Purgatory. Ken Bruen

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      Kidding.

      Money.

      Yes.

      So I began the round of pubs, churches, dives, flophouses, derelict buildings, student accommodations, crazies, neo-pagan subcults, nuns, all the band of would-be Madonna theft. Spreading, if not the joy, at least the cash.

      And found her!

      Swear to Jesus.

      Lost her.

      As fast.

      A miracle in and of its wicked self. Minty, a street guy, who favored, get this, crème de menthe above all, thus his name, was the new go-to guy on my information street. For years it had been Caz, a slick Romanian who’d become my uneasy friend.

      And got killed.

      Not directly because of my friendship but in there.

      Like that.

      Minty had come to me, offering street cred, rumors, the half-truth that existed on any Galway street in times of deep hardship. Rumor faking as fact, like the government. It’s the Irish way. At least it was now. I’d get Minty some bottles of that awful liqueur and he’d tell me mostly what I wanted to hear. There was always that hidden kernel of truth but I had to sift.

      Curious and also never able to mind my own damn business, I’d asked why that drink, got,

      “It’s a class thing. You really wouldn’t understand.”

      I found him on the steps of the Augustinian church, just before 11:00 a.m. Mass let out. It was, he said,

      “Good takings to kick the day off.”

      I told him what I was looking for. He was dressed for combat, in a long Irish army coat and Dr. Martens, and seemed more student than bum. He was of that indeterminate street age, beat, worn, wary. Could be bad thirty, or sixty. I palmed him some euros, said,

      “I’ll get you some of the de menthe later.”

      He nodded, said,

      “Jack, it’s getting rougher out here.”

      I knew.

      I waited, then got,

      “Young hoody, name of Brennan, he took the statue, stashed it in his old man’s garage, somewhere in Newcastle. The kid plays at being street but he’s just a spoiled bollix, taking a holy statue would seem to him to be . . . edgy.”

      Minty threw his eyes up at this nonsense.

      Case solved.

      I asked,

      “How do you know this stuff?”

      He shrugged, no biggie, said,

      “It’s an art, but not great.”

      Before he went fucking deep on me, I asked,

      “And Brennan might be, where?”

      “Down at the swamp. He and his mates smoke shit down there.”

      I said,

      “The church thanks you.”

      He shuddered, protested.

      “Don’t be fucking putting no jinx on me. Jesus.”

      I found the young guy where Minty said.

      And

      We’d a song and dance, as he did tough in front of his mates, strutted until I gave him a sharp cuff on the ear. Does wonders, that.

      Short, sharp, educational.

      Brennan had the face MacNeice described.

      “Low cunning.”

      But, yes, yes, he’d taken the statue, for

      “The craic.”

      And yes, it was in his father’s garage. I said,

      “Let’s go get it.”

      The kid was barely eighteen, but attitude and stupidity were fighting for supremacy. He asked,

      “What’s in it for me?”

      The day had started well. I didn’t want to spoil it with beating the be-Jaysus out of this eejit. I said,

      “The church has, I’ll agree, lost a lot of its clout but, still, the local hard guys go to Mass of a Sunday. How d’you think those hurlers would treat a pipsqueak who stole Our Lady?”

      He’d deliver it outside the Claddagh church at noon the next day.

      In time for the Angelus.

      I know, dammit, I should have gone right then but I was complacent. It had been too easy. My history told me,

      “I don’t do easy.”

      The next day, Brennan was there, without the statue. He’d imbibed something to make him a whole new deal, said,

      “We’ve moved the statue to a new place.”

      Jesus.

      I eyeballed him, asked,

      “Not the church, I’m guessing.”

      His faint smirk now blossomed, said,

      “Ten large by Saturday or the dame goes in the river.”

      “The dame!”

      I was so surprised I did nothing, and he strutted off. I’d have admired him for his sheer brass if it didn’t piss me off so much. I did something I thought I’d never do.

      I called the Guards.

      Ridge met me in the GBC, one of the few remaining Galway cafés, not only surviving but thriving. They kept it real simple. Good food and cheap. Ridge was in plainclothes, a promotion since the last case we’d been on. Dressed in a new navy tracksuit, white stripes, she looked healthy, less intense. Few could simmer like her. She said,

      “Word is you’re still off everything: cigs, dope, booze.”

      I gave her my second-best smile, no relation to warmth. She said,

      “After the party, you know, what Reardon said, I thought, you know . . .”

      I knew.

      I told her about the statue, gave her Brennan’s name, said,

      “You were to visit now, I think the statue would still be there.”

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