“Not an Irish lad, then.”

Jesus.

Maybe blunt trauma would kick-start him. I said,

“The shotgun blast tore off his face.”

Unfazed, he said,

“I know. I’ve hunted rabbits in me time.”

Enough.

I stood up and he grabbed my jacket, cried,

“Jack, Jesus, don’t go, I need your help.”

Truth to tell, I hesitated. Time of the Priest, a nasty, vicious case involving child abuse, Malachy had been on the accusatory hook and nigh destroyed. He’d begged for my help and I’d managed to free him of the stain. Was he grateful?

Yeah, right, along the lines of Oscar’s

. . No good deed shall go unpunished.

Too, he never, like fucking ever, missed an opportunity to slag

Slander

And, as the kids say,

Diss

Me in every form of religious viciousness at his yellowed fingertips. So the temptation to go,

“Go fuck your unholy self.”

Was paramount. I sighed, Jesus, almost like my mother who could have sighed for Ireland and frequently did. I’d say Lord rest her but not even the Almighty has that alchemy.

His gratitude was almost worse than his bile. He gushed,

“Christ, Jack, thanks, thanks a million.”

I snarled,

“Hey, I didn’t say I’d help. You hear me say I’d do that?”

He nearly smiled. The bollix. I was sitting, so he was halfway home, now he’d but to nail the deal. The barman, unbidden, brought two Jamesons, said to Malachy,

“On the house, Father.”

He grunted as if such was only to be expected. He said to me,

“Sláinte mhaith.”

I left the toast and the drink cold, asked,

“Get to it.”

The Jay immediately lit up his cheeks, giving that barroom tan beloved by reality TV. His eyes shone and he began.

“The church says we have to tighten our belts, the public are not giving as generously as of yore.”

Of fucking yore.

Jesus, had he morphed into Darby O’Gill? My face must have shown my ire-a good word to add to yore, I guess. He hurried,

I felt the rush of anger, spat,

“Christ, people can’t feed their families, pay mortgages, and you expect them to continue paying your wages? Wake up, Padre, the country is dying from poverty.”

Not a stir out of him.

He said,

“Your shout.”

I didn’t shout-that is, for the next round. I asked in a quiet tone,

“How much were you needing?”

He said,

“Well, you got the big payoff from the dead Prod.”

Incredulous, I asked,

“How did you know?”

He laughed, not from humor but from pure unadulterated spite, said,

“The bank fellah. I’m his priest.”

Jesus, no wonder we were fucked. I took a deep breath, asked,

“How much were you estimating you could wrench from me?”

The drinks had woven their malicious alchemy and he had a cockiness that I remembered well from days when the clergy ruled like feudal lords. He said,

“You know, your mother, Lord rest the poor woman, wouldn’t like me to be out on the street.”

And came as close to a wallop to the head as it gets. My mother was never the route to go. I said,

“I’ll go the bank, see what I can get. I don’t suppose you’d take a check?”

He gave me a look of utter devilment, said,

“Cash keeps us all afloat, wouldn’t you say?”

I could have said a lot of things but, to him, like a wasted prayer on a wasted overgrown forgotten grave. I got up to leave and he said,

“God knows, Jack, but you’re not the worst.”

A blessing from the inferno.

Sister Wendy, Britain’s favorite nun, is eighty-two. She reveals,

“I have a cold heart. People never meant much to me. I was a nasty child with no emotions.”

I read this in the paper, The Irish Independent, as I waited for Reardon to show. We’d agreed to meet at seven, Tuesday evening. He’d suggested McSwiggan’s, said,

“I feel the need to see that tree growing in the center of the pub.”

Fucking with me.

I wanted to ask him for a job for the cop’s daughter and then, hopefully, find out where Kelly was and, as Liam Neeson said, track her down and kill her. Nice thoughts to run as I read of a coldhearted nun. Obama was reelected but the big news here was the next Irish ambassador might be

Wait for it

Breath held

Clinton.

Our new Bono and John Kennedy in one. We hated Bono owing to the whole tax gig. Clinton seemed to love us as much as we did him. Michael Winner, the film director, in his final column for The Sunday Times, wrote,

“I’m a totally insane film director, writer, producer, silk shirt cleaner, bad-tempered, totally ridiculous example of humanity in deep shit.”

Still, if it came to the wire, who’d you have a pint with?

Him or Sister Wendy?

A mammoth man approached my table. I’d just gotten what looked like the perfect pint: the head was so creamy, so still, it seemed a sin to touch it. The man’s shadow fell across that head, I looked up, he was seriously steroid. And you could see road rage dance in his eyes. I hoped to fuck I didn’t owe this megaton anything. He was wearing a suit, swear to Christ, or, rather, a fabulously expensive cloth had been draped over his form and he. . just let it hang.

He asked,

“You Taylor?”

I wanted to go Hollywood, snarl,

“Depends who’s asking.”

But, seriously?

I said,

“Yeah.”

And to cream off the surreal element, he spoke into his cuff, like all the movies, said,

“Clear.”

And moved to a table close by. It was so fucking deliciously lunatic, I could almost have appreciated it. Moment later, Reardon sauntered in. Dressed in Silicon Valley chic: chinos, trainers, and the ubiquitous T with the logo

Wired to the Pogues.

Okay.

He smiled, asked,

“May I sit?”

I said,

“You probably own the place by now, but sure.”

He was immediately attended by the barman, who asked,

“Mr. Reardon, what can we get you?”

In true ego vein, he never looked at him, said,

“Same as Mr. Taylor here and, oh, rustle up some fries with curry sauce.”

No need to mention the kitchen was long closed. He’d get the fries if the guy had to run up to Supermac’s. I finally took a draft, said,

“Sláinte mhaith.”

He said,

“You wanted something?”

I told him, the cop’s daughter, a job? He didn’t hesitate, said,

“Sure.”

I was surprised, went,

“Really, just like that? I mean, don’t you want any details?”

He finally got his pint, drank deep, made a sound of joy, said,

“In my world, all is joy and light.”

I looked at the mega bodyguard, said,

“He part of the. . joy?”

Reardon gave a long scrutiny, then,

“This is my movie, Jack. Don’t you get that? You’re just part of the plot.”

His fries came, the curry sauce giving off a strong aroma. He ate them noisily. I asked,

“How is Kelly?”

He pushed the fries aside, burped, said-and, I was later to discover, parts of what he told me were true. That was his game, sprinkle all the lies with nibbles of truth. He said,

“See, thing with Kelly is, she gets. . hyped.”

Laughed.

“Jacked, if you like, then burns out, we ship her off, get her serious ECT, and blast the hell out of her memories, then, good as new, she’s out, ready to boogie.”

I said,

“Part of the boogie being murder.”

He signaled for the bar guy, said,

“Two shots of Black Bush.”

To me,

“The tattoo dude, he’s now saying, gee, guess what, the needle in the other dude’s eye, pure accident.”

I felt the bile rise, asked,

“Stewart, my friend, he part of the. . memory loss?”

He said,

“Bottoms up.”

The shot downed, he said,

“Stewart is history and now your friend’s daughter, she has a bright future. All is hunky-dory, isn’t it?”

The velvet threat.