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Claddagh fisherman. The first Catholic mayor of Galway, in 1683, put a gold crown on the head of the statue.

      The Penal Laws came down the pike, Catholics were forbidden to practice. The statue was buried by a man named Brown, who, after the persecution was over, presented it to the Dominican order.

      They resided in an old thatched church in the Claddagh. A new church was erected in 1891. The Madonna, the centerpiece of the church, has an altar showing

      A Claddagh fishing boat

      Saint Edna, the patron saint of the Claddagh

      And

      Saint Nicholas, saint of Galway.

      A week previously

      Someone nicked the statue.

      Thus Sister Maeve.

      She said,

      “Of course, we don’t expect you to work for free.”

      They did.

      This was just cover-your-arse nicety.

      I played.

      “No need for that.”

      Did she argue?

      Guess.

      Peg Ramsay was not a nice lady. There was little in her background to indicate she’d become a mean, vicious, greedy cow. She was simply a bad bitch. Her husband had been a moneylender, on a small scale, without too much intimidation in tow. Junk food, brandy took him out in his early fifties. Peg decided to up the game.

      Recruited two East Europeans who learned their trade in the Serbo-Croat conflict.

      Learned to be vicious.

      Francis

      And Xavier

      FX.

      Their special effect was to break all the bones in the face. All the bones.

      Slowly.

      And the face has a surprising number of bones.

      And there were a not-so-surprising number of debtors. Peg had a few ground rules. Never to be wavered from.

      The amount.

      Three grand.

      Lent for a month. You wanted less?

      Fuck off.

      But people in need, who’d turn down the extra euros?

      The vig?

      That was purely on a whim. Depending how bitter Peg was feeling on a due day. She worked on the maxim

      “Ground them.”

      I was looking at a poorly shot photo of Peg. FX could be faintly glimpsed in the background. Stewart had come to my apartment in a state of agitation, pushing the above picture at me, and an envelope. I snapped,

      “And what happened to . . . Hello, how are you? And maybe, Hey, nice place, You know, like manners?”

      I’d been up late, watching the Super Bowl, watching the New York Giants win for the second time in four years, watching Madonna strut her stuff, and I was tired, cranky. Watching sport without a six-pack seemed

      Wrong!

      I was on my first coffee, and not feeling the kick. I asked,

      “Who’s this?”

      He was in no mood for bollix. Said,

      “See this fucking envelope? My name is on this. Why am I being dragged into this shite?”

      Phew-oh.

      Stewart and cursing were rarely in the same room, let alone sentence. His Zen seemed to have taken a holiday. I looked at the photo, then took the envelope, took out a sheet of paper, read,

      . . . Stewart, Jack seems reluctant to play so . . .

      This is Peg Ramsay. Want to take this one and maybe we can get Jack on board?

      C33

      Stewart had, of course, checked out Peg and told me who she was. I asked the obvious.

      “Is she still with us?”

      Got the look. I said,

      “Hey, come on, it’s a relevant question.”

      He shook his head, said,

      “You know what we have to do?”

      No.

      I said,

      “Not a clue. The Guards?”

      “We have to warn her.”

      My turn to gasp; asked,

      “Are you fucking kidding?”

      6

      The Burning of Auchindoun

      —performed by Sophie Ramsay

      Stewart had a new BMW. I shit thee not. This kid was pulling down some serious change. With the rest of the country in the economic toilet, he was buying a new motor?

      I asked him,

      “How do you do it?”

      Changing gear, as we veered off from the main drag of Eyre Square, heading down to the docks, to Long Walk, opposite the Claddagh, he went,

      “Huh?”

      He knew. I said,

      “The new car?”

      “Perk of the job.”

      Fucking with me. Then to divert me, asked,

      “The party, what happened there, you and Reardon not going to be best buds?”

      Jesus.

      I snarled,

      “Stop talking like you’re off the set of The Kardashians.”

      Got him.

      We were coming up on the Spanish Arch, the Thai restaurant to our right. He spluttered,

      “You’re familiar with the . . . The . . . Kardashians?”

      Hard not to be, like a virus there was no stopping. I went with,

      “I left early because parties without a Jameson are like Zen without the echoing yawn.”

      Cheap shot but you take what you can.

      Told him how as I was walking down Threadneedle Road, a limo had pulled up. Yeah, an actual limo, and a woman in her thirties offered me

      A ride home.

      In the American sense. She was, she said, Kelly, Mr. Reardon’s PR director. It was starting to rain so I took the lift, and kind of liked Kelly. A displaced New Yorker, she had that Louis C.K. sense of humor, so what’s not to like?

      And

      She was an avid reader of Anglo-Irish literature. Oscar Wilde being, she added,

      “Her doctoral subject.”

      Only Americans can quite get this reverence when talking about books. An Irish person would say,

      “Read Wilde; not bad.”

      Stewart was sliding the car close to the water on Long Walk. He asked,

      “You like her?”

      “We’re having coffee in a few days.”

      He wanted more but we were right outside Peg Ramsay’s office. No one could accuse her of false advertising. A large sign declared,

      Loans.

      Stewart said,

      “Take it easy, okay?”

      “Hey, your idea to come. I’m saying fuck all.”

      A

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