He was mildly impressed, said,
“A keen observer, that’s good, very good. My driver brought it over.”
He had a driver? I asked,
“DUI, that it?”
The briefcase was snapped open-and I mean, snapped. Then he rested his tanned hands on it and, fuck, were his nails… manicured?
His tone was now that of a stern parent to an unruly child. He said,
“I know all about your smart mouth, your-how shall I put it- cynical repartee, but it’s wasted on me so let’s drop the smart-alec pose, shall we?”
I threw him with the monosyllable
“Fine.”
His chastisements obviously carried huge freight in his usual circles. He asked,
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isn’t Jesus about love, spreading the joy, or are you more the school of,
Man is born of woman and is full of misery?”
He leant back, folded those perfect hands in his lap, said,
“You remember your Catechism.”
“No, I remember me funerals.”
His food came. He snapped at the girl,
“Glass of sparkling water, very thin wedge of lemon.”
Waved her away. I said,
“Bon appetit.”
I hoped it choked him. He didn’t answer, set about his food like a rabid dog, ate with a ferocious determination. This was his food and by Christ he was going to have every last bite. I drank, thanked the girl when she brought my Jameson, and waited for whatever this prick had in mind.
Finished, he cleaned the corners of his mouth, delicately, with the napkin, took a sip of water, said,
“To business.”
“I can hardly contain myself.”
Briefcase flicked open again. He took a fat envelope, passed it over to me, said,
“A retainer.”
I didn’t touch it. He stared straight into my eyes. I knew he didn’t much care for what he saw there. He said,
“The church, as you are well aware, has been under intense scrutiny; the errors of the few have cast a shadow on the many.”
I nearly laughed out loud.
Fucking errors!
Echoed,
“You mean the child molesters, the Magdalen Girls, our local bishop who refuses to resign despite the whole country howling for his head?”
He winced.
An actual physical tic appeared under his left eye, began a rat-tat-tat like the drumbeat of the fallen.
He reined it in, said,
“Recovery must come from within. To that end, a group was formed within the church to deal with misconduct before it becomes public.”
I said,
“A splinter group, like the Provos breaking from the official IRA?”
His efforts to control his temper were admirable. He almost sneered,
“I don’t believe we have been accused of bearing arms?”
I said,
“Yet.”
And before he could muster, I added,
“Least with the IRA, we could see the weapons.”
He asked, in a patient, icy tone,
“Might I continue?”
“Go for it, Gabe.”
“Our reform group are known as the Brethren, and, despite your cynicism, Mr. Taylor, we have managed to avoid further unsavory revelations.”
He said avoid. I heard, cover up. I let him drone on.