Headstone by Ken Bruen Page A

that,
    he worked with the Garda as an interpreter for the
    Romanian community, so he had the ear of the
    powers that be, sort of. True, he was as
    trustworthy as the eels that swam in the canal, but I
    liked him.
    Mostly.
    He was dressed in a Boss leather jacket. I know
    that item as my surrogate son had once given me
    one. Both were gone.
    A white sweatshirt with the logo
    “Don’t Sweat It.”
    He said,
    “I’m sorry about what happened to you Jack.”
    “Thanks.”
    He reached in the fine jacket, said,
    “I brought you something.”
    Now I sat up, this was a first, said,
    “If it’s fucking grapes, I’ll strangle you with the
    fingers I’ve left.”
    He produced a half bottle of Jay, checked the door,
    handed it to me, and to my left hand. I said,
    “Take the seal off .”
    He did.
    I drank deep and gratefully, handed the bottle to
    him. He still had the moves, didn’t wipe the neck;
    that’s class. He took a fairly decent wallop
    himself, grimaced, said,
    “Sláinte.”
    We waited a few minutes to let the Jay do its biz,
    warm the stomach, promise false hope, and then he
    asked,
    “How bad is it?”
    “Two fingers.”
    He nodded. He’d literally escaped from a country
    that was awash in every atrocity known, so “two
    fingers” wasn’t as stunning to him as it was to your
    average citizen. We had another drink like two
    settled friends, the bottle going back and forth. I
    gave him a brief outline of the Headstone outfit and
    he pledged to ask around. The Jay and an earlier
    shot of morphine were taking their toll and he
    stood, said,
    “It pains me to see you hurt, my friend.”
    I think he actually meant it.
    I hoped I said thanks.
    I do remember he squeezed my shoulder and said,
    “For now, rest. Later, we’ll extract the vengeance
    of the Romanian.”
    And I did—rest that is.
    Till I came to, a single night-light burning near my
    bed. I’d dreamt, of my dad and Laura.
    The kind of awful dream that’s so real you can
    taste it. Everything is OK till you wake and . . . it
    ain’t.
    My dad was holding my hand, looking at my
    fingers, soothing, saying,
    “They’ll heal son, don’t worry.”
    And Laura, she was in the distance, her hand held
    out, saying softly,
    “But Jack, you have no fingers I can hold.”
    Yeah, like that.
    Jesus wept and then some. I think, I don’t know,
    but there were tears on my face. Loss is sometimes
    so palpable. You can almost touch it.
    Almost.
    The single night-light threw an eerie glow across
    the room. I struggled to sit up, still half caught in
    the wish desire of the dream, phantom pain in my
    destroyed hand, and my heart did a jig as I saw a
    dark figure rise from the chair in the corner. Maybe
    the light-bringer was back to claim his own. He
    stood, moved into the dim radiance, and I thought,
    “Yeah, the devil all right.”

    Being afraid is natural.
    Being afraid to do something about it
    is an insult to life.
    —C
    Father Gabriel.
    Looking immaculate as usual. If the pope can wear
    Gucci slippers, then no reason why Gabe shouldn’t
    have his clerical suit made by Armani; it had that
    cut. His white collar seemed to gleam in the half-
    light, matching his perfect teeth and discreet tan.
    He moved like an athlete. He leaned over me,
    asked,
    “How are you, Jack?”
    Like he gave a good fuck.
    I said,
    “Been better.”
    He made the sign of the cross over me. I wish I
    could say it was a comfort but, from him, it was
    like a curse. He smelled of some great aftershave.
    Man, this guy was a player.
    But at what?
    He said,
    “The Brethren have been praying for you.”
    What? That I’d croak?
    I nodded, trying to appear appreciative. He
    reached in his elegant jacket, produced a fat
    envelope, left it on the bed, said,
    “Your bonus, and I think you’ll find it more than
    generous.”
    I asked,
    “You found Loyola then?”
    He gave a radiant smile, gave more illumination
    than the measly night-light, said,
    “Your information was spot on. A job