Eightball Boogie by Declan Burke (Harry Rigby)

by Declan Burke

“You have to be married to have an affair, Dee. We’re not even seeing each other anymore.”

  “Okay then. What would you do if I fucked someone else?”

  “Have you?”

  She laughed, delighted at my sullen tone.

  “Of course I haven’t. Don’t be daft.”

  She kissed my cheek, the touch no more than a breath. I closed my eyes, balled my fists, tried to breathe. I wanted to leave the room, the house, to emigrate – whatever it took to slough off the sick emotional seesaw. But I didn’t move, knowing that I had nowhere to go that I wouldn’t want to kill myself for leaving behind the tow-headed thug in the next room. Seething at the power she possessed, the ability to reduce my entire existence to gut instinct. And if she didn’t know it for fact she sensed it, teasing: “It’s just a question, Harry.”

  “Just a question?”

  “You know what I mean. A rhetorical question.”

  “You’re not supposed to answer rhetorical questions.”

  “It was in a questionnaire.” She was flirting by now. “It’s a questionnaire question.”

  “Know your problem, Dee?”

  “I only have one?”

  “Too much Cosmo and not enough Viz. Those magazines are fucking with your head.”

  “Maybe. But better that than no fucking at all.”

  And she began stroking the inside of my thigh, her palm cool and soft. I closed my eyes. Too weak to stop her, not wanting to anyway, half afraid it was another wind-up and too desperate to believe that it wasn’t.

  “You still didn’t answer my question,” she murmured. Brushing my erection, holding off, teasing. I turned until my mouth was at her ear.

  “If you fucked anyone else, I’d kill him and cripple you.”

  There was dead silence. Then she eased herself slowly on top of me, sending bolts of pain ricocheting through my body. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

  “Mmmmmm,” she said, slipping me inside her. “Right answer.”

  Afterwards she slept sound. I cuddled behind her, spooning, my elbow resting on her hip, my hand flat against the ribcage under her breast. Feeling her heartbeat rumble through my palm, up my arm. I drifted off trying to work it out, knowing that if I never slept again I still wouldn’t understand her.

  11

  I crawled out of bed just before noon, drank a pot of coffee. Smoked a couple of twists, coughed up everything that wasn’t nailed down. Then I smoked some more, read the note on the kitchen table that said Denise was gone shopping, be back before Christmas, but didn’t specify what year. I stood under the shower until the water ran cold, drank some more coffee, went outside to find the car not there. The walk into town finally sobered me up.

  The sleet was coming down again, soft, not sticking, the day mild. I took the long way into town, left Herbie’s number on redial, getting an engaged tone. Dropped a padded envelope through his letterbox, not knocking him up, I had reeled Herbie in from cyberspace once before and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

  I made the office by one, ignoring the navy Mondeo parked across the street, the two blokes looking bored and doing it in all directions. When I got upstairs I rang down for coffee. Then I started counting to ten. They kicked the door in on twelve.

  Brady accounted for two-thirds of the boarding party. The small guy was dapper in a charcoal-grey three-piece, patent leather shoes. The tie had a Windsor knot and his skull was shaved close to the bone. He had big, round eyes, narrow cheekbones, and the lips were no thinner than a paper-cut. He was a fruit, a banana, bent for sure but so yellow about it people didn’t really notice. Pushing sixty, looking at retirement and liking the view.

  “Let me guess,” I said, eyeballing Brady. “You’re the bad cop, right?”

  “See, they told us about the bullshit,” Brady rasped. “Okay? So you don’t have to be cute. We’re already impressed.”

  I looked at the Fruit.

  “Get to the punch-line. I’m busy.”

  The Fruit sighed, sat down, rearranged his face into what he probably thought was beatific tolerance. From where I was sitting, it looked like he was having a stroke.

  “Let’s start again,” the Fruit said. His tone was neutral, dry. “I’m Detective-Inspector Senan Galway.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is Detective-Sergeant Ronan Brady.” He crossed his legs, clasped his hands around a knee. “Do you have ID?”

