Headstone Read Online Free PDF Page A

impressed, said,
    “A keen observer, that’s good, very good. My
    driver brought it over.”
    He had a driver? I asked,
    “DUI, that it?”
    The briefcase was snapped open—and I mean,
    snapped . Then he rested his tanned hands on it
    and, fuck, were his nails . . . manicured?
    His tone was now that of a stern parent to an unruly
    child. He said,
    “I know all about your smart mouth, your—how
    shall I put it— cynical repartee, but it’s wasted on
    me so let’s drop the smart-alec pose, shall we?”
    I threw him with the monosyllable
    “Fine.”
    His chastisements obviously carried huge freight in
    his usual circles. He asked,
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Isn’t Jesus about love, spreading the joy, or are
    you more the school of,
    Man is born of woman
    and is full of misery ?”
    He leant back, folded those perfect hands in his
    lap, said,
    “You remember your Catechism.”
    “No, I remember me funerals.”
    His food came. He snapped at the girl,
    “Glass of sparkling water, very thin wedge of
    lemon.”
    Waved her away. I said,
    “Bon appétit.”
    I hoped it choked him. He didn’t answer, set about
    his food like a rabid dog, ate with a ferocious
    determination. This was his food and by Christ he
    was going to have every last bite. I drank, thanked
    the girl when she brought my Jameson, and waited
    for whatever this prick had in mind.
    Finished, he cleaned the corners of his mouth,
    delicately, with the napkin, took a sip of water,
    said,
    “To business.”
    “I can hardly contain myself.”
    Briefcase flicked open again. He took a fat
    envelope, passed it over to me, said,
    “A retainer.”
    I didn’t touch it. He stared straight into my eyes. I
    knew he didn’t much care for what he saw there.
    He said,
    “The church, as you are well aware, has been
    under intense scrutiny; the errors of the few have
    cast a shadow on the many.”
    I nearly laughed out loud.
    Fucking errors!
    Echoed,
    “You mean
    the child molesters,
    the Magdalen Girls,
    our local bishop who refuses to resign despite the
    whole country
    howling for his head?”
    He winced.
    An actual physical tic appeared under his left eye,
    began a rat-tat-tat like the drumbeat of the fallen.
    He reined it in, said,
    “Recovery must come from within. To that end, a
    group was formed within the church to deal with
    misconduct before it becomes public.”
    I said,
    “A splinter group, like the Provos breaking from
    the official IRA?”
    His efforts to control his temper were admirable.
    He almost sneered,
    “I don’t believe we have been accused of bearing
    arms?”
    I said,
    “Yet.”
    And before he could muster, I added,
    “Least with the IRA, we could see the weapons.”
    He asked, in a patient, icy tone,
    “Might I continue?”
    “Go for it, Gabe.”
    “Our reform group are known as the Brethren ,
    and, despite your cynicism, Mr. Taylor, we have
    managed to avoid further unsavory revelations.”
    He said avoid . I heard, cover up . I let him drone
    on.
    “Alas, our chief fund-raiser and most active
    member, Father Loyola Dunne, seems to have
    disappeared.”
    I sat back, let the moment linger, then,
    “Let me guess: him and your slush fund?”
    He was silent, seething. I pushed, “How much?”
    He had to drag it from deep down, gritted, “Three
    quarters of a million.”
    I gave an appreciative whistle, said,
    “And you can’t go the official route. You want him
    found, discreetly , No, let me rephrase that: you
    want the cash back?”
    His eyes burning on me, he said, “In a nutshell,
    yes.”
    I said,
    “Tried Vegas?”
    His patience with me was well gone. He shook his
    head, flicked the briefcase again, slid over a
    photograph, said, “This is Loyola; his details are
    on the back.”
    A man in his late fifties, with a kind face, laughter
    lines on the eyes, high forehead, but deep bags
    under his eyes, heavy jowled.
    I asked,
    “A drinker?”
    Tight smile, then,
    “None of us is without our frailties.”
    “Want to