‘I’ve never been out.’
‘When you look back, its like we went out there time and again, every summer. But it couldn’t have been more than a couple of times a year, for two or three years.’ Lar was staring out at the island. ‘Jo-Jo loved it. Pearl would take us out there in the morning, we’d take the last boat home. Dad never came out there.’ His gaze was fixed on the island. On the other side of the table, Finnegan had to strain to hear Lar’s words.
‘One time, Jo-Jo found an injured seagull, something wrong with one of its wings, it was fucked. He wouldn’t leave it. We stayed out there all night – missed the last boat. He wouldn’t leave it to die alone. Late in the evening it died. We spent the night out there, the two of us with Pearl in between, arms around us, trying to keep us warm.’
The shopkeeper said, ‘He was a good man, Jo-Jo was.’
Lar said, ‘Can’t believe it’s three years gone by – they shot him like a fucking dog.’ He put a hand to his face, the fingers stroking one cheek. ‘My poor mother.’
‘I’m sorry, it must bring it all back. The two of them.’
Lar nodded. ‘I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, Mr Finnegan – I wanted to talk to you about your troubles. What do you think now, after all that’s happened?’
‘I’ve suffered enough.’
‘More than enough. No one should have to go through that shit, just because you take a stand on your principles. I admire that. Sticking up for what you believe in.’
Lar’s admiration seemed genuine.
‘But that doesn’t solve my problem. What I do, some of it can’t be run past the Revenue people. And the CAB – those bastards drag people into court, they get a wimpy judge and they call every last stick of furniture a criminal asset. I need legitimate businesses that I can run some money through, make it come out clean at the other end. I need to switch things around from time to time – they’re forever poking their noses in. You did stuff like that for Jo-Jo. Give and take, that was how it worked. Now, I need a favour.’
‘Please, Lar, I thought—’
‘You’ll do well enough out of it.’
‘What I did for Jo-Jo, that was paying a debt. I don’t do that kind of thing any more. That’s all done now.’
‘Not really.’
‘And this.’ The shopkeeper indicated his broken arm. ‘Like I say, I’ve suffered more than enough.’
‘Mr Finnegan, I’ll be blunt. It’s not like I want you to do something and you say no, then you get your arm broken and that’s the end of it. That seems to be the way you see things. As though it’s a fair exchange. You turn me down, so you get hurt and it’s all over. But that’s not the way things are.’ Lar stood up and took his time moving closer to the shopkeeper.
‘I want something – I get it. That’s the way it works. We’re not equals. I say what happens.’ He leaned down, his face close enough so he could smell the fear from Finnegan. ‘I don’t have to make an effort.’ He pursed his lips, made like he was blowing out a candle. ‘Like that, you’re gone. Ten minutes later, I’ve forgotten your name. You’re not even a dead body, you’re just a missing person and your family doesn’t even have a grave to put flowers on.’
Finnegan flinched as Lar laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re entitled to bitch about it – I admire that, really I do. Then you do as you’re told.’
The shopkeeper said nothing, just sat there, Lar looking down at him. After a moment, he averted his gaze, looking past Lar, out towards Ireland’s Eye.
Lar watched as Finnegan got into the car. Todd slid in behind the wheel.
‘Look at him,’ Lar said to Matty, and he raised one hand and gave the shopkeeper a small wave. When Finnegan waved back, Matty laughed.
‘The little lamb,’ Lar said, and closed the door.
He made coffee for Matty and they sat in the sun room.
‘What about the Macy brothers?’ Matty said.
‘Gobshites.’
‘I haven’t paid them yet.’
‘Pay them off – tell them goodbye.’
They’d used the Macy brothers for the odd soft job. The way they handled the shopkeeper thing meant they wouldn’t be hired again – breaking the stupid bastard’s arm when all the job needed was a mild slapping.
‘How’s it shaping up?’
‘Nicely,’ Matty said.
For three months Lar had been coaxing along a potential job. He hadn’t done an art robbery before, but this promised to be too easy to pass up.
