said,
“It didn’t last.”
He countered with,
“Jack, with you, what does?”
I bit down on my temper, said,
“I think the headstone, Ronan Wall, and his sister
are somehow all connected.”
“Why?”
“The fuck do I know why; call it a former hero’s
hunch.”
I knew he was laughing. He said,
“Lemme guess, you want me to track down the
sister and maybe even the bold Ronan himself?”
I counted to ten, said,
“What do you think I pay you for?”
Feigning indignation, he said,
“You’ve never paid me a single euro.”
Now, I nearly smiled, said,
“Money is not the only currency. Zen that.”
And clicked off.
The priest’s house was a neat bungalow to the side
of the new church.
The bungalow had been freshly painted and looked
welcoming.
Maybe spent the stolen cash on that.
I knocked on the door. It opened to a tiny robust
woman, late sixties with her gray hair scraped
back to a severe bun. How do women do that and
more importantly………..why?
I literally rushed her.
“Maura, just great to see you.”
Offering the port in the same frenzied tone. She
was taken aback but I was already inside and I
knew she wasn’t sure how the hell that happened. I
upped the bullshite.
“You look great alanna.”
Paused to let the flattery sink in, then rushed,
“I’m so sorry it’s been a while but I promised
Loyola I’d call the minute I got back.”
Still perplexed, she led me into the sitting room. A
large portrait of the Sacred Heart was perched
above a roaring turf fire. Is there a finer sight? I
saw some framed photos of a benign smiling
priest, thought,
“I’ll be having me one of those.” I said,
“God, I’m perished.”
Meaning……..frozen.
She took the hint and went to make hot ports. I
followed her into the kitchen. It was spotless and I
startled her all over again.
Good.
I wanted her to be on the precipice continuously.
I said,
“In you go and sit by the fire, I’ll make the hot
port.”
She left reluctantly, her look saying,
“Should I call the Guards now…………..or
call…… after……….the port?”
The port won.
The kettle was boiled and I added lethal amounts
of port to her mug, then pulled out the Jameson in
me other pocket and added a serious dollop to hers
and just the Jay for me own self.
Found the sugar, ladled in three spoons to hers.
Brought out the two mugs, she was sitting on the
edge of the armchair, ready to flee.
I handed her the mug, said,
“Loyola loved a wee drop of port.”
Toasted,
“Sláinte.”
And she took a homicidal swallow of the drink.
Her eyes danced in her head. I apologized with,
“I’m so sorry, I probably shouldn’t have overdone
the sugar.”
She gasped,
“Oh no, ’tis lovely.”
She took another large dose and I could see it
physically relax her. I said,
“Ah, Loyola, those were the days, and when I
entered the Guards and he the Seminary, we still
stayed in touch.”
She managed,
“You’re a Guard?”
She was relaxing, I said,
“Retired now but I do miss it.”
The latter being the only truth I told.
I asked,
“So where is the bold man himself?”
Her eyes kept flicking to the small framed photo
that was near hidden behind the host of other
frames. I rattled on about the great times we’d had
fishing and other nonsense. Finishing her drink, she
asked,
“Another?”
“Lovely,”
I said.
Soon as she headed for the kitchen, a barely
noticeable stagger in her walk, I was up and
grabbed the frame, put it in my pocket.
On returning back, she said,
“I left out the sugar, is that all right?”
I nodded, asked,
“So where do I find my old friend?”
She looked to her left, i.e., lying .
I’d watched Season One of Lie to Me .
She said, and slowly, that careful dance among
your words you know are trying to be slurred,
“He’s away on parish business.”
I acted irritated, pulled my phone from my pocket,
looked at the screen,
“It didn’t last.”
He countered with,
“Jack, with you, what does?”
I bit down on my temper, said,
“I think the headstone, Ronan Wall, and his sister
are somehow all connected.”
“Why?”
“The fuck do I know why; call it a former hero’s
hunch.”
I knew he was laughing. He said,
“Lemme guess, you want me to track down the
sister and maybe even the bold Ronan himself?”
I counted to ten, said,
“What do you think I pay you for?”
Feigning indignation, he said,
“You’ve never paid me a single euro.”
Now, I nearly smiled, said,
“Money is not the only currency. Zen that.”
And clicked off.
The priest’s house was a neat bungalow to the side
of the new church.
The bungalow had been freshly painted and looked
welcoming.
Maybe spent the stolen cash on that.
I knocked on the door. It opened to a tiny robust
woman, late sixties with her gray hair scraped
back to a severe bun. How do women do that and
more importantly………..why?
I literally rushed her.
“Maura, just great to see you.”
Offering the port in the same frenzied tone. She
was taken aback but I was already inside and I
knew she wasn’t sure how the hell that happened. I
upped the bullshite.
“You look great alanna.”
Paused to let the flattery sink in, then rushed,
“I’m so sorry it’s been a while but I promised
Loyola I’d call the minute I got back.”
Still perplexed, she led me into the sitting room. A
large portrait of the Sacred Heart was perched
above a roaring turf fire. Is there a finer sight? I
saw some framed photos of a benign smiling
priest, thought,
“I’ll be having me one of those.” I said,
“God, I’m perished.”
Meaning……..frozen.
She took the hint and went to make hot ports. I
followed her into the kitchen. It was spotless and I
startled her all over again.
Good.
I wanted her to be on the precipice continuously.
I said,
“In you go and sit by the fire, I’ll make the hot
port.”
She left reluctantly, her look saying,
“Should I call the Guards now…………..or
call…… after……….the port?”
The port won.
The kettle was boiled and I added lethal amounts
of port to her mug, then pulled out the Jameson in
me other pocket and added a serious dollop to hers
and just the Jay for me own self.
Found the sugar, ladled in three spoons to hers.
Brought out the two mugs, she was sitting on the
edge of the armchair, ready to flee.
I handed her the mug, said,
“Loyola loved a wee drop of port.”
Toasted,
“Sláinte.”
And she took a homicidal swallow of the drink.
Her eyes danced in her head. I apologized with,
“I’m so sorry, I probably shouldn’t have overdone
the sugar.”
She gasped,
“Oh no, ’tis lovely.”
She took another large dose and I could see it
physically relax her. I said,
“Ah, Loyola, those were the days, and when I
entered the Guards and he the Seminary, we still
stayed in touch.”
She managed,
“You’re a Guard?”
She was relaxing, I said,
“Retired now but I do miss it.”
The latter being the only truth I told.
I asked,
“So where is the bold man himself?”
Her eyes kept flicking to the small framed photo
that was near hidden behind the host of other
frames. I rattled on about the great times we’d had
fishing and other nonsense. Finishing her drink, she
asked,
“Another?”
“Lovely,”
I said.
Soon as she headed for the kitchen, a barely
noticeable stagger in her walk, I was up and
grabbed the frame, put it in my pocket.
On returning back, she said,
“I left out the sugar, is that all right?”
I nodded, asked,
“So where do I find my old friend?”
She looked to her left, i.e., lying .
I’d watched Season One of Lie to Me .
She said, and slowly, that careful dance among
your words you know are trying to be slurred,
“He’s away on parish business.”
I acted irritated, pulled my phone from my pocket,
looked at the screen,
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