“And you’ll give me this if I help.”

“Yes.”

“What if I don’t find anything?”

“The house is yours for six months.”

My instincts said,

“No.”

I said,

“You’ve got a deal.”

Picked up the keys, said,

“Tell me what happened.”

He produced a scrap of paper, laid it down. I looked at it.

Jan. 3rd…Christy Flynn (Óg)

Feb. 19th…Cionn Flaherty

April 2nd…Seaneen Brown

June 9th…Blackie Ryan

I asked,

“All dead?”

“Aye, found in the Fair Green, near the Simon House.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“Did they die?”

“Their heads crushed with a hammer.”

He got up abruptly, went to the bar, asked Jeff,

“A small Jameson and a pint for my friend.”

I looked at the list. A weariness came whispering at my soul:

“You are so tired.”

A line I’d once heard came to mind:

“He drank, not because of the darkness in him but the darkness in others.”

Sweeper returned, asked,

“Payment?”

“What?”

“How much cash do you want?”

“Aren’t you giving me a bloody house?”

“You’ll need money, everybody does.”

Argue that.

He’d given me a fat envelope, stuffed with notes. I said,

“Wish it had been brown.”

He was lost, said,

“I’m lost.”

“A brown envelope, we could have been TDs.”

The quip was not to his taste. He sipped at the Jameson like a man who’s been badly burnt. Whiskey had scorched me more times than I want to recall. A look between us and he said,

“I have to ration it.”

“Hey, I’m the last guy who needs an explanation.”

“I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ann Henderson told me of your affliction.”

Rage burned. I asked,

“Affliction…she said that?”

He waved his left hand, vague in his dismissal.

“My people suffer similarly.”

I let it go…fuck it.