One of the super-rich had bought an old house in Meath, not far over the line from Dublin. Big family place with two additional wings blended in with great care to match the period style of the house. The buyer knocked it down and built a house to his own design, three times as big. After four years’ work it was almost finished. Lar’s contact in the auctioneering business told him that the owner had assigned one of his people to source a handful of appropriate artworks to decorate the walls. The budget was almost four million.
After up-to-date reports from his contact, Lar Mackendrick concluded there would be a few hours when the house was vulnerable – the paintings assembled for installation, the security not yet fully in place.
‘Four people or five?’
Matty was in charge of putting together the team, from the couple of dozen regulars who worked for Lar.
‘Five, to be on the safe side.’ Matty listed the people he wanted and Lar okayed it. Over the previous four years, Matty Butler had become Lar Mackendrick’s most trusted associate, the hands-on manager. ‘Right-hand man, eyes and ears,’ Lar told him one time. Matty had done most of the work on this art robbery. He’d chosen the safe house for storage, and he’d twice been to Brussels to talk to a potential buyer. Although Lar hadn’t promised anything, it was understood between them that when the art job was over Matty was in line for a cut not just of the proceeds of that robbery but of the outfit’s overall income.
On the way to the door, Lar said, ‘I’d ask you to stay for something to eat, but me and May are heading into town soon for a bite. You heading straight home?’
‘Yeah, but I’ve got to see Todd later. He’s buying a car – wants me to kick the tyres.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘Three-year-old Avensis.’
‘A dealer or private?’
‘He’s a mechanic, runs a little repair place.’
‘Those are the fellas that can get you a bargain.’
Lar watched Matty turn his car in the driveway, easing down the slope towards the gateway, and returned Matty’s nod.
They would never meet again.
Chapter 28
It started that evening, about eight o’clock, while Lar and May were eating at Le Caprice. It was a place that May was fond of – experienced waitresses who knew about food, helpful, no attitude problems. Lar liked it because they told him exactly how the dish was served, and left out anything that was outside his diet. Tonight, his chicken – served as requested, without sauce – was tender, May’s fish was tasty, and the pianist at the top of the room was playing ‘Stardust’. It was the kind of quiet evening that Lar most enjoyed.
Five miles away, in a Coolock housing estate, Matty Butler and Todd Reynolds were walking down a back lane, behind Weir Road. On each side the eight-foot-high walls marked the boundaries of back gardens. Todd was talking about how the last time he bought a car he got taken by a chancer. ‘Fucking thing fell apart after a couple of months.’ Coming out of the lane, they turned into a wide yard lit by an orange light atop a lamp-post. Across the yard a man in overalls and a heavy anorak was replacing a battery in a Fiat. Behind him, the half-open doors of a ramshackle building, halfway between a barn and a shed. The man waved to Todd.
Todd nodded towards Matty. ‘Mate of mine – want him to have a look.’
‘The car’s inside.’ The man in overalls gestured for the two to go ahead.
When Matty Butler saw the dimly lit inside of the building he knew it was too late. N
o car in there, most of the floor and one wall lined with white plastic. The man in overalls was behind them. ‘Cool it, lads, take it easy.’ Matty glanced back and saw the automatic pistol. On the far side of the garage, a door opened and another man came in holding a gun.
The one behind Matty pushed him over to the left, towards a side wall. When Matty turned around Todd was standing beside the two men. Todd shrugged his shoulders and he said, ‘Sorry, Matty.’
An hour later, as he was walking up Grafton Street, arm in arm with May, Lar Mackendrick’s phone rang and when he answered he heard Matty say, ‘Boss—’ Then the call ended.
The package arrived at Lar’s home almost twenty-four hours later.
May was visiting a friend, Lar was watching an old James Stewart movie on TCM. Every time he rang Matty’s number that day he got taken directly to the message service. After the fourth call he stopped leaving messages. Couldn’t raise Todd, either. He made several calls to people who worked for his outfit, but no one had seen Matty.
He told the three best of them to come to the house. Two were sitting outside, in a car. The third sat at the window of a bedroom with a good view over the back garden. All of them were armed.
