Laid out that stark phrase like a flat hammer, turned to look at me, then, “Anthony de Burgo.” Then, bitterness leaking all over his words, he sprinted, “Impressive name, huh? And fuck me, Tony’s an impressive fellow: Lectures in Anglo-Irish lit, has numerous academic essays, studies, and, get this, even slums as a hack noir novelist, to, as he said on The Late Late Show ‘pay the light bill.’ Oh, Tony’s a droll bollix and no mistake. Even persuaded our Galway hurlers to line out for a . . .” Pause, “Spot of cricket.” Jack took a deep breath, fired up a Marlboro Red with a heavy click of his Zippo, blew smoke, continued, “What ‘spiffin fun’ that was and all for charity. The guy is a media darling. How could you not love him, too? His looks got a brooding De Niro (circa Mean Streets) gig going. ’Cept every few months, he grabs a teenage girl, tortures her beyond imagining, stops a breath short of murder.”
