with Frenchwomen.

      Delicacy.

      A grace of movement, economical but compelling. I asked,

      “Cappuccino and . . . they have cheesecake fresh out of the bakery.”

      She was thrilled. I mean you’ve got to love a person who is so easily fulfilled. Buckets of Jameson, acres of Virginia leaf, a whole mess of pharmaceuticals, lines of pints, and I was as near to peace as the church to the people.

      Her fare came and she set to with gusto. It was a pleasure to see her demolish that cheesecake. I asked,

      “Another?”

      “Oh, I couldn’t.”

      But no heart in it.

      I said,

      “A little wickedness gives us all something for the confessional.”

      I settled back in my chair and she gave me that nun appraisal, all encompassing. I came up short, I already knew that. But I had credit in the ecclesiastical bank, so I waited. She said,

      “You look well, Mr. Taylor.”

      No point in trying

      “Jack.”

      So I took

      “Thank you.”

      But this wasn’t a social call, the get-together with the local thug gig. She said,

      “I find, or we . . . the church . . . in need of your valuable assistance once more.”

      I bit down on sarcasm too easy and I figure, take a run at a nun, all kinds of shite coming down the karma pike. I said,

      “If I can.”

      She produced a sheet of paper, laid it on the table, asked,

      “Are you familiar with Our Lady of Galway?”

      Knock

      Lourdes

      Medjugorje

      Sure.

      But Galway?

      Really?

      Not that it would hurt the tourist trade. Always money in devotion, and if you can find the Madonna on a wall, bingo. Work it.

      I said

      “No.”

      This is the short version.

      Our Lady of Galway.

      A

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