The Dramatist by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page A

straw and, man, the frigging pain of it.”
    I gave a noncommittal shrug and he shouted a fresh round, said,
    “Your old man, he sure packed a punch.”
    Fitting epitaph.
    It was the last time I saw Niall O’Shea. What I remember most is a very bad singer, murdering Johnny McEvoy’s “Mursheen Durkin”. It’s an awful song anyway and needs no help with the cringe factor. Overlooking Galway docks, there’s a massive crane that has blighted the landscape for a long time. Visible from any location in the city, it says everything you need to say about “urban renewal”. A few years after our meeting, Niall O’Shea scaled that crane and jumped. He judged the position poorly as he missed the water and hit the concrete. Not even a straw was needed to scoop up what remained. I can never listen to Johnny McEvoy since, and I’m not blaming him. This is Irish logic; it never adds up.
    I recount all this to demonstrate how preoccupied I was. If I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have focused on where Ann had asked to meet. A car park, at night? You have to figure I deserved what was rolling down the wire. Went out the door with Emily Dickinson’s words as mantra:
    “The heart wants what it wants
    Or else it does not care.”
    Yeah.
    Mrs Bailey gave a gasp of delight, said,
    “My oh my, if I were fifty years younger, I’d give you a run for your money.”
    I was mortified, so kept it light, went,
    “Ary, you’re too much woman for me.”
    When she laughed, it came from her soul. You saw the woman who had weathered eighty years, who had witnessed her country dragged screaming into a prosperity that damn near destroyed all she believed in. She gave the stock reply of a satisfied Irish woman:
    “Go on outta that.”
    Smothered in warmth, these words launched manys the Irish male upon an unsuspecting world. I swear there was bounce in my step as I walked along the arse end of the square. Both my legs working strong and healthy.

“The one consistent interest, passion and obsession of her life was books—even on the night of the fire. While people had often disappointed her, books never did. She was seldom without a stack of ten or more unread library books; a hedge against the reality she could not face.”
    Ann Rule, Bitter Harvest

 
    I reached the Fair Green, moved to where the Dublin coaches park. No sign of Ann. Two buses were lined near the wall, a space between them. I walked along that, turned to see a man blocking my path. He was big, dressed in a tracksuit, a hurley held lightly in his left hand. He smiled, not with humour or warmth but with a definite air of malevolence. I said,
    “Tim Coffey.”
    He nodded, answered,
    “My wife won’t be coming. Shame, seeing as you are all fancied up, even got a frigging tie. Going to take her somewhere special, were you? Then ride her after? Was that your plan?”
    Spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth. I tried to remember what I knew of him. He’d been a sergeant just before I lost my job. Even then, he had a reputation for ferocity. Used his fists for the most trivial offence. The guards were changing; constant media scrutiny, public awareness, all had forced them to tidy up their act. But men like him, who employed brutal methods, were secretly admired and always protected. Plus, he’d been a hurler of some promise, had turned out for provincial teams. There, too, his temper had short-circuited his sporting future.
    I let my hands, palms upwards, stand out from my sides, to signal
    “Hey, I’m cool, I don’t want aggravation.”
    He swung the hurley, catching my right knee with a sickening smack. The pain was immediate, white heat searing to my brain, proclaiming,
    “This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”
    It did.
    I fell against the coach, sliding to the ground. Wish I could say I behaved in the macho mode and simply gritted my teeth. No, I howled like a banshee. He swung the hurley again, shattering the bridge of my nose. Then, as the blood