The Murk Beneath_A Cork Crime Novel

by L. Danvers

  The only moniker that made immediate sense was Four Fingers; on his left hand, the middle finger was missing and I thought about Jimmy’s story of the compulsive gambler. But one finger missing could be explained in any number of plausible ways. And I wasn’t going to enquire in the company of men of this ilk.

  We were just about to take our seats when a fifth opponent arrived. The looks on the other players’ faces suggested they had never seen the guy before.

  The first thing I examine in a person is the eyes. The eyes tell you all you need to know. For me, they are more of a barometer than any polygraph machine could be. There was no doubt in my mind when the man walked in. He was the balaclava-wearing Doc Martens from the robbery in Churchfield. The man with the steel toe-capped boots. The man who’d prodded me all too eagerly with those boots.

  Though his expression did not change much, his eyes gave him away. He knew who I was, didn’t know if I knew who he was. I’m not sure if there was a perceptible change in my expression, but if there was it didn’t appear to bother Doc Martens.

  This was quite the coincidence. Me, Doc Martens and the red-haired man who went by the poker moniker The Jackdaw.

  “Let me introduce another new player,” Jimmy said, gesturing to the latest arrival. “This is Airforce One.”

  We nodded in acknowledgement, though the others looked wary. Seemed even more wary about him than me. Did I not have the same presence as Airforce One?

  About six-foot tall and in his mid-forties, he was wearing a plain tan-coloured sweatshirt that was tight enough to show a muscular physique. Hardly an ounce of body fat, I guessed. The others had every right to be more wary. My reputation, on the other hand, didn’t match up to my own physique.

  The seven of us, the Eel included, shared a drink. Jameson, of course. I could tell right off that three of my five opponents, including Red Hair and Doc Martens, knew who I was. I thought one of them I might have crossed paths with before, but I wasn’t sure where from – probably down some back alley or other. The other two, who were obviously the youngest of the five, maybe mid-twenties, didn’t appear to recognize me.

  When we had lodged our five-thousand Euro bundles with Jimmy, who placed them in a safe in his office, we got down to the business of poker. Jimmy clarified the rules and introduced the dealer he called from the bar, whom he simply called Heeney. Heeney, with his prison tats and shaved head, seemed to be the hardest man at the table, which invited a strict adherence to the rules.

  Heeney took out a fresh deck of cards, discarded the jokers and shuffled the cards with no little skill. With the cash in the safe, the betting would be done with chips. I found this to be a bit of a letdown; I’d had this romantic idea of the game being played out with real cash – old, grubby notes that would have been a reminder of how serious the game was.

  As the game wore on, the names used were shortened. Jack, Prof, Quick, Fingers and Airforce. I became Bruce. I studied Airforce and Jack, but I gave them no more time than the other three. I didn’t want to open up even the smallest chance of spooking either out of the game. But it was an all in, all out game. They wouldn’t be able to cash out until they lost their entire stack or held all the chips at the end of the game.

  I played it safe early, didn’t get too involved. The two young guys were more active and found their stacks being chipped away by the more experienced players.

  Prof’s nickname was well-earned; he studied the patterns, took his time working out the odds. He made steady progress with his stack.

  Jack – my Red Hair – was opportunistic, would steal pots with obvious bluffs.

  Quick, one of the young ones, liked to push the pace early in a hand and would either push you off with a big bet or be scared away by a bigger bet of your own.

  The other youngster, Fingers, didn’t seem to have much clue of the game, was fast and loose chasing straights and flushes that never came. He lost over half of his stack in the first five hands and slowed down after that.

  Airforce was more difficult to read. What Mogs had said about Jack, I would have said about Airforce. It was like he knew what cards you had in the hole. But I didn’t see any way he could see them. His stack quickly grew to twice its original size and he began to use it like a battering ram, scaring others off hands they were probably strong in with the sheer height of his stack.

  “I figured you for a more aggressive player,” Prof said to me in the middle of a hand where I had just matched the big blind. “Dunno why. Just thought you’d bully the play a bit.”

