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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 no-frills office, with a plain wooden desk, four hard chairs, and FX.

Francis and Xavier.

The Serbians, in dark suits, looking like the bookends of a very bad novel. Their faces carried expressions of hard, uncompromising dullness. They had the appearance of being related by malignity. The only difference I could see was one wore a tie.

The tieless one strutted over, growled,

“Yes?”

Stewart said,

“We’d like to see Mrs. Ramsay.”

The guy could care fucking less, asked,

“Why?”

“Personal business.”

He’d been looking at Stewart like he wanted to eat him, turned a lazy eye on me, said,

“Ring, make appointment.”

I said,

“Hey, deliver the message. Keep the hard-arse act for someone who gives a shit.”

He was surprised, then a tiny smile. I saw him flex his body, then he took a breath, let it slide.

Peg was a heft of a lady, in her rough fifties, with a face that no makeup was ever going to conceal, a face that had learned hard, sustained it. A shitload of jewelry that rattled like a conscience when she moved. A smoker’s pallor, that color I know, inside and out. She rasped,

“Taylor, well I’ll be fucked.”

Nice.

I asked,

“We met?”

She made a T sign to one of the Serbs, then to me,

“In my business it pays to know the high-profile drunks.”

She let her eyes slide over to Stewart, said,

“The nancy I don’t know.”

Stewart had done six hard years in Mountjoy. Name-calling wasn’t high on his radar. He asked,

“Would you believe we came here to warn you?”

The returning Serb, tea on a tray, moved a little faster on the word warn; the other, tieless one, was already in place, behind Stewart. Realizing, Stewart said,

“We have some stuff here that seems to indicate you might be in danger.”

The tea plus chocolate biscuits were in front of Peg, and Stewart placed the photos, the threat before her. She took a healthy bite of chocolate, noisily, said, mouth full,

“This a shakedown?”

Sounding like a really poor dame noire, she seemed only vaguely interested. I jumped in, said,

“Sorry to have taken up your time.”

Moved to leave. Tieless stepped in front of me, growled,

“You no go.”

Peg asked,

“You want me to believe you came here, out of . . . Jesus . . . good citizenship?”

Stewart said,

“At least you can be on guard.”

Peg did the most unexpected thing of all: she smiled.

“I’m on guard, twenty-four-seven.”

This got a snort from the Serbs.

I stared at the tieless Serb for a moment, he stepped aside. We moved to leave and Peg shouted,

“You run into financial difficulties, you remember your Aunt Peg.”

Outside, I said,

“The sooner the bitch gets strung up, the better.”

Stewart shook his head, said,

“I thought she had, you know, a shine for you.”

No answer to that. I looked across at the Claddagh church, asked,

“You ever hear of Our Lady of Galway?”

He thought, then,

“Circa 1780?”

I nearly punched him, said,

“Nobody likes a fucking show-off.”

I began the task of finding Our Lady. The irony was not lost on me. A recovering Catholic, mired in guilt, remorse—is there any other kind?—seeking the mother of God. There was one essential to finding her.

Faith.

Kidding.

Money.

Yes.

So I began the round of pubs, churches, dives, flophouses, derelict buildings, student accommodations, crazies, neo-pagan subcults, nuns, all the band of would-be Madonna theft. Spreading, if not the joy, at least the cash.

And found her!

Swear to Jesus.

Lost her.

As fast.

A miracle in and of its wicked self. Minty, a street guy, who favored, get this, crème de menthe above all, thus his name, was the new go-to guy on my information street. For years it had been Caz, a slick Romanian who’d become my uneasy friend.

And got killed.

Not directly because of my friendship but in there.

Like that.

Minty had come to me, offering street cred, rumors, the half-truth that existed on any Galway street in times of deep hardship. Rumor faking as fact, like the government. It’s the Irish way. At least it was now. I’d get Minty some bottles of that awful liqueur and he’d tell me mostly what I wanted to hear. There was always that hidden kernel of truth but I had to sift.

Curious and also never able to mind my own damn business, I’d asked why that drink, got,

“It’s a class thing. You really wouldn’t understand.”

I found him on the steps of the Augustinian church, just before 11:00 a.m. Mass let out. It was, he said,

“Good takings to kick the day off.”

I told him what I was looking for. He was dressed for combat, in a long Irish army coat and Dr. Martens, and seemed more student than bum. He was of that indeterminate street age, beat, worn, wary. Could be bad thirty, or sixty. I palmed him some euros, said,

“I’ll get you some of the de menthe later.”

He nodded, said,

“Jack, it’s getting rougher out here.”

I knew.

I waited, then got,

“Young hoody, name of Brennan, he took the statue, stashed it in his old man’s garage, somewhere in Newcastle. The kid plays at being street but he’s just a spoiled bollix, taking a holy statue would seem to him to be . . . edgy.”