When the taxi arrived, shortly before eight o’clock, the two men out front stopped the taxi driver on his way to the front door, envelope in hand. He said he’d picked up a fare in Sutton and the guy had given him the envelope to deliver, and paid him over the odds, in advance.
When Lar tore the envelope open he saw Bruce Willis, gun in hand, looking at him from the cover of a DVD case. It was the original Die Hard movie, the first of the series. The DVD inside was a Sony disc with no label. Lar went into the living room alone and sat down in front of his 42-inch LCD to watch.
He put the disc on pause as he heard the front door open and May come in. He went to meet her.
‘I left the car at Edel’s,’ she said. She mimed taking a drink. ‘Took a taxi.’
‘You had something to eat?’
She nodded. ‘I’m having an early night.’
She spent the next ten minutes pottering around and Lar had to hold back from saying something that would speed her up. He had no idea what was on the disc, but he didn’t want to take the chance that May would walk in in the middle of it. He waited until he heard their bedroom door close before he went back to the television.
The screen was dark at first. He could see the outline of two people sitting on chairs, against a pale background. He thought the one on the right was Matty. Then the lights went on, bright lights – and it was Matty, squinting a little at the sudden glare. He and Todd were tied to chairs, wide straps around their arms and across their chests. Todd’s upper body was shivering, his nostrils flared. There was blood on his forehead. Matty was still, his eyes glancing this way and that, weighing things up. His right ear was bloody, the lobe an odd shape.
From the right of the screen, behind the two men, a third one emerged, wearing overalls and a balaclava mask. He was holding a black automatic with a long slim silencer that gave it an unbalanced look.
‘Hello, Lar.’
He stood behind and between Matty and Todd.
‘If there was another way—’ He shrugged. ‘Anything less than this it wouldn’t work.’
Lar knew the voice.
‘The old way, we’d be swatting one another’s people from one end of the week to the other. This way, I hope you accept there’s no point.’
No mistaking that voice.
Three months trying to come to an agreement with Frank Tucker, four meetings, all nice and friendly. Frank’s idea. He’s strong in the west of the city, Lar’s strength is on the northside. Put us together, Frank says, and we can start something totally new in this city. The idea came out of a successful sales trial of crystal meth. Frank’s product, distributed on the northside through Lar’s outfit. We make this permanent, Frank argued, by and by, we work up the market – there’s no limit.
Frank didn’t seem either surprised or upset when Lar got cold feet. Agree to disagree, he said. Maybe next time. No harm done.
‘Used to be, every street had its corner shop,’ Frank Tucker is saying now on the screen. ‘Now it’s a handful of supermarket chains run everything. It’s the way it works.’
He comes around the two seated men, still facing the camera, with his back to Matty and Todd.
No doubt about it. The voice, the stance – Frank Tucker.
‘A lot of the Flash Harry types, they’re in it for the coke and the swagger – they’ve no sense of building something for the long run. You and Jo-Jo, you were the first to set things up so you could account for the money you were spending. You bought property, you got into businesses – you were smart. I take my hat off to you.’
Tucker does a little bow.
‘Please,’ Todd says.
Frank Tucker turns to him. ‘Be quiet.’
‘Why me? Please, I did what you told me to—’
Tucker turns back to the camera. ‘We’ll meet, Lar, we’ll work something out – you know from this that I mean business.’
Todd’s voice is limp, repetitive. ‘Please—’
Matty, his voice a mixture of anger and contempt, turns to Todd and says, ‘Shut – the fuck – up!’
Frank Tucker says, ‘I agree.’ He leans towards the camera. ‘Sorry about this, Lar.’
He turns, moves to one side, raising the automatic. Todd wrenches his head sideways, screaming a long ‘Nooooo!’ – the cry interrupted by the bullet that hits him in the mouth. Silence, then his mouth is gushing blood, he’s gulping – making pleading sounds. The masked man shoots him in the forehead and Todd’s head jerks back and remains still, his chin pointing towards the ceiling.
Matty is white-faced, breathing heavily.
