— Edward Dolnick, The Rescue Artist

Scepticism is the beginning of faith.

— Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Philip Larkin in the last year of his life would start the morning with three glasses of cheap wine, bought in bulk from the supermarket, said, “You’ve got to have some fucking reason for getting up in the morning.”

Ridge was reeling between ferocious grief over Stewart and anger at Jack. Somehow, it had to be Jack’s fault, then at least it made some sort of bewildering sense. Jack was nearly always to blame. The whole C33 scenario of Jack’s made her boil. Jesus, if there was a conspiracy to be hatched, Jack would be right there, fueling it. She raged at the cosmic unfairness of it all.

Stewart, who lived so carefully. Barely drank, didn’t smoke, practiced Zen, worked out furiously, and he dies. Jack, with his mutilated fingers, near deafness, limp, crazed drinking, intermittent chain-smoking, cocaine binges, diet of every carb known to man, many beatings, flagrant breaking of the law, bad temper, he. .

He

Somehow

Limped on.

She wanted to kill him her own self. Stewart, who supported her difficulties with being openly gay, his nonjudgmental acceptance of her dead marriage, he was such a blessing. Jack, who fought her tooth and freaking nail over every damn thing, just smirked his way along.

And she was back dwelling on the C33 gig. Was Stewart’s murder connected to that? The Guards had his killing down as simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In conversation with one of the detectives, she’d been told,

“We’ll solve that murder if we get lucky.”

Meaning,

“We’re not putting a whole lot of time and effort there.”

The implication,

Stewart had been a dope dealer,

So. .

So fuck him.

And was told,

“Leave it alone, won’t do your career any good to root around in the dumb death of a dumb fuck.”

The tears on her face as she muttered,

“Get a grip, girl.”

This stern reprimand brought her father vividly to life. He’d been dead nigh ten years now.

Drink.

Cirrhosis of the liver, not helped by two packs of Major daily. He’d been such a Connemara man, he was almost the fake Irish ideal. Living in the Gaeltacht, he never spoke a word of English and rarely needed to as he refused to venture into what he termed

“Tír na Sasanach.”

Land of the English, and that included Galway! He made his living fishing from the legendary Galway hooker and, like the men of his area, poitín. Irish moonshine, brewed from generation to generation until

Ridge.

Yeah, she fucked it up.

And worse, in his eyes, joined the enemy, the bloody Garda Síochána. The Guards. Insult to simmering injury. As he lay dying, he’d lashed her with his worst weapon. He refused to speak his native tongue to her, addressed her in halting English, acting like she wouldn’t understand her native language. His last words to her, gasped out in an agonized, strangled voice,

“May God forgive thee. I can’t and won’t.”

And

Died.

Live with that. Perhaps the most enduring curse, the parental one. Of her sexual orientation, he’d rasped to her mother,

“What man would have a turncoat?”

She stood, tried to stem the flow of ferocious memories, all fierce and wounding. Ran her hand along the one shelf of books she’d collected. Jack had been educating her in crime fiction and, so far, she had seven of the James Lee Burke titles.

And, oh horror, she’d told Jack,

“I’m thinking of getting a Kindle.”

See him explode.

Like this,

“Yah dumb bitch, you’ve read what? Six books, total? And what, you’re going to have storage for thousands of books? Get fucking real, lady. You think I’ll come round your house, ask, ‘Hey, can I browse through your. . Kindle?’”

Stewart had given her Scott Peck’s People of the Lie and The Dummy’s Guide to Zen, which, when she opened the book, had nothing but blank pages. Even now, she could clearly see Stewart’s smile at his Zen joke.

The Kindle was on. . hold.

A call from the station, Sharkey, the super’s newest hatchet. Clancy, the boss, liked to take a cop who was a thug to begin and fine-hone him to effortless viciousness. Sharkey was proving to be the best of the bunch to date, a reptile who’d have shopped his own mother if Clancy asked. He had a quiet voice that held a whiplash of loaded threat. He liked to see the troops dance, dance to a tune they usually didn’t understand and didn’t dare contest. Sharkey had, it was said, a long-ago run-in with Jack and lost more than a few teeth. He made it his mission to destroy anyone he saw as Taylor-connected.

Meaning Ridge, big-time.

He near whispered,

“Not disturbing anything, I pray.”

The slither of his voice like a slow crawl of creepiness. Ridge, to her dismay, stammered, thought. . Fuck.

Said,

“No. . sir.”

A beat,

Then,

“No ladies interrupted en flagrante, I trust.”

The fuck.

She said,

“Can I be of service. . sir?”

He gave a snort, then,

“We’re rounding up all the deadbeats.”

First she thought he meant the public, then realized he meant the cops he despised. Let that stew, then,

“Be here at midnight, we’ll tool up.”

She wanted to ask,

“What?

Tool, as in wanker?”

No.

He said,

“Body armor and, trust me, darlin’, you’re goanna need it.”

The sneer he injected into darlin’ was almost artful.

Ice.

. . What’s in a name, the power of TV to shape reality?

To break bad. . slang for changing from being a citizen to being an outlaw.

Crystal meth has the names

Nazi crank

Glass

Ice

Crystal

. . or the highly popular trailer blow.

It resembles, in its rock form, shards of ice. But comes, too, in

Pills

Powder

And can be

Smoked

Injected

Eaten

Snorted.

Supposedly, as in you hope to fuck,

It

Bumps

Alertness, energy, self-esteem,

Libido.

Any skel can make it.

Get yourself

Fertilizer, bleach, a nasal decongestant or three, a tube, and, oh, yeah, a gas stove, and if you don’t blow the sweet fuck out of your own self, you’re in biz. Welcome to the dope trade. Now, apart from selling the shit, you’ve only two things to focus on:

Staying out of jail

Staying alive.

. . Hear the sound track

Loud

A Town Called Malice.

The Jam.

Underwrit always by

The Clash.

Ridge putting on the body armor and helmet with the visor shield. Combat pants and the side pocket holding pepper spray. The modern version of mother’s little helper. Not quite in the range of the warmth of a Glock but, fuck, take what you get.

Sharkey stood before the assembled crew, snapped,

“Listen up.”

Like they’d a choice. He ranted,

“The Brennans fancy themselves as the new kids on the block. The old man, well, someone took a bat to the geezer so he’s out of the picture and we have the young blood figuring to play Game of Thrones. He is the wee bollix who may have, allegedly, beat the living shite out of our cherished Sergeant Ridge.”

Ripple of smirks and near laughter quelled as Sharkey says,

“But that ain’t gonna happen this fine evening, am I right?”

Damn straight.

“Young Brennan got himself a college boy [sneer enclosed]who fancies himself a chemist. They’ve been brewing up a type of crystal, laced with cough medicine, floor cleaner. .”

Let this sink in,

“And, word is, rat poison.”

He paused to swig from a flask. The flask had the crest of Galway United on it, and as he swallowed, his face flushed, and, Ridge figured, uisce bheatha, maybe even from her own father’s batch. Supplying the Guards had been one of the mainstays of his business.