Eightball Boogie by Declan Burke (Harry Rigby)

by Declan Burke

  “True enough. Then there’s this.”

  I handed him Katie’s newspaper clipping. He scanned through it.

  “Sheridan? What’s he to do with anything?”

  “That girl Katie, who was in last night? She gave me that, yesterday. When Abbott and Costello were in this morning they found it in my desk. It got their attention.”

  “So?”

  “So they were asking about Frank Conway, auctioneer. The real-estate slimebag who happens to be up to his arse in illicit loot. Tony Sheridan’s a politician.”

  Dutchie nodded.

  “So we just drop the real-estate bit.”

  “Correct.” I pointed out Frank Conway, top corner of the photograph. “That apartment complex he’s building on the river, where the shoeboxes are going for one-sixty a throw. Remind me about the environmental bullshit that went with that.”

  “You’re talking brown envelopes.” He shook his head. “So what? They need somewhere to put all the punters they’re decentralising from Dublin. Re-zoning scam or no re-zoning scam, those apartments were always going to be built.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But that photograph puts Conway and Sheridan together in the same picture.”

  “That’s a big picture, Harry. There’s a lot of people in it.”

  He was right in a way, but he was wrong too. It was a big picture, the kind with a real big frame.

  I was wrong too, but I was right in a way. The one time I got it right, I didn’t even know it.

  I finished the drink and we went through to the bar. Dutchie plunged the glass and plate into the soapy water in the sink, nodded at the sticking plaster above my eye.

  “What did you tell Dee about the hammering?”

  “That I fell in the alleyway. By the way.”

  “What?”

  “Gonzo rang.”

  He stopped plunging. His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his crew cut, which is no mean feat.

  “Gonzo?”

  “The one and only, thank fuck.”

  “Jesus. Fuck.” He beamed. “Fucking hell, Harry! What’d he say?”

  “He left a message, said he’d be home for Christmas. He’ll be in here tonight.”

  He laughed out loud. It sounded forced, too much, not Dutch. I let it slide. I wasn’t feeling much like myself either.

  “Tonight? Typical fucking Gonz. How long’s it been?”

  “Four years, near enough.”

  “Too long.”

  “Not nearly long enough, Dutch. See you later.”

  “Yeah. And Harry? We already know you’re a miserable bastard. You’ve nothing left to prove.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’ll have to clear it with Michelle first.”

  “No hurry. What time tonight?”

  “Here for eight?”

  “Sound.”

  I went back across the road to the office. There was a message on the machine, Herbie with news, call. I called.

  “Alright Harry?” Herbie sounded fresh and vital again, he’d obviously gone for snow for his Christmas treat. “I got that Helen Conway stuff for you. Got a pen handy?”

  “Shoot.”

  He reeled off a list of figures. Taking dictation from a coke-fuelled stoner can take a while when you don’t have shorthand but in the end I knew more about Helen Conway’s bank accounts than she needed to know herself. There was also information on insurance policies, health plans and membership of various clubs and organisations. Political donations, a trust fund, two company directorships, one of which was a subsidiary of her husband’s real estate company. When Herbie got himself motivated, he was rapacious.

  “Busy girl,” I commented. The bank accounts alone were impressive, nearly three hundred grand spread across five different banks at home. There were also the kind of accounts where you get a tan making a deposit, one in the Seychelles, another in Barbados, and she also had the obligatory Swiss deposit box, although that was probably for show. “Nice work, Herb. Give me the same on Frank Conway, yeah?”

  “Who he?”

  I counted to five.

  “He’ll be Helen Conway’s husband, Herb.”

  “Oh, yeah – right.”

  “Get a chance to download those pictures yet?”

  “What pictures?”

  “From the camera. I dropped it around this morning.”

  There was a brief pause. I could imagine him panicking, trying to recall what he’d been doing earlier. Herbie, who was hard put to remember his real name most of the time. When he spoke again he sounded cautious.

  “You were here this morning?”

