The Guards Read Free Page B

appointment?”
    “Tell him Jack Taylor is here.”
    He considered, then,
    “I’ll check. Wait here.”
    I did.
    Read the notice board. Made the gardai appear a friendly, laid-back outfit. I knew better. The youngster returned, said,
    “The superintendent will see you in Interview Room B. I’ll buzz you through.”
    He did.
    The room was painted bright yellow. A lone table, two chairs. I sat in the suspect’s one. Wondered whether to remove my coat, but they might seize it. Left it on.
    The door opened, Clancy entered. A whole different animal from the man of my memory. He’d become, as they say, stout. Like fat, as in very. As no doubt fits a super. His face was ruddy, jowled, sagging. He said,
    “By the holy”
    I stood up, said,
    “Superintendent.”
    Pleased him. He said,
    “Sit, man.”
    I did.
    We took time out, to survey, assess. Neither of us hot on what we got. He asked,
    “What can I do for you, boyo?”
    “Just a little information.”
    “Oh.”
    I told him about the girl, her mother’s request. He said,
    “I heard you’d become some sort of half-arsed private dick.”
    I’d no reply, so nodded. He said,
    “I’d have expected more of you, Jack.”
    “Than what?”
    “Leeching off a poor woman’s grief.”
    That hurt ‘cause of how close to the truth it was. He shook himself, said,
    “I remember the case. It was suicide.”
    I mentioned the phone call, and he gave a disgusted sigh, said,
    “You probably made that call yerself.”
    I gave my last try, asked,
    “Could I see the file?”
    “Don’t be a complete eejit… and sober up.”
    “Is that a ‘no’?”
    He stood, opened the door, and I grappled for some brilliant exit line. None came. As I waited to be buzzed out, he said,
    “Don’t become a nuisance, Jack.”
    “I’m already that.”
    I headed for Grogan’s. Consoled myself they hadn’t got my coat. Sean was behind the counter, asked,
    “Who ate your cake?”
    “Fuck off.”
    I stormed to my usual seat, plonked down. After a bit, Sean arrived with a pint and a chaser, said,
    “I presume you’re still drinking.”
    “I’ve been working … OK?”
    “On the case?”
    “What else?”
    “God help that poor woman.”
    Later, the drink in full sway, I said to Sean,
    “Sorry if I was a bit touchy.”
    “A bit?”
    “Pressure, it’s pressure I don’t do well.”
    He blessed himself, said,
    “Oh, thank God! Is that all it is
    “When did a private detective
solve a crime? Never!”
    Ed McBain
    Some people live their lives as if they were in a movie. Sutton lives his as if he were in a bad movie.
    It’s said the difference between one friend and none is infinity. I’ll buy that. Or that no man who has a friend can be considered a failure. I have to buy that.
    Sutton is my friend. As a young garda, I’d pulled border duty. It’s a tedious assignment of rain and more rain. You longed for a shoot-out. What you got was cold sausage and chips in a Nissan hut.
    Recreation was the pub.
    I drank in the imaginatively titled The Border Inn. My first call there, the barman said,
    “You’re the heat.”
    I laughed out loud, close to frostbite as I was. He said,
    “I’m Sutton.”
    He looked like Alex Ferguson. Not a young version but the shouting showman of treble glory days.
    “Why are you a guard?” he asked,
    “To annoy my father.”
    “Ah, hate the old man, do you?”
    “No, I love him.”
    “You’re just confused, is it?”
    “It was a test, see if he’d try to stop me.”
    “Did he?”
    “No.”
    “Well, you can pack it in then.”
    I kinda like it now.”
    Over the months of my border duty, I drank in Sutton’s solidly. One time, we went to a dance in South Armagh, I’d asked Sutton,
    “What will I need?”
    “An Armalite.”
    En route to the dance, I was wearing Item 8234 and Sutton asked,
    “Tell me you’ll take the coat off for the dance?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Oh, another thing. Don’t talk.”
    “What?”
    “This is bandit country; your soft