  “Loads, as it happens. For who, exactly?”

  Galway sighed again. Brady flexed his fingers, balling his hands into fists. He looked like he was expecting trouble, which made me nervous, the Dibble expecting trouble is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  “For Harry Rigby. He’s a…” He spoke over his shoulder. “What is he?”

  Brady, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet, snickered.

  “A research consultant.”

  “Right,” Galway confirmed. “Harry Rigby. The research consultant.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I know it’s you. I still need ID. It’s procedure.”

  “It’s procedure to know whose rights you’re abusing?”

  “Don’t be cute,” Brady growled. “Show him the ID.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I dug the driving licence from my wallet, held it out. When Galway reached I flipped the licence back, said: “Do you?”

  “What?”

  “Have ID?”

  Brady darted forward, nimble as Nijinsky. Placed his fists on the desk, weight on his knuckles, leaning forward until his face was about six inches from mine. It looked pretty, a kaleidoscope of purples and reds, even a tinge of yellow in the whites of his eyes, which were bulging like they were about to pop out and squelch in my face. The smell of stale whiskey could have cleaned drains. He enunciated each syllable, slow and distinct.

  “Give. Him. The. Fuck. En. Eye. Dee.”

  “You should floss,” I told him and then he was around the desk, barging me face-first against the filing cabinet, pounding a huge fist into my kidneys. One punch was enough, from Brady a dirty look would have been enough. He let go. I slumped to the ground, coughing up a kidney.

  Brady snapped the driving licence out of my hand, handed it over. Galway gave it a cursory glance, put it back on the desk, nodded. Brady backed off, careful, like he’d never done it before. I dragged myself back onto the seat. Galway took a little box from the inside pocket of his jacket, popped a mint. Not wanting to be there, finding the rough stuff distasteful. My heart went out to him. My other kidney stayed where it was, in a coma.

  “Now,” Galway said quietly, “tell me about Conway.”

  I sounded like a gut-shot accordion.

  “Who’s Conway?”

  We stared. Galway didn’t blink. I couldn’t remember him blinking since he’d entered the office, although it was possible he had sneaked one in while Brady was using my face to sand down the filing cabinet.

  “Francis Conway,” Galway intoned, bored as granite, “auctioneer. He was here yesterday morning, in this office, for almost an hour. What did you talk about?”

  There was a knock on the door. Andrea walked in with the coffee. Her smile froze halfway to the desk. I winked as she set the coffee down, letting her know everything was okay. Brady watched her go. Galway stared at me. When the door closed he said: “Last chance.”

  “Very generous. I don’t know any Conway.”

  He waved a careless hand. Brady moved around the desk, started tugging at the top drawer of the filing cabinet.

  “It’s locked,” I told him. “In case some lowlife wants to see what I keep in there.”

  “Give me the key,” he rasped, flexing his fingers. I gave him the key. He yanked the drawer open, pulled out the files, flittered them across the floor. He did the same with the second drawer, and the third. I rolled a twist and looked at Galway. Galway stared back, unblinking.

  “This is procedure?” I asked.

  “I’d have thought you’d be well acquainted with procedure by now
.”

  “I am. I thought this might be a new Interpol directive the locals haven’t tumbled to yet.”

  Brady rammed the filing cabinet doors home.

  “Nothing,” he growled.

  “Try the desk,” I said. “That’s not even locked.”

  He muttered something coarse, pulled the top drawer open. The notepad and chequebook went the same way as the cabinet files. Then he paused, picked up the newspaper clipping Katie had left behind. He handed it to Galway. Galway looked it over, shot me a look of cool appraisal. It made my flesh crawl, like he had finally decided how much I was worth. He tapped the clipping.

  “What’s this?”

  “They call them newspapers. People read them. You could always look at the pictures.”

  “What’s it doing in your desk?”

  “Somersaults, mainly. But I’m teaching it to miaow.”

  The mint swapped cheeks. Galway nodded again. Brady opened the bottom drawer. I heard a sharp intake of breath, and then my neck was seized in an iron grip. Brady hooked the gun by the trigger guard and placed it on the desk in front of Galway. The fingers were talons. Bolts of pain shot through my shoulders, doing wonders for my posture.

