‘How’s the little one? She’s only gorgeous!’
‘She’s thriving, Pearl, thriving.’
‘You’ll have to bring her round to see me. Listen, did they offer you a cup of tea?’
‘Thanks, but not this time, Pearl. Business. Your young fella’s expecting me. Sure, I’ll look in and say hello before I go.’
Pearl put her hand on his arm. ‘I mean it, love, bring the little one round here some afternoon next week. It’s great to have the youngsters around. It’s like I’m soaking up a bit of their energy, God bless them.’
‘I will, Pearl, she’d love to see you.’
As Pearl moved slowly towards the stairs, her arms folded, her slippers making a slapping sound on the marble, Christy came to the door of the kitchen and crooked a finger. He led Frankie through the kitchen and out the French windows, into the back garden. About thirty feet away, Jo-Jo Mackendrick was slouched in a chair beside a wooden garden table, phone at his ear. He wore black shorts and a dazzling white FCUK top. There was a glass of white wine on the table, beside a hardback book – a John Grisham – open and face down.
Jo-Jo finished his conversation and waved at Frankie to come over. Christy stood by the French windows, arms folded, in sight but out of hearing. In his mid-fifties, balding, with a slight paunch, Jo-Jo still had the build of the construction labourer he once was. He’d had an extension built on to the side of the house, a gym where he did half an hour each morning on the bike, reading the Irish Times and the sports pages of the Mirror, and three mornings a week he followed the bike with half an hour on the weights. His three sons were grown up, two of them with kids of their own. Since his wife had died of breast cancer five years ago he’d lived alone here with his mother, wintering in the Caribbean but always spending Christmas week at home, holding open house for his friends and their families. Jo-Jo retained overall control of the business, while his older brother Lar handled most of the day-to-day concerns – what Jo-Jo called ‘operational matters’. The core businesses were cigarette smuggling, protection and three brothels. The firm also took what Jo-Jo referred to as ‘royalties’ from a number of operations managed by others, such as diesel laundering and credit-card fraud. A car-ringing scam had recently closed down due to police attention. The Mackendricks still sponsored the occasional armed robbery, but Jo-Jo preferred the steady income from what he thought of as the wholesale and service sectors. Although the brothers had provided finance for occasional heroin and cocaine imports, they decided early on to avoid the hassle of direct involvement in drug distribution. Wholesale was safer, leave the retailing to the hobbits. Three small, legitimate building companies, unconnected and working in different parts of the city, were used for laundering money.
‘Your mother’s looking well, Jo-Jo.’
‘She’s terrific. New hip, had the veins done. She’s off the smokes and her blood pressure’s like a teenager’s. Doc says she’s so healthy we’ll have to shoot her.’
‘Old trouper.’
‘That she is. Sit down, Frankie.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Might as well get a bit of sun while it’s still here. Poxy summer.’ Crowe sat down and waited while Jo-Jo took a sip of wine.
‘See the missus at all?’ Jo-Jo said.
‘When I see the kid, once, twice a week. Otherwise, that whole thing’s dead.’
‘Fine-looking woman. Shame the way that went.’ He picked up the wine glass and took another sip. The obligatory personal chit-chat was over. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘Thanks for seeing me like this. I mean, I know it’s short notice, but I’ve been setting up a major piece of action. So, I thought I’d better run it past you. Out of respect.’
‘That’s decent of you.’
Fuck you, too, Jo-Jo. You could make it easy, wave it through, instead of which I have to make like I’m asking for a favour.
‘You know I’ve been marking time since I split with Waters and Cox? Little jobs, nothing special.’
‘You and Martin Paxton.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And?’
‘We’ve been working on something a bit more ambitious.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s a kidnap. Guy’s got a private bank.’
‘A snatch?’
‘I know exactly what—’
‘Frankie, no one does kidnaps any more. Too fucking—’
The edge of a cliff. Please, Jo-Jo, don’t bring me here.
