I was about to turn on my heel and run when an old woman appeared in the doorway behind him. She said something in a language foreign to my ear and the dog suddenly paused. He cocked his head to one side, gave a whine, then began to backtrack. I could have kissed that old lady.
She now turned to me and asked what I wanted. Dressed all in black, she looked to be in mourning for some departed relative. Her skin was stained brown as if she had spent some time in a smoke house. A plait of grey hair hung down her back like a bell rope.
‘The Polonski residence?’ I inquired, still keeping a fearful eye on the labrador. ‘Are you the woman of the house?’
‘You say?’
‘I need to speak with a Polonski. Is your husband, uncle, son, any male member of the family at home?’
‘Whatever you’re selling, we don’t need it.’
‘I’m not trying to sell you anything.’
‘You’re from the corporation?’
‘No to that too. I’ve come to inspect the house for cockroaches. There’s an outbreak of them in the area.’
This really confused her. It appeared to confuse the dog too, for he advanced and began growling again. I decided to give up and try again another, sunnier, day. As I turned on my heel, a man loomed up behind the old lady and gave me the eye.
He was a sturdy looking guy. Middle-aged, he had a grey crew-cut, a huge moustache and watchful eyes. He was wearing overalls and wellington boots, and he carried a workman’s tool box in his right hand.
‘You’re Mr Polonski?’ I asked, even daring to take a step forward.
‘What you want to know for?’
I took a card out of my wallet and offered it to him. Immediately the labrador jumped up and snapped it from between my fingers. Then he sat down on his hind legs and began tearing it to pieces.
‘My name is John Blaine,’ I said, trying again. ‘I’ve been sent by Bertie Boyer, the owner of the Purple Pussy nightclub. He feels we might have something to discuss.’
‘You’ve brought my money?’
‘What money?’ I said, quickly putting my wallet back in my pocket.
‘The money that man owes me. For work done.’
I thought about that, then I said, ‘I wonder if I could come in for a minute? Out of the rain.’
The man looked undecided. He said something to the old lady in her own language. They muttered together for a few moments. The dog had finished eating my card, but he still looked hungry. I was starting to wonder if my coming here was such a good idea when the man gestured to me to come in. If I did so I would be out of the rain, but would I be safe from the dog? Only time would tell.
Chapter Six
We climbed a stairs, the old lady, the dog, me, and the male Polonski taking up the rear. A right turn and we were in a large room that smelled faintly of exotic food. Curries? Chicken tikka? Bacon and cabbage? There was a lot of solid-looking furniture, and gilt hangings on the walls. On the floor lay a blue rug with images of wild animals eating each other on it. Dotted about were lots of statues and paintings of foreign-looking saints. It appeared as if the Polonskis had transferred a bit of their homeland to dear old Ireland.
Without being asked, I sat down on a cushioned chair as far away from the dog as I could get. The old lady chose a sofa and seemed instantly to go to sleep. I would have given anything for a cigarette, but I was in the process of giving them up. No passive smoking for daughter Emily. Orders from Captain Annie, she who must be obeyed.
‘You are Mr Polonski?’ I asked the guy in the wellington boots. ‘I wouldn’t want to be talking to the wrong man.’
‘Abraham Polonski,’ came the answer, said with no little pride. ‘Why have you come here, if it is not to bring me my money?’
He placed his toolbox on the rug, sat down and began to roll a cigarette. I wondered if I asked him politely would he roll one for me too.
‘You know trying to get that kind of money is against the law,’ I told him. ‘Surely it’s the same in your country?’
‘My country?’ He curled his lip and looked as if he were about to spit. ‘Ireland is my country now. I have been here for five years. My family is also here.’
‘Well then, all the more reason why you shouldn’t go around threatening people.’
‘Threatening people? What people?’
‘Bertie Boyer, for starters.’
‘That man!’ — Again he looked as if he’d like to spit — ‘I did all that work for him and now he refuses to pay me.’
The dog had sat up and was taking notice, so I said hastily, ‘I didn’t know you’d done work for him. He told me you were threatening to burn down his nightclub if he didn’t pay you protection money.’
Polonski finished rolling his cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. There was a large silver teapot standing on a small gas jet near him. He found a bit of paper, stuck it in the jet and, when it took fire, used it to light his cigarette. He paused, the burning paper still in his hand.
‘It is true I suggested I might set fire to his place, but it was said in the heat of anger. He employed me to redecorate the club. Myself and my son laboured over the job for a month. If you’ve been there you can see what a good job we did. He owes me five thousand euro, but he keeps telling me he has a cash-flow problem. Can you blame me for losing my temper with him?’
I got up, but when the dog growled I sat down again. Rain beat against the high windows of the room and it was beginning to get dark. But not as dark as the thoughts in my head. It was obvious that someone was lying, either Bertie Boyer or Mr Abraham Polonski. But which one? Was Bertie hoping the sight of my ugly face would persuade Polonski to give up seeking what was rightly his? Or was Polonski hiding his dirty work under the disguise of real work done? I’d need the wisdom of Solomon to come up with the right answer here.
