Purgatory by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page A

to the elusive love he swore he didn’t need. Prison had scorched granite into his being, had to, to survive. Found that same shell vital for an entrepreneur.
    Dragon’s Den?
    He rented them the fucking den.
    Sources, the fuel of information, were key. Lots of minor characters, like those in a novel, chorusing the narrative, spurring the impetus, never less than essential. Bit players in the clubs, pubs, street of Galway.
    And, oh, they loved to talk.
    Tell a story.
    Any story.
    And sometimes, the truth was in there, just a wee bit tangled. As in the late call to his mobile last night. The voice saying,
    “Brennan, father of the brat who stole the statue of Our Lady, he’s the one who fucked up Ridge.”
    Click.
    The line went dead. Google search. Brennan, a beaut. Thug city
    In a suit.
    If a good one, Louis Copeland no less.
    Brennan had come quietly from Dublin, smartly avoiding the roundup of the original psycho drug dealers.
    The General
    John Gilligan
    The Monk
    And had kept under the radar as those larger-than-life scumbags went national, prompting
    Movies
    TV documentaries
    Countless tabloid fodder.
    With the creation of CAB, the special unit to nail those guys on their illegal assets, Brennan had fled to the west, gradually seeping into the Galway geography like vile limestone. His only son, the statue stealer, was a grave disappointment to the would-be Irish drug lord. Built an empire of dirt and dope, and had an eejit heir.
    Seemed karma right.
    Brennan, in his sixties, still a formidable physical presence and, like Jack, favored a hurley for his ad hoc boardroom meetings. Rumored to have recently taken out a rival dealer with two mighty wallops to the guy’s head, shouting,
    “Come on the Dubs.”
    Didn’t make him any more appealing despite his support of the capital’s team. In the few available photos from Google, he looked like Gerard Depardieu without the Gallic charm. An eye for the ladies, was said to be proud of his fuck pad. A penthouse over the Bridge Mills. What his wife thought was not recorded. But going on Brennan’s reputable temper, she wasn’t likely to be saying a whole bunch.
    Beating women seemed to be a hobby. Ridge, asking questions, especially about his worthless son, would have been like an automatic trigger. Stewart had three tasks Zen-appropriated this day.
    His sister
    The Galway Advertiser
    Brennan.
    Did the second by phone, rang, asked for Kernan Andrews.
    Said,
    “Kernan, am leaving a batch of photos, notes about a number of recent Galway deaths in the office for you.”
    Heard,
    “What?”
    Hung up.
    Next, went to Going Dutch, the best florists in the city, bought a dozen white roses.
    Walked to the Bohermore cemetery.
    A huge monument to a young tinker was visible from the road. Locals wondered how the mega tribute, adorned in Connemara marble, could be affordable to the travelers. At night, it was fluorescent, sending a beacon of dazzling light across the nearby hill. Had converted many heavy drinkers who believed they’d had a portent direct from the Lord Himself.
    To reach his sister’s resting place, he had to walk by a long line of young men, who’d committed suicide in the previous few years. Their families had laid
    Football sweaters
    Football boots
    CDs
    Little fluffy toys
    Intricate scrolled tablets of love.
    Making the graves more like the boys’ bedrooms than graves. It appalled and moved Stewart in equal measure. He reached his sister, stood, the tears threatening, bent, tidied the loose clay. A passing old woman, paused, offered,
    “Sorry for your trouble.”
    He muttered,
    “Thank you.”
    Not with too much warmth, though he appreciated the words. This was his sister’s time . Needed to visit in quiet. Sensing something, she asked,
    “Your wife?”
    “My sister.”
    The woman stared at the stone, saw the dates, then said,
    “Ah, sure, the bed of heaven, a leanbh .”
    That pierced his heart anew.

11
    Galway: An irony-free zone?
    —Stewart
    Stewart