‘Jo-Jo, the kind of money there’s around these days—’
‘Jesus, Frankie.’ Jo-Jo began ticking things off on his fingers. ‘One – you can’t make a thing like that pay unless you take someone who’s really loaded. Two – this country, anyone loaded the chances are they’re connected. Three – someone gets snatched, and all the things the cops don’t have the time to do, they suddenly have the time to do. Four – every tout in the country goes on a premium rate. You know what that means for people like me.’
Don’t do this, Jo-Jo.
‘I’ve earned the right, Jo-Jo, you know that.’
Jo-Jo stood up. He walked a few steps, turned and pointed a finger at Frankie.
‘You do a post office or a credit union,’ the finger jabbing, ‘a bank job if you can handle it, fair enough, you’re taking care of your overheads.’ Frankie had seen this done to others – the swagger, the finger, the casual and unconscious display of contempt – but he’d never felt it. ‘Something as big as this – and a banker, Jesus – it brings the cops down on top of everyone. If they nick you, they’ll connect it to me.’
‘They know I haven’t been working for you since I got out, Jo-Jo, they know that.’
‘Maybe they do. And maybe they make a connection anyway, or invent one. Very tempting for the bluebottles, to connect me to something like that. So, I end up being dragged into something I don’t control. And that’s not on.’
Crowe just sat there, resisting the urge to look away from Jo-Jo’s unwavering stare. There was saliva in his mouth and he wanted to swallow, but Jo-Jo would see that and read it as a sign of weakness.
Play it cool, take it easy. Whatever happens, leave on good terms. This job is going ahead, even if we have to take whatever shit Jo-Jo hands out afterwards.
‘It would never come to that, Jo-Jo. I’ve a right to step up.’
‘We all find our own level, Frankie.’
Jo-Jo sat down. He took another sip of wine.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘people do what they have to do to live the life they want to live. I understand that. But there comes a time.’
He looked impatient, as though everything had been said, time was ticking, he had a book to get back to. His feet tapped rapidly to the rhythm of music only he could hear. When he spoke, his words came in the tone of a man resigned to taking his responsibilities seriously.
‘You start off, Frankie, you want to do everything there is to do, ten times over. Women, drink, gambling, travel, go everywhere, do everything. That stage of your life, you have dreams, you have ambitions. When you’re young you believe you can do it, whatever it is, and that’s right and proper.’ He held up a finger. ‘You get to a certain age, Frankie, you have to know what you can do well. You have to live within that.’
Jo-Jo gestured at the garden around him. ‘That’s where I am, these days. No dreams, Frankie. No fucking about. I make sure I’m not a problem for anyone else. I do what I’m good at. Money, advice, connections. A dozen businesses in this town would’ve gone down the toilet if I hadn’t helped out, and most of them I don’t take nearly as much as I’m entitled. I read my books, listen to my music. Old friends come visit. I take Ma to a restaurant, make a fuss over the grandkids. I keep an eye on the business. And the last thing I want is someone I like turning into a problem I don’t need.’ The finger again, one emphatic poke. ‘You’re old enough now, Frankie, to be thinking about what you’re good at, what matters to you.’
He shook his head. ‘Stay dreaming too long, you become an e
mbarrassment. I’m sorry, Frankie.’
Jo-Jo picked up his glass of wine.
Crowe said, ‘This isn’t fair.’
‘I know that, but it’s the way it is.’
Crowe didn’t want to sound desperate, but it was all he could think of. He said what he didn’t want to say, what had always been unspoken.
‘You owe me, Jo-Jo. When your back was to the wall—’
‘I know, Frankie, and I’m grateful. You’re twenty-four carat. That doesn’t make me blind.’ He put down his wine, leaned forward, his palms on his knees, and spoke quietly. ‘You need direction. You’re a weapon, Frankie. And a weapon – a weapon is something to be pointed. Guided. Directed.’
‘Used.’
Jo-Jo stared for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No need to get snotty. We all find our own level. What you do, it’s a good living. You want to step up, good people like you and Martin – there’s always a place on my crew.’
Once a moocher.
Frankie kept an even tone. ‘I’m putting this thing together. And if that’s a problem for you—’
‘Go.’
Jo-Jo picked up his book.
