Purgatory. Ken Bruen

huh?”

      Our fare arrived and she laid on the thick Kerrygold butter with gusto, said,

      “Reardon, my boss, he has . . . more than a passing interest in you.”

      “Why?”

      She was on her second round of bread. Jesus, this girl could eat, washed it down with tea, burped without fanfare, said,

      “His research into the town, its recent history, your name keeps coming up, be it the swans, the tinkers, the church, Magdalene laundries, and you are, he feels, a person of interest.”

      I thought about this, then,

      “I feel he has plans for the city.”

      She whistled, low but definite, said,

      “Oh, yeah, like you wouldn’t believe and, who knows, maybe a part for you.”

      I gave her my rabid smile, let that be its own reply. I drained the last of my coffee and, sure enough, down the yearning pike came the nicotine blues. She looked at me, asked,

      “How long since you smoked?”

      She was good.

      I said,

      “Well, I was the kind of dedicated smoker who smoked between cigarettes.”

      She quoted,

      “A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite and it leaves one unsatisfied.”

      I hazarded,

      “Simon Gray, The Smoking Diaries.”

      I could tell that went over her gorgeous head, she said,

      “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

      I ordered more coffee, get some palpitations running. She asked,

      “Top of your head, no thinking, favorite book?”

      “The Book Thief.”

      Surprised her.

      Fuck, surprised me.

      She asked,

      “You ever married?”

      “No.”

      She gave a radiant smile, then,

      “Me neither. What’s your excuse?”

      Tell the truth, then it’s their gig, said,

      “Drink.”

      She considered that. I asked,

      “You?”

      No hesitation.

      “Never met anyone like my dad.”

      Was she kidding?

      Her mobile shrilled, she checked it, said,

      “The mighty Reardon calls.”

      Outside, we had that awkward moment

      . . . do you mumble some vague shite about staying in touch?

      Go,

      . . . that was nice, let’s never do it again.

      She asked,

      “Want to see me another time?”

      The thought struck me. I asked,

      “Do I remind you of your father?”

      She was moving, stopped, said,

      “Don’t be ridiculous, he is a good man.”

      10

      Draw a picture of my soul and it’d be a scribble with fangs.

      —Gillian Flynn, Dark Places

      Souls in purgatory are supposed to be on day release.

      I was arranging my DVDs on a shelf, mug of coffee in my hand, cigarette on my mind.

      Stepped back, looked,

      Game of Thrones, Series 2

      Breaking Bad, Season 4

      Treme

      Weeds, the whole seven seasons

      Conspiracy: The Wannsee Conference, The Final Solution

      Damages, Series 4, with John Goodman.

      You put John Goodman in a series, I’m there. On the coffee table, strewn almost casually, was

      Matter of Heart: The Extraordinary Journey of C. G. Jung Into the Soul of Man. Visitors would be impressed. The empty walls sneered,

      “What visitors?”

      A heavy book, and I’m talking actual weight,

      Gitta Sereny, Albert Speer: His Battle with Truth.

      I intended to give this to Stewart, all 800 pages of fine, tight print.

      And speak of the devil, my mobile rang.

      He said,

      “The statue was found in the canal.”

      Took me a moment to catch up. I snapped,

      “No hello, you know, the Zen niceties?”

      He was ready.

      “The sarcasm, Jack, it gets old, like you. Ridge is still in a coma; how’s that for fucking nice?”

      Rang off.

      Shook my head. His language was way down the shitter now.

      Saint Laurence O’Toole, the patron saint of Dublin, whose heart was preserved since the twelfth century.