The Dramatist by Ken Bruen

near spat, said,
    “ Merde! They like to make the people pay the money but to pay back…never. You know how much my premium is for the shop?”
    I didn’t want to carry the can for an insurance company but had to venture,
    “A lot?”
    Her head was nodding furiously, a trace of spittle at the corner of her mouth. I reassessed my original opinion as to her being attractive. I now had her pegged as demented. She said,
    “You tell them cocksuckers…”
    Pause.
    She looked at me, asked,
    “Is that the correct word?”
    Who was I to argue? It was not the description I’d have expected from a French lady. I’d have thought something classier, insulting but elegant, as is their birthright. But my turn to nod, if less energetically, and she continued,
    “You tell them to pay up.”
    “I will.”
    And I moved away. For a brief moment I’d been thinking I’d ask her out; now I thought she needed locking up. When I got to the Oxfam shop, I risked looking back. She was still there, hands on hips, seething. I turned right and headed for the Eyre Square Centre. I wondered was this “the mall” my American teenager frequented? On the ground floor, there’s an open plan café. I went to the counter, got an espresso, saw the young blond guy who’d been tailing me. He waved, indicated a free table and sat down.
    I paid for the coffee and the girl said,
    “Have a lovely day.”
    It threw me and I grumbled some vague reply. It’s not easy to carry a cup when you have a cane and it took me a time to reach the table.
    The blond guy stood up, said,
    “Let me help.”
    Took the coffee, set it down then settled himself. He was younger close up, no more than eighteen. I sat down and looked him full in the face. His left eye, there was something off about it. He smiled, said,
    “Jack Taylor.”
    As if we were old friends. I launched,
    “Who the hell are you?”
    His smile faded, consternation on his face, as if he couldn’t believe I didn’t know. He asked,
    “You don’t remember me?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    With a frown between his eyes, highlighting the oddness of the left, his act was heavily dependent on my knowing who he was. He said with a hint of desperation,
    “I’m Ronan Wall.”
    I took out my cigs, did it slowly, a whole ceremony of rooting for my lighter. Impatience was coursing through him, and when I eventually lit up and exhaled, I said,
    “You say that like it should mean something. It don’t mean shit to me, pal.”
    The “pal” was not received well. His fingers were tapping on the table and he reluctantly said,
    “The swans.”
    Now I remembered. A few years back, swans were being decapitated in the Claddagh Basin. The Swan Society had hired me to investigate. Not the best period of my life. I was deeply immersed in very heavy events, and it took me a while to focus. It meant nights huddled against a wall, fending off the swans and inner demons. I did catch the culprit, a sixteen-year-old who was seriously deranged. He’d lost an eye as a result. I recalled he came from a privileged background and the whole affair was thus hushed up. Apart from the eye, he bore no resemblance to the lunatic I’d encountered then. I said,
    “You’ve changed.”
    Now, he was back in the game. He sat up straight, answered,
    “Completely.”
    A smugness had entered his voice, the tone of someone who has reached the heights, no longer susceptible to petty weaknesses. I stubbed out the cigarette, looked full into his face, said,
    “I meant physically.”
    He pulled back, hesitated, then,
    “I’m cured.”
    I could play, went,
    “That’s great. No desire to massacre swans any more?”
    I saw his fists clench. The recent jauntiness was slipping and he tried a smile, said,
    “I wasn’t well then but I got help, the best available, and…I’m a student now, getting A’s.”
    I felt an instinctive dislike for this kid. That’s all he was, but something older, malignant, was all around him. I asked,
    “What are