Purgatory. Ken Bruen

Serbians, in dark suits, looking like the bookends of a very bad novel. Their faces carried expressions of hard, uncompromising dullness. They had the appearance of being related by malignity. The only difference I could see was one wore a tie.

      The tieless one strutted over, growled,

      “Yes?”

      Stewart said,

      “We’d like to see Mrs. Ramsay.”

      The guy could care fucking less, asked,

      “Why?”

      “Personal business.”

      He’d been looking at Stewart like he wanted to eat him, turned a lazy eye on me, said,

      “Ring, make appointment.”

      I said,

      “Hey, deliver the message. Keep the hard-arse act for someone who gives a shit.”

      He was surprised, then a tiny smile. I saw him flex his body, then he took a breath, let it slide.

      Peg was a heft of a lady, in her rough fifties, with a face that no makeup was ever going to conceal, a face that had learned hard, sustained it. A shitload of jewelry that rattled like a conscience when she moved. A smoker’s pallor, that color I know, inside and out. She rasped,

      “Taylor, well I’ll be fucked.”

      Nice.

      I asked,

      “We met?”

      She made a T sign to one of the Serbs, then to me,

      “In my business it pays to know the high-profile drunks.”

      She let her eyes slide over to Stewart, said,

      “The nancy I don’t know.”

      Stewart had done six hard years in Mountjoy. Name-calling wasn’t high on his radar. He asked,

      “Would you believe we came here to warn you?”

      The returning Serb, tea on a tray, moved a little faster on the word warn; the other, tieless one, was already in place, behind Stewart. Realizing, Stewart said,

      “We have some stuff here that seems to indicate you might be in danger.”

      The tea plus chocolate biscuits were in front of Peg, and Stewart placed the photos, the threat before her. She took a healthy bite of chocolate, noisily, said, mouth full,

      “This a shakedown?”

      Sounding like a really poor dame noire, she seemed only vaguely interested. I jumped in, said,

      “Sorry to have taken up your time.”

      Moved to leave. Tieless stepped in front of me, growled,

      “You no go.”

      Peg asked,

      “You want me to believe you came here, out of . . . Jesus . . . good citizenship?”

      Stewart said,

      “At least you can be on guard.”

      Peg did the most unexpected thing of all: she smiled.

      “I’m on guard, twenty-four-seven.”

      This got a snort from the Serbs.

      I stared at the tieless Serb for a moment, he stepped aside. We moved to leave and Peg shouted,

      “You run into financial difficulties, you remember your Aunt Peg.”

      Outside, I said,

      “The sooner the bitch gets strung up, the better.”

      Stewart shook his head, said,

      “I thought she had, you know, a shine for you.”

      No answer to that. I looked across at the Claddagh church, asked,

      “You ever hear of Our Lady of Galway?”

      He thought, then,

      “Circa 1780?”

      I nearly punched him, said,

      “Nobody likes a fucking show-off.”

      I began the task of finding Our Lady. The irony was not lost on me. A recovering Catholic, mired in guilt, remorse—is there any other kind?—seeking the mother of God. There was one essential to finding her.

      Faith.

      Kidding.

      Money.

      Yes.

      So I began the round of pubs, churches, dives, flophouses, derelict buildings, student accommodations, crazies, neo-pagan subcults, nuns, all the band of would-be Madonna theft. Spreading, if not the joy, at least the cash.

      And found her!

      Swear to Jesus.

      Lost her.

      As fast.

      A miracle in and of its wicked self. Minty, a street guy, who favored, get this, crème de menthe above all, thus his name, was the new go-to guy on my information street. For years it had been Caz, a slick Romanian who’d become my uneasy friend.

      And got killed.

      Not directly because of my friendship but in there.

      Like that.

      Minty had come to me, offering street cred, rumors, the half-truth that existed on any Galway street in times of deep hardship. Rumor faking as fact, like the government. It’s the Irish way. At least it was now. I’d get Minty some bottles of that awful liqueur and he’d tell me mostly what I wanted to hear. There was always that hidden kernel of truth but I had to sift.

      Curious and also never able to mind my own damn business, I’d asked why that drink, got,

      “It’s a class thing. You really wouldn’t understand.”

      I found him on the steps of the Augustinian church, just before 11:00 a.m. Mass let out. It was, he said,

      “Good takings to kick the day off.”

      I told him what I was looking for. He was dressed for combat, in a long Irish army coat and Dr. Martens, and seemed more student than bum. He was of that indeterminate street age, beat, worn, wary. Could be bad thirty, or sixty. I palmed him some euros, said,

      “I’ll get you some of the de menthe later.”

      He nodded, said,

      “Jack, it’s getting rougher out here.”

      I knew.

      I waited, then got,

      “Young hoody, name of Brennan, he took the statue, stashed it in his old man’s garage, somewhere in Newcastle. The kid plays at being street but he’s just a spoiled bollix, taking a holy statue would seem to him to be . . . edgy.”

      Minty threw his eyes up at this nonsense.

      Case solved.

      I asked,

      “How do you know this stuff?”

      He shrugged, no biggie, said,

      “It’s an art, but not great.”

      Before he went fucking deep on me, I asked,

      “And Brennan might be, where?”

      “Down at the swamp. He and his mates smoke shit down there.”

      I said,

      “The church thanks you.”

      He shuddered, protested.

      “Don’t be fucking putting no jinx on me. Jesus.”

      I found the young guy where Minty said.

      And

      We’d