Dark Times in the City

by Gene Kerrigan

  There were still moments when Karl Prowse felt a ripple of disbelief – three weeks ago, the thought of chatting to Lar Mackendrick, alone, almost as an equal, would have been fantasy. If he’d got a shot at something like second-string muscle on a minor Mackendrick operation, that would have been the height of his ambition. Then, out of the blue – a phone call, a visit, a blunt offer – and now it was like he was Lar’s right hand.

  In a business dominated by psychos with short tempers and long memories, you needed luck as well as balls. The most Karl Prowse had imagined for himself was the occasional dangerous job with a reasonable cut of the proceeds, along with an occasional stretch in Mountjoy. Now he had a shot at something that mattered, shoulder to shoulder with Lar Mackendrick, with maybe his own outfit somewhere down the road.

  And the first serious job he got to do went down the toilet and Karl was trying to explain why.

  ‘From the beginning.’

  Karl decided the best thing was to give it straight, no spin. Lar had contacts all over the place – in other gangs, in the police, in the newspapers. Since last night he’d probably made some calls, picked up the basics of what happened. Karl kept it short, straight, no messing. The gun misfiring, Walter screaming for help, the interfering bastard.

  ‘How did Robbie perform?’

  ‘There wasn’t much he could do. He didn’t have a clear shot.’ Karl tried to sound calm, to play it like a professional. ‘It happened so quick. The gun doesn’t fire, I’m chasing after Walter, this bastard steps in, just knocks me down, Robbie is way back at the front door. He doesn’t have a clear shot – not with a shotgun. Might have taken out half the bar.’

  Lar Mackendrick nodded.

  For Karl, there was no upside to ratting out Robbie. Make Robbie look dumb, it would reflect bad on Karl. And, besides, Karl knew where he stood with Robbie. Without Robbie, Lar would bring someone else on board, someone Karl didn’t know, someone who might pull rank.

  ‘It was just the way it worked out – the gun, the bastard who stuck his nose in.’

  Lar Mackendrick didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said, ‘Who was he, this fella?’

  ‘Walter said his name – Danny something.’

  ‘You’re sure about this – it was a civilian?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It wasn’t like Walter had protection?’

  ‘No, it was just – it didn’t look like that. I don’t think so – it wasn’t like Walter expected – I don’t think so.’

  ‘That would change things.’

  ‘It didn’t seem that way.’

  Lar Mackendrick nodded. ‘That’s what my sources say – just a smartarse sticking his nose in. The police don’t know yet who he is.’

  Karl nodded. ‘I’ll ask around.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I’ve got people who charge good money for that.’

  ‘What about Walter?’

  ‘Gone to ground. Probably he’s not sure what we know, why this happened. The danger is, eventually he decides there’s no way out of this, so he coughs everything he’s got. My guess is he’s a couple of days from that – maybe less.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Mackendrick.’

  Lar leaned closer. ‘Things go wrong, Karl – it happens. But it’s not a good sign. You and Robbie, first job I give you.’

  Karl waited in silence, trying to think of something to say that might impress Lar. He decided to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘You and Robbie, you get your shit together, you fix this Walter thing. Or this whole project, we have to think it out again.’

  Karl wanted to say he understood, but he didn’t trust his voice to work without a quiver, so he just nodded.

  Chapter 6

  The gift shop was in a wide pedestrianised side street in the financial centre, a street where every building and artefact had a sheen suggesting it had been installed within the past twenty-four hours. Behind the glass-topped counters, the shelves were filled with trinkets, gadgets and novelties. Crystal embellishment or a veneer of semi-precious metals justified a premium price for otherwise standard pieces of tat.

  In the ten minutes that Callaghan had been here, the first signs of the lunchtime trade had arrived. The shop was convenient for office workers who needed acceptably expensive gifts but didn’t have time to shop around. Two men and a woman customer pondered overpriced knick-knacks.

