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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.
    I know, sounds like the Irish Twilight Zone .
    Thieves figured the heart had to be covered in gold, right?
    And stole it.
    Around the country, small churches were reporting the theft of chalices and gold crosses, and a priest exclaimed,
    “Have they no respect?”
    Where the fuck had he been for the past decade?
    Our Lady of Galway, submerged amid the litter of a hen party at the Dominic Street end of the canal, had been spotted by a dog walker. The Brennans were still lying low but I fully intended having
    A wee chat.
    I called Sister Maeve, who despite my protests seemed to think I had a part in the statue being found, promised,
    “The church will not forget you.”
    Sounded faintly like a velvet threat. I was heading down Shop Street, the weather in early spring mode, mimes, buskers on the streets, a guy flogging time-shares in Greece, proclaiming,
    “Buy now while the Greeks are broke.”
    Like Saint Laurence, he had little gold in his heart.
    Reardon had finally shown up in person at my apartment, insisting he treat me to dinner. He was dressed in chic grunge, scuffed trainers, hoodie, combats, but oddly these emphasized that he was older than I’d figured. Deep black splotches under his eyes testified to either work, insomnia, dope, or all three.
    I was surprised when I opened the door to see him, muttered,
    “What?”
    “We need to talk.”
    Before I could ask,
    “About the fuck what?”
    He glanced at his watch. Yeah, a heavy gold Rolex job and no knockoff, too fake looking to be false. Like the pope.
    He said,
    “The Arch, new joint in Kirwan’s Lane, do biblical steaks they tell me.”
    What the hell, see if I could get a handle on the guy. Grabbed my Garda-issue jacket and he said,
    “Ah, the infamous government one.”
    I said what I thought.
    “It’s downright creepy how much you know about me.”
    He laughed, one of those laughs nurtured on Marlboro Red and Wild Turkey, so I kind of liked him a bit better. It was a short walk to the lane, buskers doing everything from
    Galway Girl
    To
    The Undertones.
    Mainly massacring any tune you ever liked. He’d a table booked. I had noticed two heavy guys a discreet distance behind. He said,
    “My guys.”
    “You need security.”
    As we were seated at what I figured to be a table for eleven, he went,
    “Guy has as much green as I do, two ain’t even enough.”
    Ain’t
    Pronounced with a midwest emphasized twang. Irony or just pig