  Galway wasn’t looking at me. Galway was looking at the .38, resplendent in all its short, stubby glory. It didn’t look too impressive lying there, but Galway knew as well as I did that a Special can stop a charging Rhino if you pick the right spot. He looked at me, a gleam in his eye.

  “I hope you’ve a licence for that. Because if you have it’s a fake and I’ll peg you to the wall and not charge for the nails.”

  I gurgled, Brady’s huge vice still folded around my throat. Galway motioned with his hand. Brady relaxed his grip, took one step back to the window, the better to block out the light. I gasped, whooped in a couple of deep breaths that caught fire on the way down. Galway nodded at the gun.

  “Have you?”

  “Have I what?” I snapped, rolling my head from side to side. Galway frowned at the surly tone but too many people were taking advantage of my sunny disposition for me to care. Hospitality is one thing, taking liberties is another. Galway pointed at the gun.

  “Have you a licence for that?”

  “Where would I get a licence for that?”

  For a second I thought Galway was going to spontaneously combust.

  “You wouldn’t,” he smirked. “Like I said, it’d be a fake.”

  “Exactly. Like the gun.”

  “Say again?”

  “Like the gun. It’s a replica. I bought it from a barman on Ibiza, an English bloke called Winston, if you can believe that. Got special permission from Spanish customs to bring it on the plane, too. Nice blokes, Spanish customs. They ask first, strangle later.”

  Galway studied my face. Then he nodded at Brady. Brady picked up the gun, snapped it open. Threw it back on the desk.

  “Replica,” he said, disgusted. Galway’s lips disappeared.

  “What do you need a replica gun for?”

  “We get a lot of Dibble around the Quarter. You can’t be too careful.”

  His eyelids flickered. Red spots appeared below his cheekbones. I wondered if I hadn’t pushed him too far, let stubbornness cloud what little judgement I have. Brady seemed to be of the same opinion. He shuffled from foot to foot. Finally he came around the desk, stood behind Galway. Galway came to a decision.

  “Alright, picnic’s over. Let’s talk Conway. We can talk here or we can talk in the cells. Personally,” he added, popping another mint into his mouth, “I’d rather talk in the cells, where we can have a little privacy. But that’s up to you.”

  I nodded. Then I sparked the twist, exhaled at the ceiling, picked a stray flake of tobacco from my lower lip.

  “First off, we’ll do this here because unless you want to arrest me you have no legal basis to take me anywhere. Second, I’m telling you nothing about Conway because the only reason I might know a Conway was if he was a client of mine and it’d be unethical to breach client confidentiality. Third, I’m letting fuckwit there off with the Tyson bullshit but only because he’s a repressed homosexual and I’m blaming his parents.”

  Brady tensed but didn’t move. It was just as well. I was in no shape for jumping through the window.

  “Fourth, if he so much looks crooked at me again I’m taking him, you and the whole fucking Dibble to the cleaners, because I’m your worst nightmare, a sucker who knows his rights. Fifth, both of you can fuck off out of my face because my coffee’s getting cold and if there’s one thing I hate more than Dibble who’ve watched too much Kojak it’s cold coffee. Any questions?”

  Galway worked up a glum expression.

  “Don’t make me get a search warrant.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, nodding at the mess on the floor. “Spray some graffiti?”

  “If I have to get a search warrant I can’t guarantee the safety of anything in this office.”

  Brady was quick on the uptake. Picked my mobile phone off the desk, dropped it on the ground. Then he tipped the filing cabinet over, waited for the crunch, laid the mangled phone on the desk again, leaving the filing cabinet horizontal. Galway shrugged, an exaggerated gesture.

  “Accidents have a way of happening.”

  “Speak up, Chief. The tape doesn’t pick up whispers.”

  Brady glared. If looks could kill, I’d have been cremated on the spot.

  “It’s illegal to record conversations without mutual consent.”

