Headstone by Ken Bruen

ghosts in the wind. We’ll never find
    them.”
    Stewart, fighting like a dervish not to let his
    simmering anger show, said,
    “They’ve made two major mistakes. The first was
    setting down a pattern that we can trace.”
    She waited, then had to ask,
    “The second?”
    “Not killing Jack when they had the chance.”

    From the place
    Term
    Vulnerable.
    —Romanian saying
    I had the usual professionals come and, as the
    Americans say, visit . They had the obligatory
    psychologist who, I shit thee not, said,
    “This will require a period of readjustment.”
    I was like a bastard, they’d cut back on my
    painkillers. I asked,
    “For us both?”
    He’d obviously been clued in as to what I was
    like, gave that tolerant smile, said,
    “Anger is part of the process.”
    So I said,
    “Then you won’t be surprised at my next line.”
    He continued with that emphatic smile, asked,
    “Yes?”
    “Fuck off .”
    Was he delighted?
    Yeah, I think so.
    He continued in that soothing tone they use for
    Musak interludes,
    “You’ve been through a traumatic experience and
    time is needed . . .”
    I cut him off , asked,
    “How would you know?”
    He had doe eyes, and a mop of hair that he
    continually flicked back, annoying the hell out of
    me. He said,
    “Believe me, Mr. Taylor, I’ve worked in this field
    for many years.” I asked,
    “They’ve a field for Stanley knives?”
    Lost him for a sec but he rallied,
    “We have many modules for coming to terms with
    such events.”
    I said,
    “Cutting your balls off, which module would that
    come under?”
    He stared at me. I continued,
    “That’s what I thought they were going to do.”
    He stood up, said,
    “Perhaps another day when you’re less . . .”
    He reached for the euphemistic adjective, settled
    for,
    “Stressed.”
    I sat up in the bed, asked,
    “What’s your name again?”
    Like I could give a flying fuck.
    He said,
    “Dr. Ryan.”
    I held up my bandaged right hand, said,
    “See this? They sliced off my fingers. How many
    days you figure for me to de-stress every time I
    look at it?”
    He fucked off .
    Next up was the woman who spoke about the
    wonderful strides in artificial aids. I let her
    yammer on and she took my silence for interest,
    finally wound down, asked,
    “Which appendage do you think you might most be
    interested in?”
    I said,
    “The one that allows me to swing a hurley.”
    Threw her. She said,
    “I don’t follow?”
    But I felt she was truly trying to help, so I went
    easy.
    Well, easier, said,
    “I’ll get back to you.”
    The nurses liked me.
    Actually that’s a lie.
    One did.
    She enjoyed the runaround I gave the highfalutin
    consultants, said,
    “You’re a terrible man.”
    I agreed.
    She had some edge so I liked her, anything to get
    away from the freaking platitudes I’d been
    listening to. She said,
    “You’re fierce cranky.”
    I said,
    “Give me a few shots of Jameson, I’m a teddy
    bear.”
    She had a great laugh. I love women who laugh
    with their whole body, not worried if their
    mascara will run. She said,
    “From the look of you, I’d say you’ve had your fair
    share of that devil.”
    Any mention of the devil tended to quiet me: too
    many bad memories of an individual who
    might/might not have been the Antichrist in person.
    Any further discussion was deferred when she
    said,

“You have a visitor.”
    Caz, a Romanian who managed to avoid the
    periodic roundup of nonnationals for deportation.
    Ten years he’d been in Galway and had learned, as
    Louis MacNeice wrote,
    “…………………all the sly cunning of our race.”
    And I figure he was no slouch to begin with. He’d
    even acquired a passable Galway accent and was
    more native than a Claddagh ring. I never knew if
    we were friends. He was too elusive but we’d
    known each other a long time and had an
    arrangement: I’d give, he’d take.
    But he was one of the most reliable sources of
    gossip in a city that thrived on stories. Add to