  Prof responded with a double of the big blind and I promptly folded. I was only getting involved enough to seem involved, but not enough to endanger my stack. I wanted to last in the game. But the five grand buy-in? I had mentally prepared to let that go. If the red-haired guy got knocked out before me, he could be gone – in the wind, so to speak. I’d have to be careful with my own stack, keep a close eye on his, make sure I always had less. But there was no danger of that after the first couple of hours when Airforce’s stack dwarfed all others.

  I kept pretty quiet throughout. I didn’t direct anything Airforce’s way. At the same time, I didn’t want to appear like I was ignoring him in favour of the other four, so I got involved in conversations he started.

  It was a little after one when I had my first and only showdown with Airforce. After the flop – three of hearts, six of spades, six of diamonds – only myself and Airforce remained, fighting it out for the high and the low pots. For the low pot I already had a potential run from three to seven. For the high pot I had two-pair, queens and sixes. Not quite the nut hand in either pot, but I felt I was in a strong position. The best case scenario was that I would win both high and low pots, add just over two grand to my stack. Worst case was that I lost both pots and was down to about fifteen-hundred. The chance of a split with one winning high and the other low was a possibility, too, maybe the best outcome to prolong both mine and Airforce’s stay at the table.

  The turn card was a good one for me. A queen of clubs gave me queens full of sixes for the high pot, didn’t dent my chances in the low pot. I bet the minimum hundred. Airforce doubled it up. I responded by calling his bet, wary not to push either one of us into dangerous territory. The river - four of diamonds - made my low straight from three to seven. I checked. Airforce bet and I called.

  I can’t say that I was surprised when we showed down. Can’t say I was exactly impressed either. I was first to show and I could see from the reaction of the other players that they fancied my chances. Airforce laughed.

  “Is that the best you can do, Brucie baby?” he said, sticking the boot in like he literally had in Churchfield.

  He turned two of his cards - a five and a two - to reveal a run from two to six. That won the low pot for Airforce. But could he best my full house? He turned over his other two cards to reveal two sixes to add to the two that had come up on the flop for quads. He raked in about two and a half grand and looked to be in an unassailable position.

  “Talk about turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse,” he said, and I couldn’t disagree.

  I could see the other four cursing under their breaths. I wondered how many times this had happened to them. Wondered if they were too stupid or just too addicted to keep turning up for these games.

  The first to be knocked out around two was Quick. He got too deep into a hand with Airforce and lost out to the nut low and a flush. Next to go about ten minutes later was the guy I’d thought would be the first casualty; Fingers got caught in one too many pies and went out with no low hand and nothing better than two-pair for his high hand. This time the Prof hoovered up his chips.

  I was now by far the low stack. I was also beginning to lose patience. About who exactly Doc Martens was, other than Airforce One, I knew little. But I knew from the eyes he was involved in the Churchfield robbery. I knew he was a serious guy, clever, deliberate. He was no lackey, of that I could be confident. And maybe that much was worth the five grand I’d lose. If I di
d crack him, I was sure he’d lead me to something solid.

  Jack was the second biggest stack now with nearly eight grand. Airforce had about eighteen. Prof was languishing on about three and a half. I was nearly dead in the water on eight-hundred.

  “You’ll need to be selective,” Prof said to me.

  Despite my lack of conversation, he seemed to enjoy the challenge of prising me open like a mussel, to get me to betray a tell.

  But he was right. I had to be selective. Would I follow Red Hair or Doc Martens? I gave it some thought. There had been a few things Red Hair, or Jack, had said that made me believe he was full of crap, that he didn’t know the first thing about Moolah or his murder. I decided I’d make a last, perhaps desperate, move.

  “What happened to that guy in Nohoval was shocking,” I said.

  Assuming Prof and Jack were crooks, I thought maybe they would sympathize with his plight.

  Jack took the bait.

