Headstone by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page B

feet, trying to make sense of her words.
    Whatever else, she sure as shooting was right
    about the weather. Outside, I looked at the skies,
    dull gray and with the darkness tinge that speaks of
    worse to come. A wino was perched on the small
    wall, close to the Salmon Weir Bridge. I thought,
    “Precarious the pose.”
    He stared at me with bloodshot hopeless eyes,
    asked,
    “Got anything?”
    I gave him the chocolates. He snarled, muttered,
    “Fucking chocolate.”
    and tossed the box in the river. Asked,
    “Got anything else?”
    I gave him twenty euros and said,
    “Some advice.”
    He grasped the money in a dirty fist, looked up,
    asked,
    “And what’s the freaking advice?”
    I was already moving on, said,
    “Steal a raincoat.”

    A win doesn’t feel as good
    as a loss
    feels bad.
    —Andre Agassi, from his memoir, Open
    And true indeed, it rained for nigh on forty days.
    Downright biblical.
    But despite flood devastation, the tabloids
    continued feeding on Tiger Woods. A fallout being
    that a nine iron was becoming the weapon of
    choice. The Guards had issued a strike notice,
    creating a fascinating conundrum: if it was illegal
    for them to strike, who was going to arrest them?
    The army?
    The nurses were again threatening industrial
    action. Sean O’Casey, our finest playwright, had
    written nearly fifty years ago,
    “The world is in a state of chassis.”
    I.e…………………….fucked.
    I had a priest to find. He’d been parish priest at the
    small church in Bohermore where I made my First
    Communion. It was my last resort. I stopped in at
    Richardson’s Pub, holding point at the right wing
    of Eyre Square. It was that rarity, a family pub.
    Got a stool at the counter, ordered a pint.
    The U.K. had recently introduced the Pour Your
    Own. The deal being, you were given a meter that
    clocked every time you poured your own. At
    evening’s end, you paid your bill.
    Sweet fuck, was nothing sacred?
    The whole buzz of a pub was watching a
    competent barman take his sweet time nourishing
    your pint and creaming off the head. If I wanted to
    pour my own, I’d stay home. The pint came,
    splendid in all its black music. John, the barman,
    said,
    “Haven’t seen you for a bit, Jack.”
    This was a subtle lash, meaning,
    “You’ve been taking your business elsewhere, yah
    bollix.”
    I was saved from a lame defense by a customer
    who said,
    “Liam Clancy is dead.”
    The end of an era indeed. Bob Dylan had called
    them the finest ballad singers ever.
    What the fuck was he smoking back then?
    Still, I raised my glass, said,
    “Codladh sámh leat”
    …………….Safe sleep.
    I asked John,
    “You ever see Father Loyola?”
    His church was less than a brief rosary away. John
    gave a warm smile, said,
    “Oh yeah, he’d stop in for a small Paddy once a
    week.”
    In the current climate, that could be hugely
    misconstrued. John meant Paddy’s, regarded by
    many as the true Irish whiskey. Above John’s head
    was a large flat-screen TV. The top story was
    whether a children’s toy, “Go-Go Hamster,” was
    safe. Literally as a footnote, the irritating bottom
    line script announced that the hundredth British
    soldier had been killed in Afghanistan. I pulled
    myself back to John, ran a scam, asked,
    “He sure relied on that housekeeper of his.”
    Did he have one? The fuck I knew. But some things
    thankfully don’t change. John said,
    “Ah, Maura, the poor creature, the salt of the earth,
    she loves her port but she’s been devastated since
    he left.”
    Gotcha.
    You don’t tip Irish barman. I do.
    And did.
    John nodded, said,
    “Much appreciated Jack.”
    I headed for St. Patrick’s church, stopping at a new
    off -license to buy a bottle of port. My mobile
    shrilled.
    Stewart.
    He said Father Malachy was still in a coma. I ran
    the encounter, meeting with Ronan Wall’s sister,
    by him, he said,
    “The swan killer. You caught him, yeah?”
    Added,
    “You were a local hero for a while.”
    I