‘I don’t need your fucking blessing, Jo-Jo.’
‘Go!’
‘I just need you to stay out of the way.’
Jo-Jo closed the book again, and put it down on his lap.
‘Go!’
His eyes narrowed, his lips peeled back from his teeth. ‘Fuck. Off. Frankie.’
Over at the French windows, Christy moved forward a couple of steps. He had his right hand behind his back, under his loose shirt. Jo-Jo lifted a hand, gesturing to Christy to stay back.
‘Frankie’s going,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you, Frankie?’
Crowe swallowed. ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper. Really, Jo-Jo. No offence. I apologise. Can we talk about this again?’
Jo-Jo seemed to consider this. He nodded.
‘Of course we can. Give it a year or so, we’ll talk.’
A year or so.
‘OK, then. Listen, no hard feelings.’ Crowe despised his own instinctive urge to mend fences.
‘Of course not,’ Jo-Jo said, and his cold tone made a lie of his casual words. ‘Come see me, we’ll talk. For now, Frankie, I think it’s best if we give ourselves time.’ As Crowe stood up, Jo-Jo began flicking through the Grisham, looking for his page.
In the kitchen, Crowe asked Christy for a glass of water. He sipped from it, drew deep breaths, trying to calm the nerves that were stretching the muscles around his mouth.
‘I blew it,’ he whispered. He put the glass down on the kitchen counter and stared at it.
Christy shrugged. ‘It’s not personal, mate.’
‘He owes me, Christy. Everyone knows that.’
‘I know he can be a right bollocks, Frankie, but Jo-Jo has to look at the big picture. He doesn’t—’
Crowe hit Christy in the throat with the edge of his right hand. Christy floundered, gasping. He grabbed at his throat. Crowe kicked him in the balls. Christy made a loud, harsh noise and fell to the floor. Crowe raised his right foot high and stamped down on Christy’s head. There was a crunching sound. The bodyguard lay still.
Crowe reached down, plucked a small black revolver from the holster at the back of Christy’s belt and walked quickly back out into the garden, cocking the weapon.
Jo-Jo was already standing, tense. When he saw Crowe he dropped his book and picked up his chair.
‘Frankie, you’re fucking mad!’
Crowe squeezed the trigger once, twice – still walking quickly towards Jo-Jo – three times, and two patches of blood appeared on Jo-Jo’s chest, a third on his stomach. He went down, knocking over the table on the way.
Crowe stood over him.
Jo-Jo was lying face up, damaged but alive and very afraid. His face grey, his lips quivering. Every breath was a harsh sucking sound. He looked up at Frankie.
‘Ah, Jesus,’ he said.
Crowe pointed the gun down at Jo-Jo’s head.
‘We all find our own level, right, Jo-Jo?’
There was a scream.
Crowe looked up. Jo-Jo’s mother was standing at an open bedroom window. She screamed again.
Crowe was still looking up at Pearl, looking into her eyes, with the gun pointing straight down at Jo-Jo’s head, when he squeezed the trigger. One second Jo-Jo was a quivering mess of muscle and blood, with fear and hatred blazing in his eyes, then Crowe looked down at him and there was a hole in his forehead, his eyes were vacant and his body was as limp as a discarded costume.
Crowe stood there for several seconds, until Pearl’s ‘Nooooo!!!’ pierced through the fog that had for a moment enveloped him. He glanced up at the bedroom window. Pearl stopped screaming and jerked her head back inside.
Crowe moved fast, back into the house, stepping over Christy, hurrying through the kitchen, across the hall at a run and taking the stairs two at a time. He kicked in the door of the first bedroom he came to. Nothing, wrong room.
By the time he got to Pearl’s bedroom she had managed to pull something, some piece of furniture, halfway across the door. Crowe pushed hard and there was a scream as the door opened and the piece of furniture – it was a chest of drawers – toppled over.
Pearl was lying on the floor, one foot caught under the chest of drawers. Her throat was making little noises. Glancing up at her son’s killer, she pulled her foot free and struggled to rise.