  “Getting your throat cut like that? Awful way to go. Just imagine feeling that blade entering the neck by one ear and being dragged to the other side. I’d prefer a bullet to the head myself.”

  The MO had never been released to the public. Jack was probably playing on that, inventing his own narrative to that dark night in October. He’d probably tell another version around some camp fire somewhere, scare a few kids. But the version he gave at the table was incorrect. Moolah had been strangled, not cut. I knew, then, that Jack was a bullshit artist. My selection became obvious – my target was now Doc Martens.

  I’d had enough of the game, wasn’t enjoying it one bit. Maybe given an unfettered strategy I might have. I decided then to get reckless, put my chips in on each hand until I lost them all. Then I’d wait outside for Doc Martens.

  Inconceivably, I had more luck in the next couple of hands than Manchester United – and they were the jammiest team going. But I didn’t want it then.

  I threw my chips in on the next hand and fluked a straight flush on the river, ace to five, to win both high and low pots. Now I had tripled my stack to two and a half. The next hand I hit runner, runner to win the high pot with a king-high flush. No low pot meant I had now doubled up to five grand. Now I was back in the game when it was the last thing I wanted.

  The fear of winning made my heart race. Though possible to luck my way to a win no matter what I did, it was highly improbable. But reality did finally kick in and five hands later I had managed to dump my entire stack.

  “Good luck, guys,” I said as I rose from my seat.

  “Good game, Brucie,” Airforce said. “Maybe I’ll see you around again.”

  But he’d already seen me again. And he would be seeing me again sooner than he thought.

  Jimmy came out of the office. He shook my hand.

  “Decent effort first time out, boy,” he said. “Better luck next week?”

  “Luck doesn’t come into it,” I said.

  “Some people are born lucky,” he said. “I’m still sucking air. That’s proof enough.”

  He had a point. He was a bit like Jordan in that respect. You either had good luck or you didn’t. The jury was still out on mine.

  I smiled and gave the remaining players a wave. At a little after three, I left the card room and let myself out of the pub, latching the door behind me.

  Before going into the Steamship, I had done some reconnaissance on where best to keep an eye on the door. Albert Quay joined with Kennedy Quay to the east, but the main road bent around to the south at the join point of the quays and continued on to Victoria Road going south-east.

  I had parked by the bend and had a change of clothes ready. I changed quickly into a more casual outfit – jeans, T-shirt, trainers and a warm puffer jacket. All black or navy to blend in with the shadows. I also donned a baseball cap so that I could bow my head to hide my face should Doc Martens look back at an awkward moment.

  More importantly, though, I donned my gun – slipped it into a jacket pocket. I took my camera too. I’d brought it in the hope of capturing the red-haired card sharp, but now I wanted a picture of Doc Martens.

  There were a handful of cars and trucks parked at the end of Kennedy Quay. I hid behind a truck and kept an eye on the door. Unless Doc Martens left by the back door and climbed over a wall, I would see him leave.

  The first to leave was Prof just before three-thirty. He’d lasted another twenty minutes. He headed back west towards the city.

  Five minutes later, Red left. On another night he might have won, like he often did, but Doc Martens had been too strong, seemed to have x-ray eyes. I had no doubt he was collecting his winnings inside. However, he shattered my certainty by coming out very quickly after Red and was going in the same direction – towards me.

  I was confident of being out of sight, but still I was tingling. Not just in my groin, but all over. Red turned onto Victoria Road with Doc Martens following.

  I zoomed in with the camera, had the flash disabled, night vision setting enabled. I wasn’t confident the photos I took would show their faces properly, though a couple were taken when they walked under a lamp post, so I had some hope of a well-lit shot or two.

  Red slowed and fumbled in a trouser pocket. He stopped at a car and pulled out a set of keys. Doc Martens was closing in. Red never saw the bag coming.

  In a fluid motion, Doc Martens took a bag from his pocket, unfurled it and put it over Red’s head. He pulled a drawstring to tighten the mouth of the bag around his neck. He heel-kicked the back of Red’s knees, forcing him into a kneeling position. He took out a pistol and pushed it against Red’s head, told him not to move if he wanted to keep it.