  “So sue me. It’ll go all the way to The Hague and I haven’t been abroad in years.”

  “Alright, alright. Jesus.” Galway held up his hand. He sounded tired. He stood up. “We could have done this the easy way.”

  “There’s an easy way now?”

  “I’ll be seeing you again, Rigby.”

  “Maybe, I spend a lot of time in public toilets. And watch out for the first landing on the way down. It doesn’t squeak when you stand on it.”

  Brady stayed behind when Galway left. Rubbing his nose, and there was a lot of it to rub. I waited.

  “You don’t know Frank Conway,” he said.

  “I don’t get out so much these days.”

  “I know Frank Conway. He’s scum, a real lowlife. He’d have his grandmother re-zoned for the tax relief.”

  I waited again.

  “You keeping anything from me, Rigby?”

  “Same as before. Nothing you don’t already know.”

  “Want some advice?”

  “No.”

  “You’re smart enough to play dumb. Don’t be dumb enough to play it smart. Conway’s a dangerous bastard.”

  “He hasn’t seen my big brother.”

  He nodded again, made for the door.

  “Galway wants Conway,” he warned, a parting shot. “And what Galway wants, Galway gets.”

  “Galway wants your ass. Is he getting that?”

  He stared, stony-faced. Then he grinned, eyes crinkling. For a moment he was a different man, friendly and almost human.

  “He’s getting it, alright. Back of the fucking head he’s getting it.”

  He left. When I was sure they weren’t coming back I slumped in the chair, hands shaking, breath coming too fast. I couldn’t work out which was the new bruise when I checked my back in the bathroom mirror, but when it finally arrived my piss was a pale shade of pink.

  I put the gun away, limped across to The Cellars. Needing a drink like a hole in the head and finding some comfort in the prospect of both.

  12

  Dutchie took me into the poolroom, coffee for him, Red Bull-vodka for me, ham-and-cheese toasties all round. He stirred his coffee, chewed his gum and didn’t interrupt while I told him about the heavy gang. When I was finished he said: “Want my advice?”

  “No.”

  Everyone wanted to give me advice. All I wanted was peace and quiet, maybe an Audi with go-fast stripes.

  “Drop Conway. He’s bad news.”

  “That
’s what sells, Dutch. Why?”

  “His motors? The second-hand ones?”

  “They’re ringers?”

  “More than likely. Anyway, you know Tommy Armstrong?”

  “Stretch Armstrong? Gangly fucker, talks like he’s chewing hot spuds?”

  Dutchie nodded, sipped some coffee.

  “He drives for Conway. Picks up the cars in Belfast, takes them across the border.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “Stretch picks them up at the port, coming off the ferry.”

  “They’re coming through Belfast? From where?”

  “Amsterdam, via Liverpool.”

  “Makes sense. There’s good E in Amsterdam.”

  Dutchie sniffed.

  “Fuckers around here wouldn’t know a good E from a blue Smartie. That Belfast shite is muck. Cheap speed, a dab of trips, that’s your bag.”

  “Belfast shite?”

  “That’s where all the trade’s coming in from. Churning it out like Polo mints, they are. Two cheers for the peace process.”

  “East or west?” I asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might, if my client’s trying to fuck them over.”

  “East.”

  “Nasty.”

  “No nastier than West. Want a laugh?”

  “Did it this morning, got it over with.”

  “Just as well. According to Stretch, Conway’s planning something big.”

  “A new town hall?”

  “Bigger. Stretch didn’t say, but at a guess I’d say Conway’s bypassing East Belfast, not paying his dues. Branching out on his tod.”

  “Christ on a landmine. How smart is that?”

  “You tell me. Those fuckers aren’t happy since Blair cut them off at the knees. They’re itching so bad they don’t need an excuse to scratch.”

  I thought it through. Conway trafficking E explained Galway and Brady, but it didn’t explain why Conway might think his wife was screwing around. Or why he might want me to think she was. But there had to be a connection. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

  “This is kosher?” I asked.

  “Like a plague of frogs. Stretch doesn’t have the imagination to make it up.”