jacket, produced a
wallet with a gold badge, said,
“I’m a private investigator. The real deal. Not like
your employer’s half-arsed attempt. I used to be
with the Met and after retirement took full
accreditation as the real deal.”
Stewart was tired of the guy, tried,
“And you want to see Jack, why?”
He fixed his flat eyes on Stewart, steel glinting on
the rims, said, “I’ve no fucking interest in that has-
been. I’ve been employed by the family of Ronan
Wall to look into his disappearance. You’re a
messenger boy so deliver this to the alkie. This is
my case and he’s to keep well clear of it. You got
that, son?”
Stewart was still grabbing for some serenity.
Working it wasn’t, but he managed,
“Jack has no involvement in that case.”
Mason snapped his wallet shut. You could see the
slick movement had been practiced before the
mirror a lot. He said,
“Good, keep it that way. There’s a world of hurt
for those who fall foul of me.”
He stood up, buttoned the coat, asked,
“Ex-con, right?”
Stewart didn’t feel it warranted a reply and Mason
smiled. No warmth had ever touched that smile and
it certainly didn’t now.
He said,
“Good lad, you sniff around my case, I’ll have you
back behind bars in coke time.”
Stewart had finally found a place, deep within,
where he could trust his mouth, asked,
“Your intimidating manner get you a lot of
results?”
Mason had been on the point of leaving but turned
back, leant right across the table, into Stewart’s
face, his breath an acrid blend of nicotine and
belligerence, hissed,
“Dipshit, I eat the likes of you for breakfast. I can
stitch you up in ways you’d never imagine.”
Then he patted Stewart on the head, said,
“Now run along, there’s a good lad.”
He was done, set to head for the door, when
Stewart said,
“I did learn a thing or two in prison. The louder the
mouth, the bigger the target.”
Mason laughed, said,
“Next time we chat, I won’t be so cordial.”
And was gone.
Stewart tried to imagine such an encounter
between Mason and Jack.
Phew-oh.
The Dylan album came to mind, he’d been listening
to these old guys at Jack’s probing. The album was
Blood on the Tracks.
You say to me that there is more to
life than hurling. But if you
want to carry on like a fella who is
not interested, then there will
be lots more than hurling.
But there won’t be hurling!
That’s the reality of it.
—Kilkenny hurling manager
Ridge was standing before Superintendent Clancy.
His main hatchet man, O’Brien, was standing
point, smirk in place. Ridge marveled that Clancy
once had been Jack’s best friend and now was his
sworn enemy. She’d tried to probe Jack on it, he
said, “Shite happens.”
Her alliance with Jack was a permanent black
mark in her file. Clancy kept her waiting, poring
over papers, making odd grunts of assent.
Who knew?
He was uttering,
“Hmphh.
Mm….”
By the holy!
Finally, he removed his reading glasses, gold
rimmed, of course, sat back, surveyed her. His
eyes were slabs of pure slate. He said,
“You were arrested by two citizens.”
She started to say,
“Sir, it was a . . .”
“Shut the fuck up. Did I ask you to speak?”
O’Brien gave a wide grin. She took some solace in
knowing that Jack had once beaten the living
daylights out of him. Clancy continued,
“If the media got hold of this, we’d have a cluster
fuck on our hands.”
She longed to say something but bit down.
Hard.
Clancy said,
“As a favor to your husband, I’m not going to
launch an official investigation.”
He stared at her.
What?
Was she, like, to say, “Golly gee, thank you so
much yah prick?”
He continued,
“You’re suspended without pay for a month,
confined to desk duty, you can handle a phone, I
presume, without aggravation?” He returned his
reading glasses to his burst-veined nose, said,
“Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
As
wallet with a gold badge, said,
“I’m a private investigator. The real deal. Not like
your employer’s half-arsed attempt. I used to be
with the Met and after retirement took full
accreditation as the real deal.”
Stewart was tired of the guy, tried,
“And you want to see Jack, why?”
He fixed his flat eyes on Stewart, steel glinting on
the rims, said, “I’ve no fucking interest in that has-
been. I’ve been employed by the family of Ronan
Wall to look into his disappearance. You’re a
messenger boy so deliver this to the alkie. This is
my case and he’s to keep well clear of it. You got
that, son?”
Stewart was still grabbing for some serenity.
Working it wasn’t, but he managed,
“Jack has no involvement in that case.”
Mason snapped his wallet shut. You could see the
slick movement had been practiced before the
mirror a lot. He said,
“Good, keep it that way. There’s a world of hurt
for those who fall foul of me.”
He stood up, buttoned the coat, asked,
“Ex-con, right?”
Stewart didn’t feel it warranted a reply and Mason
smiled. No warmth had ever touched that smile and
it certainly didn’t now.
He said,
“Good lad, you sniff around my case, I’ll have you
back behind bars in coke time.”
Stewart had finally found a place, deep within,
where he could trust his mouth, asked,
“Your intimidating manner get you a lot of
results?”
Mason had been on the point of leaving but turned
back, leant right across the table, into Stewart’s
face, his breath an acrid blend of nicotine and
belligerence, hissed,
“Dipshit, I eat the likes of you for breakfast. I can
stitch you up in ways you’d never imagine.”
Then he patted Stewart on the head, said,
“Now run along, there’s a good lad.”
He was done, set to head for the door, when
Stewart said,
“I did learn a thing or two in prison. The louder the
mouth, the bigger the target.”
Mason laughed, said,
“Next time we chat, I won’t be so cordial.”
And was gone.
Stewart tried to imagine such an encounter
between Mason and Jack.
Phew-oh.
The Dylan album came to mind, he’d been listening
to these old guys at Jack’s probing. The album was
Blood on the Tracks.
You say to me that there is more to
life than hurling. But if you
want to carry on like a fella who is
not interested, then there will
be lots more than hurling.
But there won’t be hurling!
That’s the reality of it.
—Kilkenny hurling manager
Ridge was standing before Superintendent Clancy.
His main hatchet man, O’Brien, was standing
point, smirk in place. Ridge marveled that Clancy
once had been Jack’s best friend and now was his
sworn enemy. She’d tried to probe Jack on it, he
said, “Shite happens.”
Her alliance with Jack was a permanent black
mark in her file. Clancy kept her waiting, poring
over papers, making odd grunts of assent.
Who knew?
He was uttering,
“Hmphh.
Mm….”
By the holy!
Finally, he removed his reading glasses, gold
rimmed, of course, sat back, surveyed her. His
eyes were slabs of pure slate. He said,
“You were arrested by two citizens.”
She started to say,
“Sir, it was a . . .”
“Shut the fuck up. Did I ask you to speak?”
O’Brien gave a wide grin. She took some solace in
knowing that Jack had once beaten the living
daylights out of him. Clancy continued,
“If the media got hold of this, we’d have a cluster
fuck on our hands.”
She longed to say something but bit down.
Hard.
Clancy said,
“As a favor to your husband, I’m not going to
launch an official investigation.”
He stared at her.
What?
Was she, like, to say, “Golly gee, thank you so
much yah prick?”
He continued,
“You’re suspended without pay for a month,
confined to desk duty, you can handle a phone, I
presume, without aggravation?” He returned his
reading glasses to his burst-veined nose, said,
“Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
As
Similar Books