  “Not there there.” It would have been too easy to wind him up. “I slipped the camera through your letterbox. In a padded envelope.”

  The sigh of relief was audible.

  “I haven’t been downstairs yet. Hold on.” I heard him pounding down the stairs. Moments later he was back. “Alright, I have it. Give me an hour and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Sound. I’ll be in the office until five.”

  “Hey, Harry?”

  “What?”

  I knew what was coming.

  “Anything moving on Imelda Sheridan?”

  “Nothing, no. Hear anything more from Regan?”

  “He’s not taking my calls. You didn’t get anyone to talk?”

  “No go, Herb.”

  “Fucking seen it on TV last night, Harry. They were all over it.”

  I realised I hadn’t heard the news, or seen a newspaper, in nearly two days.

  “They talk to anyone?”

  “No. It was a short report, long-range shots of the house, the usual shite.”

  “So what are you complaining about?”

  “It’ll be dead in the water if we don’t do something, that’s what. Yesterday’s fucking news, Harry.”

  “I know, Herb. But I can’t sell the story unless there’s an angle, something to hang it on. They’ll laugh me off the phone otherwise.”

  “What are you talking about, angle? Sell them the facts. Just type it up, fuck the poetry. Tell it like it happened.”

  “We don’t know what happened. Besides, the Sundays pay better, and they love the kinky stuff. I say we stick it out, stay awake, hit one of the Sundays for a spread. Do the shots some justice.”

  It was a curve ball, appealing to his vanity. He didn’t even swing.

  “Something you’re not telling me, Harry?”

  I didn’t answer. He’d have thought I was insane if I told him that I didn’t want to dig too deep around Imelda Sheridan because, no matter how ludicrous it sounded, gut instinct told me Gonzo was involved. But then Herbie was one of the lucky ones, Herbie had never met Gonzo.

  Plus, I didn’t know how Frank Conway and Tony Sheridan fitted together, or how close, or what kind of cesspit might turn up if I dug in the wrong place.

  Plus, I was stiff, sore and tired, in no mood to answer to anyone, least of all Herbie.

  “Harry?”

  “I got laid last night, Herb. Which makes two nights in a row, first time in about five years. That’s what I wasn’t telling you. Happy now?”

  “Harry –”

  “I’ll buzz you later, Herb. Sit tight.”

  I smoked a couple of cigarettes, sifted through the events of the last twenty-four hours. Brady and Galway, Conway and Sheridan, the Three Stooges – they loomed large, shadows up a wall. I closed my eyes, bumped them around, trying to get them to fit. It didn’t work, mainly because Helen Conway kept distracting me, svelte for her age in something black and silk with a suicidal neckline. The dodgems kept on bumping until Brady took offence at Conway digging him the elbow and a bare-knuckle brawl broke out.

  I left them to it, wondered how much Helen Conway knew about her husband’s sideline in narcotics. The bank accounts suggested she was up to speed, but that kind of evidence is circumstantial at best and slander at worst. Besides, Helen Conway didn’t come across as the kind of woman who had recently discovered the high li
fe. Helen Conway had been born in the stratosphere, six miles clear and rising.

  There was a knock on the door some time around three. Katie poked her head in. When she saw I was alone she came all the way. She was holding two Styrofoam cups.

  “Coffee? My treat?”

  “Sure. Pull up a pew.”

  She sat down, lit a cigarette. Fiddled with her lighter while I rolled a twist.

  “What happened your face?”

  “I fell leaving the pub. Sobered me up enough to get Dutchie to drive.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said, a rueful tone. I got the impression she had something to say, that she was embarrassed about having to say it. I also got the impression that Katie wasn’t used to being embarrassed. Hence the fidgeting, the faint puce tinge at her cheekbones. She spoke quickly.

  “What I said last night…” The puce deepened to a rosy pink. “I was drunk. That’s not my style.”

  I shrugged, magnanimous as all hell.

  “Don’t beat yourself up. Women find me irresistible. Desperate ones, mainly.”

