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appointment to meet with the top guy, Superintendent Clancy. He’d recently been named
    Super Cop
    and won the highest award the precinct can bestow on a Guard.
    A sad irony that he had once been Jack’s best buddy. They’d trained together at Templemore, been holy terrors on the hurling field, and always
    â€œhad each other’s back”
    until
    Jack’s drinking had him disgracefully bounced from the force while Clancy climbed the ranks, awash in glory.
    Over the years they’d become bitter enemies. The golden friendship steeped in envy and bitterness. Who ever thought he’d save Jack from the fatal action he was planning? It had, if you will, a poetic symmetry.
    I met the super on a Monday morning. An air of gloom pervaded the Garda station as Ireland had just lost one-nil to Austria, shattering any slim hope of World Cup qualification. The manager, an aging Italian, Giovanni Trappatoni, had resigned. Over five years he’d received ten million! Read it and weep.
    Plus, a golden handshake of 500,000 euros. His tenure, according to Jack,
    â€œReached a new low in Irish soccer.”
    I was led into the super’s office by a tank of a Guard who had, he said,
    â€œA sister in Boston.”
    He didn’t ask if I knew her but it was there, hovering. Over and over in Ireland, I’d had this experience and saw the look of incredulity when I didn’t know the aunt, niece, brother in just about any state of the union.
    Clancy was behind a massive oak desk, strewn with files and papers. Dressed in full blue, he had a riot of decorations on the tunic. A big man, swollen even larger by good living, but with a brute force emanating, cautioned,
    â€œDon’t mistake flab for weakness.”
    He stood up, extended a huge meaty hand, said,
    â€œAlways glad to welcome a Yank.”
    Then to the other Guard,
    â€œTea for our visitor or would you prefer coffee? We even home-brew the best Colombian.”
    And he waited.
    I realized this was a joke and, a little behind, tried a smile, said,
    â€œI’m good, thank you.”
    His eyes crinkled and, to my horror, I realized more humor was coming.
    He said,
    â€œBetter be good or we’ll feel your collar.”
    He came around the desk, gave me a resounding thump on the back, said,
    â€œJust kidding. Sit your arse down and let me know how I can be of service.”
    I was beginning to veer toward Jack’s antipathy. I said,
    â€œUm, it’s a little delicate and may even sound far-fetched.”
    He hovered over me, boomed,
    â€œTrust me, lad, we’ve heard it all here, so spill. . . .”
    And, alas, spill I did.
    All.
    The very mention of Jack had him on high alert. He listened without interruption until the whole sad, sordid saga was spent.
    Moved back behind his desk, put his size twelves on the desk, said,
    â€œTaylor is a drunk, a fabulist, he even believes some of his own fantasies. Much as I’d like your . . .”
    Pause.
    â€œYarn to be true, it’s horseshite. Even Taylor, with all his dodgy dealings and, dare I say, nefarious enterprises, not even he would quite stoop to such a lunatic scheme.”
    He stood up.
    I was being dismissed and, hate to admit, shamed. My cheeks burned. Clancy said,
    â€œAnd let’s face it, sonny, if you’re his friend, he’s even more bollixed than I thought. But, tell you what, if you ever get something solid—like date, time, location, give us a call. We live to serve.”
    I’d gotten to the door, feeling as crushed as a Beckett character in a garbage bin, when Clancy said,
    â€œIf you intend to reside a while . . .”
    He let contempt pour over that word, then,
    â€œIt might behoove you to remember that we tolerate most shenanigans on this proud little island of ours but . . .”
    He stared me full in the face,
    â€œBut we fucking loathe informers.”
    Later that day, a female Guard named Ridge, recently returned to the