Kardashians.”
Got him.
We were coming up on the Spanish Arch, the Thai restaurant to our right. He spluttered,
“You’re familiar with the . . . The . . . Kardashians?”
Hard not to be, like a virus there was no stopping. I went with,
“I left early because parties without a Jameson are like Zen without the echoing yawn.”
Cheap shot but you take what you can.
Told him how as I was walking down Threadneedle Road, a limo had pulled up. Yeah, an actual limo, and a woman in her thirties offered me
A ride home.
In the American sense. She was, she said, Kelly, Mr. Reardon’s PR director. It was starting to rain so I took the lift, and kind of liked Kelly. A displaced New Yorker, she had that Louis C.K. sense of humor, so what’s not to like?
And
She was an avid reader of Anglo-Irish literature. Oscar Wilde being, she added,
“Her doctoral subject.”
Only Americans can quite get this reverence when talking about books. An Irish person would say,
“Read Wilde; not bad.”
Stewart was sliding the car close to the water on Long Walk. He asked,
“You like her?”
“We’re having coffee in a few days.”
He wanted more but we were right outside Peg Ramsay’s office. No one could accuse her of false advertising. A large sign declared,
Loans.
Stewart said,
“Take it easy, okay?”
“Hey, your idea to come. I’m saying fuck all.”
A no-frills office, with a plain wooden desk, four hard chairs, and FX.
Francis and Xavier.
The Serbians, in dark suits, looking like the bookends of a very bad novel. Their faces carried expressions of hard, uncompromising dullness. They had the appearance of being related by malignity. The only difference I could see was one wore a tie.
The tieless one strutted over, growled,
“Yes?”
Stewart said,
“We’d like to see Mrs. Ramsay.”
The guy could care fucking less, asked,
“Why?”
“Personal business.”
He’d been looking at Stewart like he wanted to eat him, turned a lazy eye on me, said,
“Ring, make appointment.”
I said,
“Hey, deliver the message. Keep the hard-arse act for someone who gives a shit.”
He was surprised, then a tiny smile. I saw him flex his body, then he took a breath, let it slide.
Peg was a heft of a lady, in her rough fifties, with a face that no makeup was ever going to conceal, a face that had learned hard, sustained it. A shitload of jewelry that rattled like a conscience when she moved. A smoker’s pallor, that color I know, inside and out. She rasped,
“Taylor, well I’ll be fucked.”
Nice.
I asked,
“We met?”
She made a T sign to one of the Serbs, then to me,
“In my business it pays to know the high-profile drunks.”
She let her eyes slide over to Stewart, said,
“The nancy I don’t know.”
Stewart had done six hard years in Mountjoy. Name-calling wasn’t high on his radar. He asked,
“Would you believe we came here to warn you?”
The returning Serb, tea on a tray, moved a little faster on the word warn; the other, tieless one, was already in place, behind Stewart. Realizing, Stewart said,
“We have some stuff here that seems to indicate you might be in danger.”
The tea plus chocolate biscuits were in front of Peg, and Stewart placed the photos, the threat before her. She took a healthy bite of chocolate, noisily, said, mouth full,
“This a shakedown?”
Sounding like a really poor dame noire, she seemed only vaguely interested. I jumped in, said,
“Sorry to have taken up your time.”
Moved to leave. Tieless stepped in front of me, growled,
“You no go.”
Peg asked,
“You want me to believe you came here, out of . . . Jesus . . . good citizenship?”
Stewart said,
“At least you can be on guard.”
Peg did the most unexpected thing of all: she smiled.
“I’m on guard, twenty-four-seven.”
This got a snort from the Serbs.
I stared at the tieless Serb for a moment, he stepped aside. We moved to leave and Peg shouted,
“You run into financial difficulties, you remember your Aunt Peg.”
Outside, I said,
“The sooner the bitch gets strung up, the better.”
Stewart shook his head, said,
“I thought she had, you know, a shine for you.”
No answer to that. I looked across at the Claddagh church, asked,
“You ever hear of Our Lady of Galway?”
He thought, then,
“Circa 1780?”
I nearly punched him, said,
“Nobody likes a fucking show-off.”
I began the task of finding Our Lady. The irony was not lost on me. A recovering Catholic, mired in guilt, remorse—is
