“I have covered our dinner bill.”

I asked,

“When was Loyola last seen?”

He was already leaving, said,

“He gave the eleven o’clock mass in his parish ten days ago and then disappeared.”

He strode off, master of all he surveyed. A vague rumor of piety in his wake. He hadn’t wished me

“God bless.”

In lieu, I counted the cash, a blessing in its commercial self.

Later I picked up some books from Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop.

Vinny in full metal said,

“They’re preparing a flood fund for the families devastated from the rains.”

I said,

“Why don’t they just use their usual slush fund?”

I bought a shitload of books, including:

Jason Starr,

Craig McDonald,

Tom Piccirilli,

R.J. Ellory,

Megan Abbott.

Vinny said,

“Nice selection.”

I also picked up Carol O’Connell, I don’t care what anyone says,

Mallory was a definite influence on Stieg Larsson.

In Find Me, there’s a passage that scalds my soul.

“….he asked her

‘Why don’t you want to have kids?’

Mallory said

‘Because I don’t know what they’re for.’”

My apartment in Nun’s Island was sublet to me by a guy who decided to take a gap year in his late forties. Some gap. Reeked more of midlife crisis but better, I guess, than a red sports car. He showed no inclination to return and I wasn’t encouraging him. Nun’s Island is a small neighborhood, nestling close to the cathedral.

And, yes, there are nuns.

The Poor Clares.

An enclosed community. To simply enter their grounds was to find a rare tranquility. To tread lightly on holy ground. They were currently running a campaign to pay for the restoration of the convent. Titled:

“Buy a Brick.”

You bought a brick by buying a ticket which then went forward to a lotto. Being newly flush with cash, I went to them, offered the Mother Superior fifty euros. She protested it was too much. She noticed me staring at her neck. Nuns, like cops, see everything. I thought, if you’re staring at a nun’s neck, you need a brick.