Chapter Seven
It was still only early afternoon, yet the room was getting darker and darker. I remembered Emily in the crèche and the fact that it was my turn to pick her up.
‘I’ll have to get back to you about this business,’ I told Polonski. ‘There are two different versions of the story and I’ll have to look into them. If Boyer does owe you money, there are legal ways of going about getting it from him.’
‘Legal, hah!’ Polonski drew on his cigarette, then blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘My ancestors were Romanian gypsies, Mr Blaine. A proud people. In days gone by we settled our disagreements in the fire of battle. I understand that things are different in Ireland, but some of the young people cling to the old ways. I have a son, and sometimes it is not easy for him to hold in his temper. Each day we go out on the streets we are abused. We are told that we are not welcome here, and that we should go back to our own country. Only recently were we allowed to work. It is difficult …’
‘I understand that,’ I said. ‘But you still can’t go around threatening to burn down people’s nightclubs. Even if the owners do owe you money. I only came here to reason with you, not to bully you.’
Again I stood up, and again the dog arose, his teeth bared and a growl echoing in his throat. Polonski muttered something at him. Then he turned to me. ‘Tell Boyer he must give me my money. It is only just that he pay for work done. Then there will be no anger between us.’
I nodded, then headed for the stairs. I was halfway down when the door below burst open. A young man with wet curly hair, wearing overalls similar to Polonski’s, came in. He looked up at me, and the expression on his face was not exactly one of friendship.
‘Who’re you?’ he asked, advancing up a couple of steps.
‘The name is Blaine,’ I answered. Then, choosing my words carefully, I said, ‘I’ve some business with Mr Polonski. I take it you’re his son?’
‘I am. What kind of business?’
Behind me, the elder Polonski made soothing noises, then said, ‘Don’t do anything rash, Leo. We don’t want trouble.’
‘Trouble? Are we not drowning in trouble? In Romania. In every country
we’ve gone to since we left there. And now here. It is time we stood up for ourselves. Give trouble, instead of taking it.’
‘Listen to your father, Leo,’ I advised him, going down some more steps until we were standing face to face. ‘Breaking the law will get you nowhere, except maybe a prison term.’
‘Don’t call me Leo,’ the young man said, thrusting his face up against mine. ‘My given name is Leck, and I’m proud of it. And who are you anyway?’
‘Just a messenger.’
‘Who from?’
‘Bertie Boyer. He says your family have made threats against his property.’
‘He owes us money and refuses to pay us.’
‘So why don’t you send him a solicitor’s letter?’
‘That kind of man would merely wipe his backside with it. He only understands one kind of action.’
‘The violent kind?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Let me talk to him. Maybe I can make him see sense.’
‘Do you work for him?’
‘Only since this morning. And I have a feeling that by this evening I won’t be working for him any more.’
Young Polonski stood aside, still looking sulky, and I went past him and out the door. It banged shut behind me, leaving me once more in the rain. And it was coming down harder than ever.
Chapter Eight
I got a taxi to the garage on the North Circular Road and persuaded the owner, Alfie, to give me back my car. It is an old Renault 9 that should have been pensioned off years ago. Alfie told me the engine block was about to split and that it was gulping down oil by the gallon.
I took it anyway, but had only got as far as the Mater Hospital when the car gave a death rattle and died. Maybe it was the sight of the hospital that did it. I told the Sergeant on duty in Mountjoy Garda station about it. He surprised me by saying he’d have it towed into the pound where they kept stolen vehicles. He must have been in a good mood that day.
I walked up to the crèche and collected Emily. She was wearing a plastic rain hat and someone else’s coat. We sorted that out, then one of the girls kindly rang for a taxi for me. I wondered why everyone was being so nice, and put it down to the fact that I looked like a drowned rat.
Emily and myself headed out to Clontarf to Annie’s mother’s house. Elsie, the mother, has little time for me. She believes that her daughter married beneath her when she took me as her other half. And my bouts of binge drinking have confirmed her in her view.
She’s a widow, living alone except for a pug dog named Mary O’Leary. This in spite of the fact that it’s a male. The dog has no time for me either. He shows this by lying at my feet when I’m in the house and farting into my face.
I asked the taxi driver to wait, then went up the path to the house and rang the bell. Elsie has a fear of someone breaking in and interfering with her, so she’s had an intercom installed. Her voice boomed out of this, asking who was there.
‘It’s your favourite son-in-law,’ I told the black box on the door frame.
‘Which one?’
‘You’ve only got one. Will you open the door and stop messing about?’
‘Are you sober?’
‘Yes I’m sober. I’ve been off the drink for months.’
‘How do I know that?’
‘Smell my breath through the box?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Is Emily with you?’
‘No, I’ve put her out on the streets to sell her body. Of course she’s with me. Don’t you take care of her every day at this time? Now, will you open the door? We’re getting wet out here.’
The buzzer buzzed and I pushed the door. I sent Emily in first in order to calm Mary O’Leary. When he’s excited he farts worse than ever. We went into the kitchen, where Annie’s mother was standing at the table, her hands covered in flour. That’s how she puts in most of her time, baking. She lives on a road of fat people, all of them bullied into eating Elsie’s chocolate cakes, jam rolls and apple tarts.