Watching the DVD, Lar Mackendrick focuses on Matty’s eyes. Hard, angry – behind it all, Matty’s still thinking, assessing.
Frank Tucker says something to someone off-screen. There’s a laugh. A second man appears, moving from behind the camera, wearing denim jeans and a rough plaid shirt. He’s not masked but he keeps his face turned away. He bends and looks at Todd’s face, then he uses a couple of fingers to take some blood from Todd’s wound and smears it on Matty’s face.
‘Sick fuck,’ Matty says. The second man spits in Matty’s face and walks off to one side, out of camera range.
Matty is looking towards Frank Tucker. His voice is low, trying for calm. ‘You’ve made your point. It can stop here.’
‘You’re a very good man, Matty. Lar relies on you a lot.’
‘There has to be a way.’
‘Don’t think so, Matty.’
The masked man reaches into a pocket and takes out a mobile. He taps several keys, then he holds it to his ear and when he’s sure its ringing he says, ‘You want to talk to Lar?’
Matty says nothing.
After a moment, the masked man holds the phone close to Matty’s mouth and nods and Matty says, ‘Boss—’ and the masked man ends the call. He turns and walks forward until he fills the screen, blocking out Matty. He holds up the phone and says, ‘You remember that call, Lar?’
He turns back to Matty, goes around behind him, points the gun at the back of his head. Every muscle in Matty’s face is straining, his mouth emits a harsh, rising, wordless sound that becomes louder the longer it lasts.
Lar Mackendrick forces himself to continue watching, even as the unseen gun belches and Matty’s face erupts. In the silence that follows Lar continues to stare at the screen, at Matty’s head slumped forward, his shirt-front bloody.
Frank Tucker moves towards the camera until he fills the screen again. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he says, and the screen goes black.
Chapter 29
Twenty minutes later, Tommy Farr rang.
‘I know about Matty, and we need to talk.’
‘Did you have anything to do with—’
‘Don’t be a fucking sap, Lar.’
Despite the arrival
of a lot of competition from the young and the aggressive, Tommy Farr had until recently run a number of profitable enterprises in the Dolphin’s Barn and Rialto areas. Although never close to the Mackendrick brothers, the two outfits didn’t directly compete and the relationship was cordial and respectful. On one occasion, Lar arranged for the kneecapping of a young tearaway from Cabra who was troubling Tommy. Tommy promised to return the favour but the necessity had never arisen. Last thing Lar heard, a couple of months back, was that Tommy had cashed in his winnings and retired to Spain. A bit young for that, but Tommy had put a lot of his money into property and got out of it before the collapse.
‘Where?’ Lar said.
‘You name it.’
‘There’s safety in numbers. The lobby of the Shelbourne.’
Lar had a tool shed in the back garden, an old pitched-roof type, raised on a breeze-block base. Halfway along the bottom of one side of the shed a section of weatherboard could be lifted, revealing a shallow space from which Lar withdrew a heavy plastic Ziploc bag. He checked the semi-automatic Walther P22 inside and inserted the clip that came with it. It was the only firearm at his home. Twice, when Lar’s house had been raided by the police, the Walther had lain undiscovered under the shed.
He had no reason to mistrust Tommy Farr, and the Shelbourne Hotel was an unlikely location for a hit, but he wasn’t going anywhere without firepower.
Lar went upstairs and found May asleep, a book open on the pillow, the bedside light still on. He turned down a corner of the page of the book, put it away and switched off the light. Then he leaned down and kissed her.
‘Love you,’ he whispered.
Her voice was faint. ‘Night.’
Lar had his hand inside the deep square pocket of his black overcoat, holding the Walther, as he entered the Shelbourne. The hotel lobby was noisy with late-night shoppers, many of them already carrying big bags with tasteful Christmas motifs from Grafton Street stores. Drink-powered chatter and occasional whoops leaked from the nearby Horseshoe bar. A woman in fur and jeans laughed loudly as she squeezed out from the crush in the other bar on the left of the lobby.
Dark Times in the City Page 17