‘Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Frankie—’
Crowe hesitated. From her position on all fours, Pearl made eye contact, the expression on her ancient face a mixture of rage and guile.
With his left hand, Crowe swept a yellow satiny dressing gown off the bed and threw it over Pearl’s head. She screamed, rising from her knees. Crowe put the gun close to the shape of her head and fired once. A rosette of blood blossomed on the dressing gown and she collapsed instantly.
He went down the stairs.
In the hall, approaching the front door, he put the gun away and composed himself. He curled his fingers inside the sleeve of his jacket and used the sleeve to grasp the knob of the front-door lock. Then he remembered the glass. He went out into the kitchen, stepping over Christy’s, found the glass he’d used, emptied it of water and put it into his pocket. He went back out into the hall and again carefully grasped the knob of the front door.
There was a groan from behind him.
At the door into the kitchen, Christy – barely conscious – was trying to stand up, his hands grasping ineffectually at the door and the walls. The left side of his face was a sheet of blood, the eye closed, the mouth pinched. The other eye glared wildly at Crowe.
Crowe took the gun from his pocket and went back across the hall, his heels clicking on the black marble floor.
*
Crowe didn’t tell Martin Paxton what had happened until half an hour later. ‘Drive,’ he said when he got into the car, and he sat there, breathing hard, as Paxton steered them away from the area. A couple of times, as they drove, Paxton looked across at his friend, but didn’t say anything. Frankie was rubbing the heel of one hand hard against his forehead.
After a while, Crowe realised he still had Christy’s gun. He found a tissue and wiped the gun. They stopped at a bridge over the Royal Canal and Crowe got out and leaned across the parapet, while Paxton drove on and waited in a nearby side road. Crowe glanced around, saw no one looking his way, and let the gun and tissue fall from his hand. Then he took the glass from Jo-Jo’s kitchen out of his pocket. He smashed it against the inside of the parapet wall and watched the pieces fall into the water. Crowe hurried after the car and they drove on towards Finglas.
After a while Paxton asked, ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ Crowe said.
They parked in the grounds of a church in Finglas and walked in silence down the slope to the long, hilly, bare stretch of open space just south of the housing estate. The green space between Finglas and Cabra West had once been vas
t and full of hollows and thickets within which local kids could find adventure. As children, Frankie and Martin had played cowboys and Indians around here, down by the canal, under the bridge and over where the public swimming pool used to be. They played rounders, football or hurling, they had fights, sometimes with each other, and later they took diversions through these fields while walking their girlfriends home. Now, the expansion of the housing estates had narrowed the gap until only this stretch of green was left, where the occasional football game was played, and teenage urban cowboys let their clapped-out horses roam free.
There, Frankie Crowe – still coming down from the chemical surge that had flared through his veins during the killings – told Martin Paxton what happened.
For more than a minute, Paxton didn’t say anything. He just hunkered down and pulled repeatedly at tufts of grass. Then he said, ‘Jesus Christ, Frankie, what the fuck.’
‘I know.’
‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’
‘It happened.’
‘This changes everything.’
‘It changes nothing.’
‘What the hell do we do?’
‘Nothing. We do nothing. There’s nothing to connect it to us.’
Paxton stood up, brushing pieces of grass from his fingers. Working hard to keep his voice normal, he said, ‘You can’t be sure about that, Frankie. Someone might have seen you leaving the house. Jo-Jo might have told someone he was meeting you. These things always get out.’
‘No one saw me.’
‘Jesus, Frankie, it wasn’t the end of the world, Jo-Jo saying no. We could have done something else, something that would’ve been OK with Jo-Jo.’
Crowe made a derisive sound. ‘The only thing that Jo-Jo would’ve said yes to was whatever kept us bowing and scraping to him. If we went ahead, and him saying we shouldn’t, who the fuck knows what he’d have done. Grassed us up, maybe. Put the word out we were flush, and he wouldn’t take offence if we got done over.’ He held his arms wide. ‘We’re playing in a different league now, Martin. That means doing what has to be done. And fuck anyone who gets in the way. That’s the difference. Being ready to fuck anyone who gets in the way.’
Little Criminals Page 7