The dog flap banged back and Mary O’Leary ran in, wearing a raincoat and a little three cornered hat. He screeched to a halt when he saw me. Then he veered over to Emily, rolled on his back and waited to have his belly scratched. The sight made me feel sick to my stomach.
Elsie is a small stick of a woman with permed hair and a glare that would burn a hole in metal. When I’m around she always seems about to come to the boil. I eyed the wooden spoon in her hand and kept my distance.
‘Annie will pick her up as usual?’ she now asked me.
‘Yes. Around four.’
‘You’ll be working?’This was said in a tone that hinted at the fact that she believed I had never worked a day in my life.
I thought I’d really give her something to get her teeth into, so I said, ‘No, we both live on Annie’s salary. I’m going off drinking with my mates. Work is a four letter word as far as I’m concerned.’
I could see her thinking seriously about running around the table and giving me a belt with the wooden spoon. Before she could make up her mind I bent and kissed Emily, then made my getaway. God help the batter in the bowl, it was in for a terrible beating.
Chapter Nine
I went back to my office. It was as empty as the last time I’d been there. Taking off my outer clothes, I hung them on the single radiator to dry. There was soon a damp, clothes-drying smell in the room you could cut with a knife.
I sat at the desk in my underwear and rang George Quinlan. George is a superintendent in the Garda Siochana. Some years ago we had both been in a gun club together. We had got to know each other a little. In more recent times my business as a private snoop had led me into his terrain. I had helped to put a few thugs behind bars, something that caused George to be a little less frosty towards me.
He was busy on another line, but the sergeant who answered said he’d have him ring me back. I stared at the opposite wall for a while, then bent down and opened the bottom drawer of the desk. That’s where I keep the office bottle of Bushmills whiskey.
I was wet, cold and feeling miserable. Surely I deserved a small snort? I shook the bottle and watched the amber liquid slosh about. I could swear it winked at me. There was a shot glass in the drawer also, and I filled this to the brim. I placed it on the blotter in front of me. Forbidden fruit? Most definitely.
The first sip went down like molten gold. I was about to send down a second to keep it company when the phone rang. Feeling guilty, I picked it up, hoping it wasn’t Annie. She’d be able to smell the drink even down the line. But I was saved: it was George Quinlan.
‘Blaine? I hope this is important. I’m very busy at the moment.’
‘Making out your expense sheet for the week?’
‘Now that’s the kind of remark that gets people’s backs up. What is it about you? Always the smart alec.’
‘I’m sorry, George. I’ve been out in the rain and I think it’s softened my brain. I know how busy you are, so I’ll be brief.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘What d’you know about a guy called Bertie Boyer? He’s the owner of a nightclub in Temple Bar. It’s called the Purple Pussy.’
There was a silence, during which I took the chance to knock back the rest of the whiskey. It went against my breath, causing me to cough into the phone. This brought George back to life.
‘Why d’you want to know about him? Is he a friend of yours?’
‘Not particularly. More a business connection.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t get involved with him, if I was you. I’d have to look up the files, but off the top of my head I’d say he’s a shady character. I’ve heard him mentioned a few times around here.’
‘In what context?’
‘Oh, receiving stolen goods, turning a blind eye to the selling of drugs on his premises. He likes to be seen with heavy hitters from the gangster ranks.’
I thought about that for a few seconds. I then asked, ‘Just one other favour. Will you see if the records have anything on a Rom
anian family named Polonski? They might be involved in the protection business.’
I could hear George draw in his breath and I knew what was coming. I was right.
‘Am I some kind of servant of yours? Is the whole police force to be at your beck and call? I’ve more to be doing than looking up information for you. Anyway, these people have a right to privacy …’
‘George, George, you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. What are friends for?’
‘I’m not your friend. You’re merely someone I happen to know. And you’re a bloody nuisance, most of the time.’
He went on like this for a while longer. But later in the afternoon he rang back to tell me there was no record of any wrong-doing by the members of the Polonski family.
It looked as if it was my client, the man I had taken money from, who was telling the lies and maybe setting me up. Now, why would he be doing that? I wondered.
Chapter Ten
Home is where the heart is, so home I went. The rain was still coming down in bucketfuls. Some poet or other referred to rain as angels’ tears. Well, they must be pretty sad up in heaven today, I thought as I sloshed up the Cabra Road.
I had a bath to try to warm up, then broke open a bale of briquettes and lit a fire in the sitting room. I was dozing in front of its warming breath when Annie and Emily came in. Neither of them was in a good mood. Before they could attack, I said, ‘I’ve rung for a take-away. Beef in black bean sauce for the elder lemons, noodles for the kid. Sit down and toast your toes and I’ll set the table.’
I escaped to the kitchen and began to make noise with plates and cutlery. The back yard was flooded again, so I drew the blind so that Annie wouldn’t see it. She had been asking me to do something about it for months.
An Accident Waiting to Happen Page 2