  Hannah’s print shop was directly across from the gift store. This was the fourth time that Callaghan had made his way down to these streets since his release from prison. Intending no more than a quick glance from across the street while he walked past, Callaghan had panicked when Hannah came out the doorway of the shop next to her own. He quickly found refuge in the gift shop. He let a minute pass before he chanced a glance across the street, more than half expecting her to be still standing there, staring at the gift shop. There was no sign of her and a minute later she came out of her own place carrying a large cardboard box of lever arch files and brought them into the vacant shop next door.

  He cursed his foolishness.

  ‘Perhaps I can help, sir?’

  It was the second time the sharply dressed shop assistant had asked. The shop was now empty apart from Callaghan and the assistant’s expression suggested a vague discontent. Callaghan was neatly dressed in the suit he kept for chauffeur duties, but this kind of shop always made him feel like he’d been instantly identified as a potential shoplifter by an exceptionally hi-tech CCTV camera.

  ‘A bit pricey, this stuff,’ Callaghan said.

  The assistant nodded, like something had just been confirmed. ‘You get what you pay for, sir, that’s what I always say.’

  Across the street, Hannah was coming out of the vacant shop. Callaghan had his phone out and his thumb was working the buttons. By the time Hannah answered his ring she was back inside her own shop.

  ‘Hi, I’m in the neighbourhood.’ It came all in a rush. ‘Thought you might have time for a coffee?’

  ‘Hello – of course.’ She seemed pleased to hear from him. ‘Drop in.’

  ‘Be right there.’

  Callaghan felt the shop assistant’s gaze on his back as he left.

  They went around the corner to a mock Italian restaurant where the waiter who took their order knew Hannah and spent a while bent over her side of the table, chit-chatting and exercising his smile. Callaghan forced himself to resist repeating the order. Finally, the waiter said, ‘That was two regular coffees, right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Hannah said.

  ‘I can’t tempt you with a little snack?’

  Callaghan wanted to tell him to get lost.

  ‘We’re fine,’ Hannah said.

  The waiter said it was lovely to see Hannah again, then he went away.

  ‘Well,’ Hannah said, ‘what brings you down among the temples of mammon?’

  He sensed the same lift he’d felt the first time they spoke, a dozen years back – a chaotic mesh of delight and anxiety, curiosity and simple pleasure in looking at her. There was lust and hope in there, too, but only small remnants, scorched dry by the events of the past decade.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of clients – picked them up at the airport, they’ve got a meeting nearby.’

  ‘Novak still has you behind the wheel?’

  ‘I like the work – it changes all the time.’

  One day he was looking after the transport needs of visiting businessmen, the next day he’d be collecting packages from one side of the city and delivering them to another. All of it pleasant, demanding no great effort of mind or body, just the kind of work with which Callaghan felt most comfortable these days. People needed to get themselves or something else from one place to another, reliably, safely, and that was a good thing to do with his time. Callaghan was one of four drivers working for Novak, whose transport fleet consisted of two small vans and a large one, the VW Tuareg and a Volvo. So far most of the work came out of the overspill from larger firms, but Novak reckoned it was a growth market. Cal
laghan’s favourite work was a country run, delivering or collecting outside the city, which allowed him hours of mindless driving.

  Hannah told him about how her firm was expanding, taking over the premises next door. She was a freelance typesetter when they’d met – by the time they married she’d linked up with a designer, secured her first few contracts and was outsourcing the printing. Two weeks after the divorce she opened her first print shop. Callaghan was well into his prison sentence by then. Now her main print shop was in the financial centre, with two smaller outlets elsewhere in the city. She had recently been approached by a major graphic imaging company with a view to a buyout.

  ‘Business has been crazy these past few weeks. Early starts and late finishes – there’s times I feel I should set up a bed in the office.’

  The decision to call her, to suggest they meet for coffee, came out of a sudden panic. Had she seen him from across the street? For fear she might think he was stalking her, Callaghan suddenly wanted to announce his presence, and before he had time to think he was making the call.

