Green Hell

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The day began. . badly.

For Jack, this was like breathing. Natural.

It was never a plan to write about Jack Taylor. I’d come to Dublin as part of a Rhodes scholarship to conclude a treatise on Beckett. To end up living in Galway, drinking as if I meant it,

. . how’d that happen?

As Jack would say,

“Fuck knows.”

This is not. .

A Boswell to Dr. Johnson

Or even. .

A Watson to Holmes gig.

But rather a haphazard series of events leading me to abandon Beckett in pursuit of the Taylor enigma. Little did I know it would be an ironic reflection of one of Jack’s favorite novels:

The Wrong Case.

As Jim Crumley had once said of a book,

“This is not a crime novel, it’s a story with some crimes in it.”

Quite.

I met Jack Taylor at a time of odd disturbance.

James Gandolfini,

Cory Monteith,

Alan Whicker

Had all recently died. Jack mourned all three. He had heard of only the first. The second was the star of Glee and the third had presented a show called

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