4.0
Galway Confidential
ByPublisher Description
The Mother Superior was having a frustrating morning. The pipes had burst, flooding a large part of the convent. Trying to get a plumber was testing her limited patience. The plumber said,
“If I come today, it’s double rate.”
She bit down on her lip.
“Why?”
He said,
“See, Sister, I had another job lined up.”
Pause.
“A highly lucrative gig but I cancelled it to agree to help you.”
She didn’t believe a word of it, took a deep breath, said,
“Very well, what time might we expect you?”
He sighed, said,
“I’m running late but I should get there round three.”
She wanted to scream but held it in.
“We’ll see you then.”
He said,
“I’ll want paying up front.”
She was outraged.
“That’s a little out of the usual way of business.”
He gave a nasty chuckle.
“I’ve been stiffed by the clergy before. One chancer told me he’d pray for me.”
The Mother Superior thought,
You won’t be in my prayers.
Asked,
“Might I inquire the cost?”
He reeled off the figure and she said,
“That’s very steep.”
There was bitterness in his voice when he spoke.
“The price of doing business, Sister.”
And clicked off.
She was just drawing breath when the phone shrilled again. She grabbed it, said tersely,
“Yes?”
A man’s voice.
“Whoa, not a very nunny opening.”
Something in his tone put her in mind of slithery things. She asked,
“Who is this?”
He hummed the opening bars of “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. Then said,
“Allow me to introduce myself.”
Pause.
“How is your flock doing? Missing three, I daresay?”
She felt a kick to the stomach, tried,
“Is this some macabre joke?”
He snickered, said,
“Depends on who is laughing; are you laughing, babe?”
She thought she might throw up but managed,
“Who are you?”
A beat.
Then,
“Think of a number.”
“What?”
“A number, Sister, give me a digit or I’ll bring the wrath of hell to your door.”
Without even thinking she said, “Six.”
Why on earth she said that she would agonize over through the years.
The man said,
“Good choice, leaves us with three to go, and I think that’s doable, yeah?”
In desperation she begged, “Who are you and what are these numbers?”
He laughed.
“Nuns. Three down and three to wallop.”
She muttered,
“Sweet Lord in heaven.”
The man said,
“God has left the building, or, rather, the convent.”
She made a last-ditch effort.
“Come to the convent, we can talk, and maybe I can help you.”
He snarled,
“Help? From a nun? Get real, Sister, I must go wash my hammer. It got messed up on the last outing. I used to use the axe but the hammer makes more of, how shall I put it, a crunch.”
And he was gone.
The Mother Superior doubled over and managed to make it to the sink before throwing up. Her legs trembled and her heart pounded.
After a bit, she allowed herself a small sherry, well, a large one in a small glass, then tried to compose herself; the sherry was sweet and lit her empty stomach like burning coal. The tremors eased in her body, and she was able to make a call.
To Sheila Winston.
She said,
“Sheila, we may need that private investigator of yours after all.”
“If I come today, it’s double rate.”
She bit down on her lip.
“Why?”
He said,
“See, Sister, I had another job lined up.”
Pause.
“A highly lucrative gig but I cancelled it to agree to help you.”
She didn’t believe a word of it, took a deep breath, said,
“Very well, what time might we expect you?”
He sighed, said,
“I’m running late but I should get there round three.”
She wanted to scream but held it in.
“We’ll see you then.”
He said,
“I’ll want paying up front.”
She was outraged.
“That’s a little out of the usual way of business.”
He gave a nasty chuckle.
“I’ve been stiffed by the clergy before. One chancer told me he’d pray for me.”
The Mother Superior thought,
You won’t be in my prayers.
Asked,
“Might I inquire the cost?”
He reeled off the figure and she said,
“That’s very steep.”
There was bitterness in his voice when he spoke.
“The price of doing business, Sister.”
And clicked off.
She was just drawing breath when the phone shrilled again. She grabbed it, said tersely,
“Yes?”
A man’s voice.
“Whoa, not a very nunny opening.”
Something in his tone put her in mind of slithery things. She asked,
“Who is this?”
He hummed the opening bars of “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. Then said,
“Allow me to introduce myself.”
Pause.
“How is your flock doing? Missing three, I daresay?”
She felt a kick to the stomach, tried,
“Is this some macabre joke?”
He snickered, said,
“Depends on who is laughing; are you laughing, babe?”
She thought she might throw up but managed,
“Who are you?”
A beat.
Then,
“Think of a number.”
“What?”
“A number, Sister, give me a digit or I’ll bring the wrath of hell to your door.”
Without even thinking she said, “Six.”
Why on earth she said that she would agonize over through the years.
The man said,
“Good choice, leaves us with three to go, and I think that’s doable, yeah?”
In desperation she begged, “Who are you and what are these numbers?”
He laughed.
“Nuns. Three down and three to wallop.”
She muttered,
“Sweet Lord in heaven.”
The man said,
“God has left the building, or, rather, the convent.”
She made a last-ditch effort.
“Come to the convent, we can talk, and maybe I can help you.”
He snarled,
“Help? From a nun? Get real, Sister, I must go wash my hammer. It got messed up on the last outing. I used to use the axe but the hammer makes more of, how shall I put it, a crunch.”
And he was gone.
The Mother Superior doubled over and managed to make it to the sink before throwing up. Her legs trembled and her heart pounded.
After a bit, she allowed herself a small sherry, well, a large one in a small glass, then tried to compose herself; the sherry was sweet and lit her empty stomach like burning coal. The tremors eased in her body, and she was able to make a call.
To Sheila Winston.
She said,
“Sheila, we may need that private investigator of yours after all.”
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About Ken Bruen
Ken Bruen received a doctorate in metaphysics, taught English in South Africa, and then became a crime novelist. The critically acclaimed author of the Jack Taylor novels and the White Trilogy, he is the recipient of two Barry Awards and two Shamus Awards, and he has twice been a finalist for the Edgar Award. He lives in Galway, Ireland.
Other books by Ken Bruen
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