  One thing leads to another.

  The driving job that took him to the financial centre, the impulse to walk towards Hannah’s workplace, the sudden sight of her across the street, his panicked reaction and now his joy and unease in her presence.

  She sees through it all.

  Knows I didn’t just turn up.

  Feeling sorry for me?

  Afraid of me?

  Just embarrassed?

  ‘It’s really good to see you.’ There was no hint of anything patronising in her words or her smile. Probably she hadn’t noticed him, standing across the street.

  Probably.

  ‘How’s Leon?’ It would be churlish not to ask, and Callaghan tried to make it sound like he wanted to know.

  ‘He’s fine, everything’s fine.’ He was glad she didn’t offer him any examples of exactly how fine her husband’s life was. She told him a story about a carpenter who’d been hired to fit shelves in the new shop, a perfectionist who insisted it wasn’t good enough that the shelves be strong enough to hold things up, everything had to be rebated or bevelled or dovetailed. ‘The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little bit extra.’ She imitated his avuncular tones and his knowing nod. ‘He’s a charmer. Before we knew it, a three-hundred-euro job was looking like a bargain at twice the price.’

  Callaghan was smiling. ‘Some genius hired him on an hourly rate, right?’

  Hannah nodded. ‘I fired him this morning.’ She smiled. ‘This afternoon, I’m firing the genius who hired him.’

  Same old Hannah.

  More than a decade earlier, when Callaghan had quit college and set up his cabinet-making business, Hannah had acted as an unofficial, unpaid back office, hustling for work for him and chasing debtors. It was like she pulled on a new personality when she was doing business. No mercy, no limit, forever thinking five moves ahead, anticipating sharp practice and prepared to respond in kind. Callaghan had never grown used to the contrast between that Hannah and the woman who could make his blood flow faster just by showing up. She smiled at him now, aware that he was appraising her. Her dark hair was shorter than it had been the last time they’d met, otherwise she was the same as ever. Her clothes expensive, conservative, mostly dark colours, her skin pale, a minimum of make-up, and the small smile that peeled him open and left him deeply aware of his vulnerability.

  She asked him about the training course he’d mentioned the last time they met and he said he’d decided to give it a miss. ‘The driving, for now, that’s the kind of work I need.’ There was a time when she would have insisted on discussing that, gently nudging him one way or another, but for now she seemed to accept that what he needed was work without pressure, life without ambition.

  ‘Made up your mind about the takeover offer?’

  She said, ‘Almost. Soon as the print shop’s up and running, I’ll appoint a manager and move on.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  Hannah made a small pumping gesture with a fist, a triumphal signal that she used to mark a victory. It was one of the countless minor intimacies he remembered from their time together. He’d long accepted the finality of his detachment from her life, at the same time aware that for him the sense of their intimacy had never faded. He didn’t know if it was affection or a sense of obligation that moved Hannah, and now it didn’t matter – he accepted things as they were. His remoteness from her life seemed to exist comfortably along with the elation he still felt when he saw, heard or thought of her.

  ‘Anything else?’

  The waiter was back. The lunchtime trade was drifting in. Hannah had taken only sips of her coffee. Callaghan hadn’t touched his.

  As Callaghan paid, Hannah leaned forward and said, ‘You probably think I’ve forgotten – Saturday night?’

  Callaghan said, ‘Saturday – what?’ He tried to sound puzzled, but he knew he wasn’t convincing.

  ‘Dinner party?’

  The phone call from Hannah had been ten days ago. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he’d said. Now, as they emerged onto the pavement outside the restaurant, Hannah raised her eyebrows and waited.

  Callaghan shrugged. ‘What I said – it’s really not my kind of thing.’

  ‘What you said was you’d think about it.’

  Callaghan said, ‘I’ve never been a big fan of dinner parties. Dinner’s something you eat – and what I remember about parties is they’re places where you drink a lot and make a show of yourself trying to get off with someone.’

