Green Hell by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

Kennedy and wonder if I might have a . . .”
    He barked,
    â€œWhat the shite kind of name is that? Are ya a Yank?”
    I’d seen The Quiet Man and Darby O’Gill and the Little People , but any Hollywood image of the jovial Irish priest bore no relation to this ogre. Luckily, I had been cautioned to bring a bottle. To, as Aine suggested, “wet his whistle.”
    Not sure why I told the nun I had nothing but Jack had advised me once . . . Lie always to the clergy, it is their stock-in-trade.
    I handed over the bottle.
    Jameson, of course.
    I was a dude who learned.
    If he was grateful, he gave no sign. He growled,
    â€œI’ve a cousin in the Bronx. He works for the Sanitation Department.”
    Then he laughed,
    â€œThe bollix is down the toilet.”
    Pause, another cig, then,
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    I took a deep breath, lied,
    â€œI’m doing a profile of . . . um . . . colorful Galway personalities and I wonder if you might, please, have some thoughts on the ex-policeman Jack Taylor?”
    I waited for an explosion, a torrent of abuse, but a sly grin danced along his lips, he asked,
    â€œHow much are you paying?”
    Of course.
    In my time in Ireland, I’d learned a few moves for dealing with the locals:
    (1) Never . . . ever, pump yourself up.
    (2) Adopt a nigh manic love of hurling. You didn’t have to actually learn the game, just mutter “Ah, will we ever see the likes of D.J. Carey again?”
    (3) Make almost undetected snide comments on nonnationals, sliding in mention of the Holy Grail, i.e., medical cards.
    (4) Constantly refer to the weather as simply fierce.
    (5) Buy the first round but especially the last.
    (6) Rile a priest to get him going.
    I went with number 6, said,
    â€œThey say Jack saved your life.”
    Phew!
    Fireworks.
    He was on his feet, cigarette smoke nigh blinding him, spittle leaking from his mouth. He shouted,
    â€œThat whore’s ghost of a bollix! He killed a child and don’t even get me started on how he drove his saint of a mother into an early grave.”
    He blessed himself, adding,
    â€œMay she rest in the arms of Jesus, the Bed of Heaven to her.”
    Lest he launch into a full-blown rosary, I tried,
    â€œI was told the child’s death was an accident.”
    He made his hmph sound, underwrit with indignation, said,
    â€œAsk her parents, yeah, ask them if it was an accident.”
    He was eyeing the bottle, could only be moments before he climbed in and that was an event I wished to bear witness to. But he changed tack, said,
    â€œOur new pope, supposedly he’s embracing the simple life. No Gucci slippers for him.”
    He fumed on that a bit, then conceded,
    â€œLeast he sacked that bishop who just built a thirty-one-million place.”
    Threw his arms out to embrace his run of his home, said,
    â€œAnd they expect me to live on the charity of the parish! You know how much they put in the basket at Mass last Sunday?”
    I was guessing, not a lot.
    â€œTwenty-four euros, two buttons, and a scratch card.”
    The urge to ask if he won. On the card.
    I stood up to take my leave, said, offering my hand,
    â€œThank you so much for your time.”
    But he was still in hate-Taylor mode, didn’t quite know how to turn it off. He asked,
    â€œYou heard about him and the nun?”
    Sounded like the title of a very crude joke. I tried,
    â€œI do know he’s close to Sister Marie.”
    He shot me a look of contemptible pity, spat,
    â€œNot that wannabe Mother Teresa. Years ago he was working on a case involving a murdered priest and an old frail nun had been working with the poor murdered fellah. Taylor said to her . . .”
    Pause.
    â€œI hope you burn in hell.”
    I had an ace, played,
    â€œWasn’t that the time Jack saved you from serious child abuse allegations?”
    We were done.
    On his feet, he snarled,
    â€œGet out of my office . . . ya . . .”
    He