Читать книгу Purgatory - Ken Bruen - Страница 12

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 seventeenth-century Italian statue of Our Lady. She holds in her hand a stunning mother-of-pearl rosary, donated by a 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?”