Read Purgatory for Free Online Page B

ignorance?
    Waiters surrounded us like altar boys feeding a bishop. I asked,
    “You intending to buy Galway?”
    He scanned the menu, nodded.
    “Pretty much.”
    The wine waiter presented a bottle of some antique vintage. Reardon snapped,
    “Bring two pints of Guinness, Jameson back.”
    I said,
    “I’m not drinking.”
    He smiled. I saw the inner steel, a glimpse, the blaze that made megabucks. He said,
    “Tonight you are.”
    I did.
    As I sipped the head of the pint, my heart hammering, I asked,
    “What next—lines of . . . ?”
    “Not before the dessert.”
    Fair enough.
    We had steaks, his blood raw, mine medium, circled by mashed spuds, blitzed with gravy. At least mine were; he went the ketchup gig. He ate with a restrained ferocity, as if he loathed the food but, by Christ, he’d get the better of it.
    Like that.
    I overheard the table next to us, stopped at mid-fork, focused.
    They were talking about the death/killing of the moneylender. In her own house!
    Reardon asked,
    “You okay?”
    I snapped,
    “Gimme your phone.”
    Naturally, iPhone, did everything save the ironing. Got through to Stewart, asked,
    “You heard?”
    “You mean Peg Ramsay?”
    “It’s true, then?”
    I could hear his despair, anger, then,
    “Yeah, in her own home, thrown from the top of the stairs.”
    Christ, tried to get my head around this, asked,
    “And FX, the so-called bodyguards, where the fuck were they?”
    Reardon watched me with lazy interest, a small smile dancing near the corner of his eyes. Stewart said,
    “In the kitchen.”
    “You are fucking kidding. What? Making tea? Jesus.”
    He waited, then,
    “We have to do something, right?”
    Yeah, sure.
    Said,
    “Any change in Ridge?”
    “No.”
    Rang off.
    Reardon took his phone back, looked at the number, noting it, saving it, said,
    “I don’t do friends.”
    Maybe it was Peg Ramsay, maybe the pint of Guinness. I went,
    “Just what exactly led you to believe I give a flying fuck?”
    Stopped him. Then,
    “Dude, you really are the wrath.”
    Pushing his plate aside, he ventured,
    “You interest me. You’re a sort of Irish Zelig, witness to the history of Galway.
    The Magdalen
    The swans
    The tinkers
    Despair of the young generation
    Clerical abuse.”
    Paused, drank a fair whack of Guinness, continued,
    “See I figure, guy like that sees trends, and maybe can keep me up to speed on certain elements.”
    The prospect of just . . . one, swear to God, Jameson lightened me. I said,
    “Paid tout.”
    He shrugged.
    “Whatever.”
    Could work. Least I could take his money. That would definitely work. He paid the bill with a platinum card, impressing the shite out of the waiters, me, half of Quay Street.
    We’re shallow, so sue us.
    Outside, I offered,
    “Nightcap?”
    He sighed, said,
    “Told you about friends.”
    I near shouted,
    “Lighten up. It’s a drink, not a fucking commitment.”
    We went to the Quays, ghosts of drinks past, bitter and recriminatory. A few guys, sitting at the bar, nodded, not in a friendly fashion, more the
    “We see you”
    Irish warmth with cunning outrider. We had us some shots of Jameson. Reardon holding the shot to the light, saying,
    “See why it is you do this shit.”
    He didn’t.
    I said,
    “No, you don’t.”
    He wasn’t bothered, lazily asked,
    “You get on with anyone?”
    A young guy passed.
    “Jack?”
    A total
    As in, total stranger. I said,
    “Good to see you.”
    He was lit up, like Ecstasy, with intent, rushed,
    “One Direction are number one in America.”
    Jesus.
    Reardon gaped at him. The kid said,
    “Like, hello, not since the Beatles, so this is, like, huge , you know?”
    Reardon looked at me, then,
    “That makes me feel old, so fuck can only guess how ancient you’ve got to be feeling.”
    I shucked into my jacket, said,
    “Been fun but, you know, enough.”
    He walked out with me, palmed me a phial, said,
    “You got five pills there. Ease that hangover right easy tomorrow but, like my job