Purgatory by Ken Bruen Page B

asked,
    “Long as the bitch is in your corner, what do you care?”
    I told her about my dilemma, Skylar being headhunted and her selling out Reardon. She gave me an odd look, asked,
    “What’s the dilemma?”
    Truth to tell, I wanted to look like I was at least having a struggle with this, that somewhere in me was a streak of decency. I said,
    “Well, she’s a nice kid. Seems like she confided in me and to just sell her seems cold .”
    She laughed out loud. Said,
    “How the fuck do you know what’s she like? She didn’t confide in you, she got wasted, shot her mouth off.”
    Jesus, was I sorry I’d asked, said,
    “Betrayal is not only a shitty thing to do, it’s . . . it’s . . . un-Irish.”
    She loved that, tapped my head, said,
    “Fess up, buddy, you want to look noble while being a cunt.”
    The sun had come out, maybe in anticipation of the Volvo Ocean Race. Kelly said,
    “Walk with me.”
    We headed down toward the Corn Market. Kelly said,
    “I love this city. It’s so walker-friendly.”
    I sniffed,
    “Tell it to Lonely Planet .”
    She stopped, said,
    “You have the weirdest thought processes. I mean, whammo, you’re off on some side trip, like a Seth MacFarlane with Irish sensibility.”
    Fuck, Family Guy I wasn’t. I said,
    “ Lonely Planet stuck it to the city, big-time.”
    She gave that enigmatic smile, signifying little, said,
    “Those dudes handed you your ass, right.”
    In a word, yes.
    We were outside Charlie Byrne’s, a display of noir crime novels in the window, including
    El Niño
    Absolute Zero
    The Twelve
    The Cold Cold Ground
    Vinny was just heading in, laden with books, shouted,
    “Yo, Jack, a hand, eh?”
    Kelly glanced at my mutilated fingers, nodded, and I went to help Vinny. He looked at Kelly, raised his left eyebrow. I said,
    “She’s American.”
    And he maneuvered the door, got the box in, said,
    “Course she is, Jack. She’s with you.”
    Go figure!
    Kelly bought The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde . It was in beautiful condition, leather binding, gilt-edged pages.
    The price?
    Vinny said,
    “Five euros.”
    Kelly went,
    “You’re kidding. It’s worth ten times that.”
    He gave that Vinny smile, the one that says,
    “You love books, we love you.”
    I found a copy of John Lahr’s New Yorker profiles. We’d just gotten outside, her mobile shrilled and sounded like,
    Home of the Brave .
    I could hear a raised voice. She grimaced, then passed the phone to me, said,
    “Your master’s voice.”
    Reardon, snarling,
    “I expected a report this morning.”
    I said,
    “Here’s a report. Fuck you.”
    Clicked off. Then asked her,
    “Oh, sorry, were you finished?”
    She sighed,
    “You certainly are.”
    Then she offered the Wilde book, said,
    “For you.”
    “No thanks. Such learning would only foul the genetic pool.”
    She asked,
    “You know what happens to people who refuse gifts?”
    “No.”
    Her departing smile,
    “Ah . . . the not knowing . . . that’s the beauty of it. Dinner this evening, my treat.”
    I watched her walk away, that assured strut, a woman who owned her space and, if you wanted to invade, you’d better bring your very best game.
    Later, I watched the semifinal, Italy versus Germany, Balotelli, like a gift from the God of Football, until my doorbell went.
    Reardon.
    A riled Reardon, with a hulking guy behind him. He said,
    “That’s Leo, my protection.”
    I said,
    “Leo gets to protect the space outside my flat.”
    Leo growled and Reardon didn’t like it much better but agreed, came in, glanced at the screen, said,
    “Fucking wops need niggers to win a game.”
    I said,
    “Yo, shithead, you want to do redneck crap, do it outside, with your gorilla.”
    He laughed, said.
    “Leo doesn’t like you.”
    I went to the fridge, cracked open a couple of cold ones, handed him one, said,
    “Leo’s likes are way down on my current concern list.”
    Reardon was dressed in the Galway hurling jersey, combat shorts, and I think they