The Dramatist by Ken Bruen

Author:Ken Bruen [Bruen, Ken]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2004-11-19T23:00:00+00:00

“SAG HARBOR OR BUST.”

Mad as the dream was, it made me feel good, as if I had a future.

The Sacred Heart calendar said:

“Be humble before the Lord.”

I didn’t know much about humility but I was well versed in humiliation.

I figured I’d buy a present for Ridge’s birthday. What do you buy for a gay ban garda who dislikes you with intensity?

Barbed wire?

There’s a corner shop close to the hotel. Despite its proximity, I’d avoided it for years. In my days as a guard, I’d had to caution the owner for overcharging. He hadn’t responded well. He said,

“You pup, I gave your oul wan tick when she hadn’t a pot to piss in.”

Like that.

I fully expected he was still running the shop, but his carbon copy, the son, was behind the counter. I think we’d gone to school together. I said,

“Seamus.”

He held up his hand to silence me. A gesture I’m not wild about. A news item that a young man had been found crucified in Belfast. He’d been so badly beaten that his own father didn’t recognise him. Seamus reached over, turned the radio off, said,

“Jack Taylor, we don’t usually get your business.”

Already the bitter word. I wanted to say,

“What a surprise and you reeking in charisma.”

Went with,

“How’s your dad?”

“Dead, thanks.”

Before I could rise to this reply, a non-national entered and Seamus was instantly on alert. As if a button had been pressed, his eyes narrowed and he snapped,

“Help you?”

The man was intimidated; he recognised the tone. Keeping his eyes down, he said,

“Some sugar, please?”

“Bottom shelf, next to the tea and coffee.”

Seamus never took his eyes off him. When the man came with the sugar, Seamus barked the price. I don’t know the cost of things, unless it’s drink, which always costs more than I can ever afford and not just financially. But even I knew this was through the roof. I was going to ask,

“What? The Budget came early?”

I doubt he’d have heard me, so intent was he on the man. After he’d gone, Seamus said,

“Bloody thieves.”

“You know him?”

“No, never saw him before.”

“Then how…?”

He glared at me, venom jumping in his eyes, said,

“They’re all thieves and liars, and God knows what diseases they bring in.”

I was too stunned to reply. His eyes cleared and he switched to friendly mode, asked,

“So, what can I do you for, Jack?”

I bought a box of Black Magic and a birthday card. He told me a joke that involved a priest and Irish stew. Thank God, I have no recollection of it. It was lewd and certainly not funny; he enjoyed it immensely. I do remember him calling as I left,

“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”

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