  “Thanks a lot. Now I’m desperate?”

  “Desperate enough to give me your phone number.”

  “That’s desperate.”

  “Thanks yourself.”

  She smiled, and the embarrassment seeped away. The storm struck again, fast enough to leave us becalmed in its eye.

  “So how is… Bren?” she asked. Her stare was bold, slightly mocking.

  “Ben. He’s fine, no deterioration in the last twenty-four hours.”

  She got into it.

  “Did you remember anything about Tony Sheridan you’d forgotten yesterday?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Hear any more about Imelda?”

  I shook my head. She bristled.

  “Is this the tough-guy routine again, Harry? Because if it is –”

  “No kidding, something else came up, something that’s more likely to pay the bills. The story’s all yours, knock yourself out. If you pull something out of the bag I’ll put you in touch with Herbie, with the shots. I won’t even charge consultancy.”

  “Can you give me some names? People I could talk to?”

  “I’ll give you the names of people I don’t mind pissing off. Some of them might even know what they’re talking about. You want to check anything they say, get back to me. Again, no fee.”

  “This other job,” she said, as I jotted down some names and numbers. “It must be paying well when you’re throwing freebies around.”

  “It’s the festive spirit. Stick around, you might even get a compliment.”

  “I’d prefer hard information. No offence.”

  “None taken.”

  She took the list of names and numbers, stubbed her cigarette, checked her watch. She got up, shouldered her bag and stretched, stifling a yawn. Her blouse tightened in all the right places.

  “I’d better be getting on. Any plans for later?”

  “Just the one – to stay away from flirty brunettes with cleavage to spare.”

  Her eyes narrowed, mock serious.

  “That was a compliment, right?”

  “That was hard information. No offence.”

  “None taken. See you around.”

  “Take care, Katie.”

  She left, but not like she had a train to catch. Five o’clock came and went. I rang Herbie.

  “Harry!” He’d been into the coke again. “What’re you up to?”

  “Just winding up now. Any word?”

  “The whole fucking dictionary. Can you get over here?”

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “Surf’s up, Harry. We hit the jackpot.”

  “Nice one, Herb. I’ll be over in about ten minutes.”

  I was halfway to the car park when I remembered Denise had the car. Then I remembered I hadn’t told Denise about the Chinese dinner Dutchie and Michelle had planned. Fumbled in my inside pocket for the mobile, then trudged back to the office, cursing Brady every step of the way.

  Denise wasn’t home so I left a message on the machine, be ready for eight, and headed for Herbie’s. Flurries of sleet were coming down with the dusk, quick gusts that caused the orange streetlights to flicker and dull. The streets were wet so it wasn’t sticking, which was a shame, I’d promised Ben a snowman for Christmas. But then, even kids stop keeping count after the first broken promise.

  Herbie’s house was sauna warm, almost humid. It was always the same, winter or summer, the heating on full blast to nurture the crop in the attic. Herbie wandered around the house barefoot, in T-shirt and cut-off jeans, a stranded beach bum who hadn’t been on a beach in maybe five years. There was no one around to cop him on, either. Herbie lived on his own, early twenties with no visible source of income, holding down a three-bedroom house just off Fortfield, Upmarketsville. No one asked where he got the money to live like that. No one cared, either. So long as Herbie could pay his own way no one gave a damn where the money came from. In one way, that was a good thing. In lots of other ways, it didn’t bode at all well.

  He answered the door wearing shades, a spliff smouldering. Better still, his death metal T-shirt had ‘First Served, First Cum’ scrawled across the chest.

  “Classy stuff, Herb.”

  “Whatever.” There was something on his mind. “That camera, Harry?”

  “What about it?”

  “That my camera?”

  “I know you wouldn’t trust it with anyone else.”

  “Fucking wondering where that got to. State of the art, that camera.”

  He handed me a cold beer, took me upstairs to his computer room. The camera was sitting on the desk, so I slipped it into my pocket while he was printed out Frank Conway’s file. I figured I was doing him a favour, both of us using it. I like to see people get value for money.

