Read Online Headstone by Ken Bruen - Free Book Online

always.
    Anthony despised him, not only because he’d been
    reared in the wrong side of town but because of his
    total lack of respect for his betters . Anthony had
    described him once, in a fit of pique, as an alkie
    vigilante with notions above his station. To her
    eternal shame, she’d said nothing.
    Silent affirmation.
    In an effort to understand Jack, she’d borrowed
    some of his mystery novels. Jack was always on
    about mystery being the literature of the street. No
    Booker literature shite for him. Whatever else,
    Ridge was a cop of the streets. He’d given her
    James Lee Burke, commenting in that way he had,
    “We’ll start you at the top, work yer way down.”
    Pegasus Descending.
    A line in that book pierced her soul.
    “……………………Marry up, screw down.”
    And the titles, like poetry in their own selves:
    In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead,
    The Tin Roof Blowdown,
    and her absolute favorite,
    A Stained White Radiance.
    Pushed by an almost irascible need, she got out of
    the car. So, OK, maybe Jen had a new lover or
    would simply slam the door in her face. But she
    had to try. When she reached the path, two guys in
    hoodies seemed to materialize from the shadows.
    She saw the glint of a very large knife in the
    nearest one’s hands.
    She cautioned,
    “Whoa lads, back up a bit, I’m a Ban Garda.”
    The second hissed,
    “You’re a fucking dike is what you are.”
    The nearest one lunged, fast. She sidestepped
    easily, swung around, almost balletic, rammed her
    right foot in his balls. The second one whined,
    “Jesus, no need for that.”
    And launched at her. She did a twirl, enjoying her
    own self, used a high left kick to smash his nose,
    followed with a right kick to his gut. Then she was
    pinned to the ground by the fucking dog walkers!
    She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A girl
    appeared from, like, nowhere, helping the hoodies
    to their feet, saying to the local heroes, the dog
    guys,
    “She tried to attack those young men, I think she
    had a knife.” She could hear a siren in the distance
    —coming for her?
    Ah, for fooks sake.

    A bank is a place that will lend you
    money
    if…………………………………
    you can prove you don’t need it.
    I needed to visit me money. So many banks were
    going down the toilet and, like the clergy, being
    exposed for every abuse possible. With Laura
    arriving soon, I wanted to be able to show her I
    was, am, viable, at least financially.
    I went to my local branch on Eyre Square. I
    managed to secure a face-to-face with one of the
    asssistant managers. He had a small walled-in
    space and a very harried look. I put out me hand,
    said,
    “Jack Taylor.”
    He was in his mid-thirties, with a posture that
    suggested a hundred. He took my hand, one of
    those dead fish shakes. He had his shirtsleeves
    rolled up, just one of us working stiffs. He said,
    “I’m Mr. Drennan.”
    Mr.!
    You have to be at least seventy and somewhat
    affable for me to call you Mister. But I rolled with
    the play, asked,
    “How is my account?”
    He had my file before him, peered through it, said,
    “You have a very healthy balance, Mr. Taylor.”
    I said,
    “Show me.”
    Threw him.
    He asked,
    “You want to see it?”
    “My money, my call.”
    He pushed it over reluctantly.
    It was looking good. I was very relieved. He said,
    “You are earning very little interest in that savings
    account.
    Might I suggest some shares you could buy?”
    “No.”
    He was confused, asked,
    “You don’t want to make some money?”
    I looked him straight in the eye, said,
    “If I wanted to make more money, you think I might
    have mentioned it? I want to see my money. The
    newspapers, they seem to think you guys have
    stolen every euro in the land.”
    He looked around but help was not to hand, tried,
    “You’d like a printout of your account?”
    Unheard of in banking circles it seemed, so no
    wonder they were getting away with frigging
    wholesale larceny.
    I