Part 3 (1/2)

But when I rolled him off, I saw there was a condom. Molly saw it, too.

”We should, like, so get rid of that. It would only complicate things. When I saw he was going to rape me, I told him he should at least be courteous.”

I nodded, as if agreeing. I flushed the condom down the toilet, helped Molly clean the blood off her, and then used my purse to pack up what we could find, as she was carrying this little bitty Kate Spade knockoff that wasn't much good for anything. We found some cash, too, about $2,000, and helped ourselves to that, on the rationale that it would be more suspicious if we didn't. On the way out, I shook a few more potato chips on Granny's plate.

”Antone?” she said. ”Are you going out again?”

Molly grunted low, and that seemed to appease Granny. We walked out slowly, as if we had all the time in the world, but again I had that feeling of a thousand pairs of eyes on us. We were in some serious trouble. There would have to be some sort of retribution for what we had done. What Molly had done. All I did was steal a few potato chips.

”Take Quarry Road home instead of the interstate,” I told Molly.

”Why?” she asked. ”It takes so much longer.”

”But we know it, know all the ins and outs. If someone follows us, we can give them the slip.”

About two miles from home, I told her I had to pee so bad that I couldn't wait and asked her to stand watch for me, a longtime practice with us. We were at that point, high above the old limestone quarry, where we had parked a thousand times as teenagers. A place where Molly had never said ”No” to my knowledge.

”Finished?” she asked, when I emerged from behind the screen of trees.

”Almost,” I said, pus.h.i.+ng her hard, sending her tumbling over the precipice. She wouldn't be the first kid in our cla.s.s to break her neck at the highest point on Quarry Road. My high school boyfriend did, in fact, right after we broke up. It was a horrible accident. I didn't eat for weeks and got down to a size four. Everyone felt bad for me-breaking up with Eddie only to have him commit suicide that way. There didn't seem to be any reason for me to explain that Eddie was the one who wanted to break up. Unnecessary information.

I crossed the hillside to the highway, a distance of about a mile, then jogged the rest of the way. After all, as my mother would be the first to tell you, I went for a run that afternoon, while Molly was off shopping, according to her mom. I a.s.sumed the police would tie Antone's dead body to Molly's murder, and figure it for a revenge killing, but I was giving the cops too much credit. Antone rated a paragraph in the morning paper. Molly, who turned out to be pregnant, although not even she knew it-probably wouldn't even have known who the father was-is still on the front page all these weeks later. (The fact that they didn't find her for three days heightened the interest, I guess. I mean, she was just an overweight dental hygienist from the suburbs-and a bit of a s.l.u.t, as I told you. But the media got all excited about it.) The general consensus seems to be that Keith did it, and I don't see any reason to let him off the hook, not yet. He's an a.s.shole. Plus, almost no one in this state gets the death penalty.

Meanwhile, he's telling people just how many men Molly had s.e.x with in the past month, including Brandon, and police are still trying to figure out who had s.e.x with her right before she died. (That's why you're supposed to get the condom on as early as possible, girls. p.e.n.i.ses drip drip. Just fyi.) I pretended to be shocked, but I already knew about Brandon, having seen Molly's car outside his apartment when I cruised his place at 2 a.m. a few nights after Brandon told me he wanted to see other people. My ex-boyfriend and my best friend, running around behind my back. Everyone feels so bad for me, but I'm being brave, although I eat so little that I'm down to a size two. I just bought a Versace dress and Manolos for a date this weekend with my new boyfriend, Robert. I've never spent so much money on an outfit before. But then, I've never had $2,000 in cash to spend as I please.

Dieter Auner

KEN BRUEN is the author of many novels, including is the author of many novels, including The Guards, The Guards,winner of the 2004 Shamus Award, and is currently editing Dublin Noir Dublin Noir(forthcoming from Akas.h.i.+c). His novels have been published in many languages around the world. He lives in Galway, Ireland, and also calls New York home.

white irish

by ken bruen

Man, I'm between that f.u.c.kin' rock and the proverbial hard place. Hurtin'?

Whoa...so bad.

My septum's burned out. Kiddin', I ain't. There's a small mountain of snow on the table. Soon as the bleed stops, I'm burying myself in there, just tunneling in. The blood ran into my mouth about an hour ago, and f.u.c.k, made the mistake of checking in the mirror.

Nearly had a coronary. A dude staring back, blood all down his chin, splattered on the white T-s.h.i.+rt, the treasured Guns n' Roses one, heard a whimper of . . .

Terror.

Horror.

Anguish.

A heartbeat till I realized I was the one doing the whimpering.

How surprising is that?

The Sig Sauer is by the stash, ready to kick a.s.s. Say it loud, Lock 'n' f.u.c.kin' load. Is it an echo here, or does that come back as rock 'n' roll rock 'n' roll?

I'm losing it.

Yeah, yeah, like I don't f.u.c.kin' know? Gimme a break, I know.

All right?

Earth to m.u.t.h.ahf.u.c.kah, h.e.l.lO...I am, like...receiving this.

The devil's in the details. My mom used to say that. G.o.d bless her Irish heart. And I sing, ”If you ever go across the sea to Ireland...It maybe at the closing of your day...”

Got that right.

A Galway girl, she got lost in the nightmare of the American Dream and never got home again. If she could see me now.

Buried her three years ago, buried her cheap. I was short on the green, no pun intended. A pine box, 300 bucks was the most I could hustle. I still owe 150 on it.

A cold morning in February, we put her in the colder ground.

Huge crowd and a lone piper playing ”Carrickfergus.”

I wish...There was me, Me and Bobby McGee.

Sure.

One gravedigger, a sullen f.u.c.k, and me, walking point. For the ceremony, a half-a.s.sed preacher. Him I found in a bar, out of it on shots of dollar whiskey and s.h.i.+ner.

Bought him a bottle of Maker's Mark to perform the rites.

Perform he did and fast, as he wasn't getting the Mark till the deal was done.

Galloped through the dying words. ”Man, full of misery, has but a short time.”

Like that.

Even the gravedigger gaped at the rapidity, the words, tripping, spilling over each other.

”Ashes to ashes.”

I was thinking David Bowie. The first pound of clay was shoveled, and I went, ”Wait up.”

Didn't have a rose to throw, so what the h.e.l.l, took my wedding band, a claddagh, bounced it off the lid, the gold glinting against the dirt.