  He handed me a sheaf of papers, Frank Conway’s details. A quick scan revealed nothing of note. His finances weren’t as healthy as I’d presumed they’d be, providing Dutchie’s information on Conway’s real-estate ventures was on the ball, but they weren’t so sick they needed therapy either. There was a blip of about a year-and-a-half, where nothing showed up, which suggested Frank Conway had gone to ground, but so far they haven’t decided that that’s against the law.

  “So, what?”

  He sat down at the computer, clicked the mouse. A murky image came up on screen, two people walking through a wood, obscured by a huge golf umbrella. It was the Ice Queen and her beau at Hughes Point, although I’d never have known if I hadn’t been the one behind the lens. The fact that I hadn’t been able to use the flash didn’t help.

  “That,” he said, “is about as useful as a blind hippy.”

  “No argument.”

  “But this,” he said, clicking the mouse again, “was a little more interesting.” Another image came up on screen. It was the picnic area, deserted except for the big Volvo on the other side of the clearing. The picture was dark, the evening a lot gloomier than I remembered.

  “I know they were driving a Volvo, Herb.”

  He used the mouse to square off the Volvo. Another click doubled the squared-off image in size, maintaining the clarity of the original. Another couple of clicks and I was able to tell that the Volvo was navy blue, there was a dent in the front bumper, the seat covers were composed of tightly strung wooden beads and the driver liked wine gums. All we were missing was the chassis number.

  “I ran a check on the registration,” he said, smug.

  “Really?” I patted him on the shoulder. “I’d have tried tracing the seat covers myself.”

  He rose above it, on a roll.

  “The car is registered to one Della McGowan. Address: The Priory, Foynes Hill.”

  I stared at him. I was getting a bad feeling.

  “Herb – who’s Della McGowan?”

  “McGowan was her maiden name.”

  “And now it’s…?”

  “Sheridan.”

  “Della Sheridan? Imelda
Sheridan? The car is Imelda fucking Sheridan’s?”

  “Was,” he corrected.

  “You’re winding me up.”

  This time he shook his head.

  “Jesus, Herb. Tony Sheridan’s banging Helen Conway?”

  “Unless the car was stolen. By the way.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s this Helen Conway?”

  “You don’t want to know. Trust me. Anyway, Tony Sheridan is enough.”

  “Isn’t he, though?”

  Herbie knew as well as I did that Tony Sheridan was in the social pages more often than he was in the Dail. Which was ironic, considering that he was one of three independent TDs the government was relying on to maintain its narrow majority. If Frank Conway sued for divorce and named Tony as the respondent, the story would make the Six-One News and the front page of every paper in the country, The Catholic Herald included. And it wasn’t inconceivable that his resignation – which would be inevitable given Tony’s cornpone pronouncements on the moral integrity of the family unit – could help to bring down the government.

  A sweat broke out on my back that had nothing to do with Herbie’s attic crop. Suddenly the hammering I’d been given didn’t seem as excessive as it had the night before.

  “Wipe the file.”

  “What?”

  “Wipe it, Herb. Hit delete. Everything you’ve given me, lose it.”

  “But this is the angle, the hook. The fucking spread, Harry!”

  “Trust me, Herb.”

  I told him about the beating, pulled up my shirt.

  “Fucking hell.”

  “That was when they thought I was just sniffing around. If they get a whiff that you can hook Helen Conway to Tony Sheridan, they’ll be around quick smart. Wipe it.”

  “You’re going to bury it?”

  “You’d rather we buried Ben?”

  He wiped it.

  “So what happens now?”

  “What happens now is you get paid. Then we keep our mouths shut and hope we don’t find anything else.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We went back downstairs. I put my jacket back on, tucking the printouts into my inside pocket.

  “Fancy a quick toke?”

  “Christ, no. My head’s fucked up enough as it is.”

  “I can imagine.”