Authors: Declan Burke
“
This other job,” she said, as I jotted down some names and numbers. “It must be paying well when you’re throwing freebies around.”
“
It’s the festive spirit. Stick around, you might even get a compliment.”
“
I’d prefer hard information. No offence.”
“
None taken.”
She took the list of names and numbers, stubbed her cigarette, checked her watch. She got up, shouldered her bag and stretched, stifling a yawn. Her blouse tightened in all the right places.
“
I’d better be getting on. Any plans for later?”
“
Just the one – to stay away from flirty brunettes with cleavage to spare.”
Her eyes narrowed, mock serious.
“
That was a compliment, right?”
“
That was hard information. No offence.”
“
None taken. See you around.”
“
Take care, Katie.”
She left, but not like she had a train to catch. Five o’clock came and went. I rang Herbie.
“
Harry!” He’d been into the coke again. “What’re you up to?”
“
Just winding up now. Any word?”
“
The whole fucking dictionary. Can you get over here?”
“
Why, what’s up?”
“
Surf’s up, Harry. We hit the jackpot.”
“
Nice one, Herb. I’ll be over in about ten minutes.”
I was halfway to the car park when I remembered Denise had the car. Then I remembered I hadn’t told Denise about the Chinese dinner Dutchie and Michelle had planned. Fumbled in my inside pocket for the mobile, then trudged back to the office, cursing Brady every step of the way.
Denise wasn’t home so I left a message on the machine, be ready for eight, and headed for Herbie’s. Flurries of sleet were coming down with the dusk, quick gusts that caused the orange streetlights to flicker and dull. The streets were wet so it wasn’t sticking, which was a shame, I’d promised Ben a snowman for Christmas. But then, even kids stop keeping count after the first broken promise.
Herbie’s house was sauna warm, almost humid. It was always the same, winter or summer, the heating on full blast to nurture the crop in the attic. Herbie wandered around the house barefoot, in T-shirt and cut-off jeans, a stranded beach bum who hadn’t been on a beach in maybe five years. There was no one around to cop him on, either. Herbie lived on his own, early twenties with no visible source of income, holding down a three-bedroom house just off Fortfield, Upmarketsville. No one asked where he got the money to live like that. No one cared, either. So long as Herbie could pay his own way no one gave a damn where the money came from. In one way, that was a good thing. In lots of other ways, it didn’t bode at all well.
He answered the door wearing shades, a spliff smouldering. Better still, his death metal T-shirt had ‘First Served, First Cum’ scrawled across the chest.
“
Classy stuff, Herb.”
“
Whatever.” There was something on his mind. “That camera, Harry?”
“
What about it?”
“
That my camera?”
“
I know you wouldn’t trust it with anyone else.”
“
Fucking wondering where that got to. State of the art, that camera.”
He handed me a cold beer, took me upstairs to his computer room. The camera was sitting on the desk, so I slipped it into my pocket while he was printed out Frank Conway’s file. I figured I was doing him a favour, both of us using it. I like to see people get value for money.
He handed me a sheaf of papers, Frank Conway’s details. A quick scan revealed nothing of note. His finances weren’t as healthy as I’d presumed they’d be, providing Dutchie’s information on Conway’s real-estate ventures was on the ball, but they weren’t so sick they needed therapy either. There was a blip of about a year-and-a-half, where nothing showed up, which suggested Frank Conway had gone to ground, but so far they haven’t decided that that’s against the law.
“
So, what?”
He sat down at the computer, clicked the mouse. A murky image came up on screen, two people walking through a wood, obscured by a huge golf umbrella. It was the Ice Queen and her beau at Hughes Point, although I’d never have known if I hadn’t been the one behind the lens. The fact that I hadn’t been able to use the flash didn’t help.
“
That,” he said, “is about as useful as a blind hippy.”
“
No argument.”
“
But this,” he said, clicking the mouse again, “was a little more interesting.” Another image came up on screen. It was the picnic area, deserted except for the big Volvo on the other side of the clearing. The picture was dark, the evening a lot gloomier than I remembered.
“
I know they were driving a Volvo, Herb.”
He used the mouse to square off the Volvo. Another click doubled the squared-off image in size, maintaining the clarity of the original. Another couple of clicks and I was able to tell that the Volvo was navy blue, there was a dent in the front bumper, the seat covers were composed of tightly strung wooden beads and the driver liked wine gums. All we were missing was the chassis number.
“
I ran a check on the registration,” he said, smug.
“
Really?” I patted him on the shoulder. “I’d have tried tracing the seat covers myself.”
He rose above it, on a roll.
“
The car is registered to one Della McGowan. Address: The Priory, Foynes Hill.”
I stared at him. I was getting a bad feeling.
“
Herb – who’s Della McGowan?”
“
McGowan was her maiden name.”
“
And now it’s…?”
“
Sheridan.”
“
Della Sheridan? Imelda Sheridan? The car is Imelda fucking Sheridan’s?”
“
Was,” he corrected.
“
You’re winding me up.”
This time he shook his head.
“
Jesus, Herb. Tony Sheridan’s banging Helen Conway?”
“
Unless the car was stolen. By the way.”
“
What?”
“
Who’s this Helen Conway?”
“
You don’t want to know. Trust me. Anyway, Tony Sheridan is enough.”
“
Isn’t he, though?”
Herbie knew as well as I did that Tony Sheridan was in the social pages more often than he was in the Dail. Which was ironic, considering that he was one of three independent TDs the government was relying on to maintain its narrow majority. If Frank Conway sued for divorce and named Tony as the respondent, the story would make the Six-One News and the front page of every paper in the country, The Catholic Herald included. And it wasn’t inconceivable that his resignation – which would be inevitable given Tony’s cornpone pronouncements on the moral integrity of the family unit – could help to bring down the government.