  ‘We’re not teenagers any more. Besides, how many parties have you been to, the last seven months?’

  There were three men standing several feet away, the two younger ones seemingly awed as they watched an older man swear viciously into his mobile, telling someone that was fucking it. ‘Too late, old flower. The deal’s done and you’re out. You’ve just destroyed yourself.’

  Callaghan said, ‘Some people love their work.’ He and Hannah began to walk towards her office.

  Hannah said, ‘What about Saturday?’

  ‘You really don’t have to organise my social life.’

  ‘Come for my sake, then – I’d love to see you there. Just a couple of hours with pleasant people, no pressure.’

  ‘I’ll see.’

  Her smile said she knew he was saying it to shut her up.

  Chapter 7

  When they came out of the casino Rowe was sober, Warner was mildly pissed, but the guy from 257 Solutions was walking like his legs had been disconnected from his brain. Pissed or stoned, more probably both. His expression was tight, worried, as though he’d just begun to wonder if he was making a fool of himself.

  Callaghan had spent the afternoon ferrying Rowe and Warner to and from their meetings, and waiting in between. Then he dropped them back to the hotel at Northern Cross and had a couple of hours off. He went home, cooked his first real meal of the day and watched something mindless on television. When he got back to the Hilton he found he now had three passengers. The 257 Solutions guy – name of Costigan – had volunteered to take the visitors on the town. The private casino, widely touted as the coolest hang-out for the financially overconfident, was the final stop. The kind of place it was, the drink was sold at a discount, ensuring that idiots like Costigan swallowed enough alcohol to boost their self-belief in direct proportion to the rate at which it dimmed their judgement. An evening of showing off meant that Costigan would spend the next few months clearing his credit card bill.

  Callaghan had the rear kerbside door open when they reached the Tuareg and he helped Rowe ease the drunk inside. ‘We’ll drop him off first,’ Rowe said. Callaghan nodded. When he got behind the wheel he looked back and Rowe was helping the drunk into his seat belt. Warner slid into the front passenger seat.

  ‘Where are we off to?’ As Callaghan eased away from the kerb the drunk moaned. Callaghan was already pushing his door open as he braked, then he slid out of the car and was reaching
to open the rear right passenger door when a blue Ford van coming from behind almost clipped him.

  Shit.

  As Callaghan pressed himself back against the car to avoid the blue van, he figured the delay might well make his effort pointless. After the van was past – dark blue with white writing on the side – he jerked open the door, then stood back as the drunk’s upper body flopped forward and vomit splashed onto the road.

  Getting the door open in time made the difference between going straight home after he’d dropped his passengers and spending an hour in Novak’s garage, ridding the car of the stains and the smell.

  ‘He needs a minute,’ Rowe said. He got out of the car and lit up a cigarette. Callaghan shook his head at the offer of a smoke.

  ‘You work for that idiot?’ he said. Costigan from 257 Solutions was taking long, noisy breaths.

  ‘We’re freelance consultants,’ Rowe said. ‘We work for a lot of people, most of them far more clueless than our friend. He’s kept that company alive single-handed for the past year.’

  ‘You give advice?’

  ‘Mostly we take the blame. These days, the world’s full of corporate heroes who’re paid so much they’re terrified to make a decision in case it’s the wrong one. So they hire consultants to draw up reports and recommendations. Then they make a wild guess. If things go well they take the praise. If things go wrong they blame the consultants.’

  ‘Professional scapegoats?’

  Rowe smiled. ‘Very highly paid scapegoats. Consultants are God’s way of telling a company it has too much money.’

  ‘You get much work over here?’

  ‘Dublin’s been a gold mine for years. Things are tighter now.’

  An advance party of raindrops danced on the car roof. Callaghan leaned into the car and asked the 257 Solutions guy if he was okay.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ There was an edge to his voice, as though the question was preposterous and offensive.

  Rowe took a last drag on his cigarette. ‘I’ll give you warning if there’s a problem.’

  Callaghan said, ‘Thanks.’