  I was blindsided by this, of course, but not as much as when the black van arrived and came to a halt next to them. A side door slid back and another man got out. They manhandled Red into the back of the van. Doc Martens went around to the passenger side of the van and got in. The other man jumped in the back with Red. The van drove off without speeding. The whole thing took less than fifteen seconds from bagging to vanning.

  The van drove towards Mahon on the lengthy Victoria cum Blackrock Road. If they kept in that direction I had a chance of catching them.

  I ran to the car. It only took a few seconds. The van was well out of sight, though. I turned the key – a misfire, over-revving and then it settled. I drove off in the direction of the van. I was doing about seventy in a fifty zone and hoped the shades weren’t around. I was OK on the drinks front – I did a rough calculation that said I was below the limit.

  By the time I reached the bridge over the old railway line walk, I had caught up to the van, a brand new Ford Transit to replace the one burned after the Churchfield robbery. They were keeping to the fifty limit, drawing no attention to themselves. The two little windows on the back doors were blacked-out. I wondered if the number plate was a clone – most likely given the sophistication of these guys.

  I’d suspected they were specialists after the Churchfield robbery, but now I knew for sure. These guys were a unit, had trained together, gone on many missions together. It screamed army to me.

  A half-mile after the bridge they arrived at the Marina turn. At nearly 4 a.m., traffic was non-existent. I kept a distance behind. A car following along a straight road isn’t particularly suspicious, but one taking the same left turn is. The Marina turn headed more or less back the way they came, so I assumed they’d stop there or thereabouts.

  I didn’t want to spook the specialists – three or four guys with pistols were not to be trifled with – so I continued on and hoped for the best. Worst case scenario I had a photo of Doc Martens to fall back on. If the camera was any good at its job, which I doubted somewhat.

  I parked a little bit up Castle Road. I’d seen brake lights on the van before it went out of view. They were stopping at the pier. I walked back towards a low wall that was teeming with ivy. The wall was in a gap between a building known as Pier Head House and the trees that grew further along Castle Road. I had a good view of the pier fro
m there.

  The van had indeed stopped there. It had been parked in such a way as to block the view of passersby from whatever was going on. But I had a partial view from Castle Road. Red was on his knees again on the edge of the pier. Someone, and I assumed it was Doc Martens, took the bag from his head. I could only see an arm extending from behind the van. Red’s head was bowed. He was crying, his chest heaving. The arm retracted and extended again with a pistol to Red’s head.

  I waited for the shot. I waited for Doc Martens to kick the body into the drink. I waited for a bullet that never came. The arm and the gun disappeared from view leaving Red still on his knees, his palms on the concrete. He was shaking. He didn’t look back.

  The van turned. I ran back to the car. The Transit headed up Convent Road. I did a U-turn and followed. The road snaked left to right to left to right again before a junction with Ringmahon Road.

  The van stopped at the junction. The way was clear. But the van just stayed there. This was a disaster. I came to a stop a couple of car lengths behind. Should I reverse, overtake? The Transit driver made the decision for me. They took a left and accelerated. They no longer kept to the speed limit. At that point I knew the game was up. I’d been rumbled. The van sped off into the distance. It could have been on its way to the Jack Lynch Tunnel to cross under the Lee and connect with the main Dublin or Waterford roads.

  A long night was at an end. I was sore and exhausted. It was time to go home and process the night’s events.

  I drove back via the pier. Red was gone. He could have been walking back to his car, a forty-minute walk at most.

  I finally had time to think as I drove. They’d stuck a gun to his cranium, more than likely given him a warning of some kind. Was it something personal, something Red had said at the table to offend Doc Martens? No. You don’t have a precision operation involving a crew of soldiers for that. They may have interrogated him in the back of the van, determined he was no threat, and given him a stern talking to. With the bag and a gun to the head as an exclamation point.