A sweat broke out on my back that had nothing to do with Herbie’s attic crop. Suddenly the hammering I’d been given didn’t seem as excessive as it had the night before.
“
Wipe the file.”
“
What?”
“
Wipe it, Herb. Hit delete. Everything you’ve given me, lose it.”
“
But this is the angle, the hook. The fucking spread, Harry!”
“
Trust me, Herb.”
I told him about the beating, pulled up my shirt.
“
Fucking hell.”
“
That was when they thought I was just sniffing around. If they get a whiff that you can hook Helen Conway to Tony Sheridan, they’ll be around quick smart. Wipe it.”
“
You’re going to bury it?”
“
You’d rather we buried Ben?”
He wiped it.
“
So what happens now?”
“
What happens now is you get paid. Then we keep our mouths shut and hope we don’t find anything else.”
“
Sounds like a plan.”
We went back downstairs. I put my jacket back on, tucking the printouts into my inside pocket.
“
Fancy a quick toke?”
“
Christ, no. My head’s fucked up enough as it is.”
“
I can imagine.”
He didn’t know the half of it. Death threats, police intimidation, the break-up with Denise, maybe losing Ben – I’d been through it all before, naturally, although I was pretty sure that all four had never collided at the same time. And then there was Gonzo, staring me down, sawn-off and double-barrelled, locked, breeched and both hammers cocked.
It was going to be a long and lousy night.
13
I walked back into town, hailed a cab. The sleet was coming down hard, the flurries a little thicker. It still wasn’t sticking, though, the streets wet and shiny under the orange streetlights. Ben was in the living room, sitting in front of a blazing fire, Pokémon cards scattered on the rug.
“
Hey, Ben.”
He was absorbed in a cartoon, Johnny Dangerfield. I barely registered.
“
There’ll be snow tomorrow,” I told him. “Then we’ll build the biggest snowman ever.”
I waited for a response, decided to buy myself a Johnny Dangerfield mask, went through to the kitchen. Bracing myself, but either Gonzo hadn’t arrived or Denise was hiding him under the stairs. She was sitting at the table, a coffee at her elbow, leafing through a magazine. Pots bubbled on the cooker. The windows were steamed up.
“
You’re cooking dinner?”
“
Dinner cooks itself, Harry. It’s a woman’s secret. Don’t tell the lads.”
“
You didn’t get my message?”
“
I got your message.”
“
I thought you wanted to go out?”
“
Not if it’s where you’re going. Besides, where do you think we’d get a babysitter at that short notice? It’s the day before Christmas Eve. People are out enjoying themselves, having a good time.” She went back to the magazine. “Some people, anyway.”
It was pointless trying to argue and I didn’t even want to. I went upstairs, had a shower, lay down for a quick nap. Ben shook me awake about three seconds later.
“
Dinner’s ready, Dad.”
“
Alright, son. I’ll be down in a minute.”
We ate in silence. Ben and I watched Willy Wonka until it was time for him to go to bed. I watched as he brushed his teeth, getting more paste on his chin than his teeth, brought him downstairs to Denise, head buried in my shoulder.
“
Want to put him to bed?”
“
You’re doing a great job,” she said. “For someone who’s had so little practice.”
“
Cheers.”
I tucked him in, gave him a kiss.
“
Be a good boy for your mum, okay?”
“
Okay,” he muttered, already dozing off. I said: “Who’s coming tomorrow night?”
“
Santa.”
“
That’s right.”
“
And Eddie.”
“
Eddie? Who told you that?”
He turned, settled. His eyes were closed.
“
Mum said Eddie’s coming tomorrow.”
Eddie. I hadn’t heard Gonzo called by his Christian name in maybe ten years.
“
Who’s Eddie?” I asked, brushing his cow’s lick off his forehead.
“
Dunno.”
He didn’t know. I didn’t know who Eddie was either, not now, not after four years away. Ben’s mouth was gaping open, which suggested that we both cared about the same. I watched him until I was sure he was asleep, went downstairs. Denise was flicking through the TV channels. I called a cab.
“
You’re going out?”
“
No, I’m just teasing the cabbie.”
“
You don’t think you’ll be a gooseberry?”
“
If Dutchie and Michelle wanted privacy, they’d stay home. They don’t, they want to meet people. I’m people.”
“
Just about.”
The cab dropped me at the office. I went upstairs, pulled Ben’s bike out from under the desk. Opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, took out the gun, stuck it in my belt, invisible under my jacket. Then I dug a padded envelope out of the top drawer of the desk. I scribbled the office address on the front, stuck a stamp on it, slipped Herbie’s camera inside. Left the office, Ben’s bike under one arm, and posted the envelope in the tiny branch office at the end of the street. Then I headed across the road to The Cellars.
Dutchie was already at the bar, a pint and a short in front of him. He looked at the bike.
“
Traffic that bad?”
“
Ben’s Christmas present. Mind if I stash it out back, pick it up tomorrow?”
He led the way out to the storeroom. I put the bike in behind the beer kegs. Then I pulled the gun out of my belt. He didn’t look as surprised as he should have.
“
The Dibble were around this morning,” I reminded him. “If they turn the place over, plant a real gun, they have me by the curlies. If there’s no fake to replace, they can’t put in a plant.”
Dutchie laughed, short and hard.
“
Wise up, Harry. Those boys’d plant cabbage in concrete if they thought it’d get them a free Danish with their coffee.”