Minty threw his eyes up at this nonsense.

Case solved.

I asked,

“How do you know this stuff?”

He shrugged, no biggie, said,

“It’s an art, but not great.”

Before he went fucking deep on me, I asked,

“And Brennan might be, where?”

“Down at the swamp. He and his mates smoke shit down there.”

I said,

“The church thanks you.”

He shuddered, protested.

“Don’t be fucking putting no jinx on me. Jesus.”

I found the young guy where Minty said.

And

We’d a song and dance, as he did tough in front of his mates, strutted until I gave him a sharp cuff on the ear. Does wonders, that.

Short, sharp, educational.

Brennan had the face MacNeice described.

“Low cunning.”

But, yes, yes, he’d taken the statue, for

“The craic.”

And yes, it was in his father’s garage. I said,

“Let’s go get it.”

The kid was barely eighteen, but attitude and stupidity were fighting for supremacy. He asked,

“What’s in it for me?”

The day had started well. I didn’t want to spoil it with beating the be-Jaysus out of this eejit. I said,

“The church has, I’ll agree, lost a lot of its clout but, still, the local hard guys go to Mass of a Sunday. How d’you think those hurlers would treat a pipsqueak who stole Our Lady?”

He’d deliver it outside the Claddagh church at noon the next day.

In time for the Angelus.

I know, dammit, I should have gone right then but I was complacent. It had been too easy. My history told me,

“I don’t do easy.”

The next day, Brennan was there, without the statue. He’d imbibed something to make him a whole new deal, said,

“We’ve moved the statue to a new place.”

Jesus.

I eyeballed him, asked,

“Not the church, I’m guessing.”

His faint smirk now blossomed, said,

“Ten large by Saturday or the dame goes in the river.”

“The dame!”

I was so surprised I did nothing, and he strutted off. I’d have admired him for his sheer brass if it didn’t piss me off so much. I did something I thought I’d never do.

I called the Guards.

Ridge met me in the GBC, one of the few remaining Galway cafés, not only surviving but thriving. They kept it real simple. Good food and cheap. Ridge was in plainclothes, a promotion since the last case we’d been on. Dressed in a new navy tracksuit, white stripes, she looked healthy, less intense. Few could simmer like her. She said,

“Word is you’re still off everything: cigs, dope, booze.”

I gave her my second-best smile, no relation to warmth. She said,

“After the party, you know, what Reardon said, I thought, you know . . .”

I knew.

I told her about the statue, gave her Brennan’s name, said,

“You were to visit now, I think the statue would still be there.”

She stared at me, then,

“Why are you not doing this your own self?”

Told the truth.

“I’m getting old and makes you look good with the church.”

She smiled and I actually felt good.

Forgetting smiles are prelude to nothing good.

Ever.

She said,

“I’ve been watching the video of The Bodyguard all weekend.”

Whitney Houston had been found dead in the Beverly Hills Hilton. I wondered if Ridge’s interest had been helped by the gay innuendo that had followed Houston. I was too cute to ask, cute in the Irish sense of sly hoor.

I nodded sagely, as if I understood.

I didn’t.

How do you blow 100 million?

Ben Gazzara died the same week and no fanfare. Ridge said,

“That clip, she sings, I Will Always Love You, and pauses. You know, her lip quivers, she’s going for the high note and nails it.”

I went,

“Hmm.”

But Ridge was going philosophical.

“Whitney never hit that note again.”

I said,

“Apropos of nothing, some of us never hit that note.”

Got,

As she stood to leave,

“Some of us just never got the right song.”

I’d recently come across The Psychopath Test as compiled by the FBI. Jon Ronson had written a book of that title. I’d been compiling my own variation, the AT, as in

The Asshole Test.

I was pretty sure that anyone who used

Apropos

Made the list.

Late that evening, before she clocked off work, Ridge decided to call at the garage, the one holding the statue. Knocking at the main house, she got no reply, then walked around to the garage. She was hit from behind with some form of iron bar, left in a heap on the ground. Either then or in the next few minutes, her Claddagh ring was torn from her finger. Her watch, twenty euros, and her warrant card were all taken.

I didn’t hear until next morning, Stewart shouting into my mobile,

“Why don’t you answer your fucking phone?”

I said,

“I had an early night.”

He was fighting for air, control, spat,

“Yeah? While you were sleeping, Ridge was being wheeled into the ICU.”

Jesus.

That was all the detail. I asked, Where?

Heard, with a sinking heart, the address I’d given her. Stewart picked up on my tone, accused me,

“You know something about this. Ah, no, you sent her on one of your fucking jobs.”

My silence was assent.

He said,

“You bollix, you’re a . . . a . . . plague.”

Rang off.

I didn’t go on the piss.

I went ballistic.