Eightball Boogie by Declan Burke (Harry Rigby)

by Declan Burke

  Brady picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail.

  “Yes and no.”

  “Yes and no?”

  “Fact is, there is no coke. As far as Sheridan knows, he’s reeling in a deal with Galway. We’re not sure how much to kick off with, but we think it’s in the region of half a million. That’s what Sheridan thinks. We know Galway doesn’t have a half million in coke, because no one could turn a blind eye to that much gear going missing.”

  I wasn’t surprised. I had all the blind eyes going.

  “So Galway hears that some bloke wants to exploit a niche in the market. He throws out some hooks and Sheridan bites, they set up a deal.”

  “But there’s no coke.”

  “But there’s no coke. That’s where Eddie comes in. Eddie puts the bounce on Sheridan, tells him he won’t go public about the coke if everything’s kept sweet. Sheridan does his sums and reckons its still worth it. Eddie takes the money and runs, splits it down the middle with Galway, they’re laughing. Sheridan’s left twisting in the wind and not a dry fucking eye in the house. Who’s he going to call, Ghostbusters?”

  My stomach turned over.

  “Except Sheridan doesn’t play ball.”

  “Which is when Eddie pays his wife a visit, and she winds up with a hole in her throat.”

  I noodled that around, trying to work out how I should feel. Nothing suggested itself.

  “I still don’t see where I come into it.”

  “Wake up, Rigby. You were the fall guy. Galway put Conway onto you so you’d start digging on his wife. When Imelda Sheridan gets investigated, you’re the man with the blackmail motive, the negatives to prove it.”

  “And Gonzo put Galway wise about me.”

  “Correct.”

  I was going to vomit. Three nights running, it was a record.

  “So how come they turned on Gonzo?”

  “No one turned on him. Eddie took too many pills. Shit happens.”

  “Convenient. Who took the pop at me?”

  “Galway.”

  “Galway?”

  “Not Galway himself, he wouldn’t get his hands dirty. But it was his call.”

  Something in his tone gave it away.

  “You knew? Brady? You fucking knew he was going to take a pop? You sat back and let him try to fucking kill me?”

  “Relax, Rigby. Jesus.”

  “Relax? You cunt, I’ll fucking –”

  I was halfway across the seat, not knowing what I was going to do when I got all the way there, when he bounced the butt against my temple. I slumped back in the seat, shaking.

  “Yeah I knew, of course I fucking knew, I jarked the fucking gun myself. Only for me you’d be slabbed out. So get fucking grateful and do it fast.”

  My voice sounded hollow.

  “There’s no way you could have done that without clearance from upstairs.”

  There was another pause. When he spoke he sounded slightly robotic.

  “We are encouraged to show initiative in the field.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He abandoned the pretence.

  “Believe what you want, Rigby, I give a fuck. You’re alive, stop whinging.”

  I rolled another smoke, trying to think.

  “So what happens now?”

  “What happens now is we find Galway. Sheridan took Conway out, so Galway’s next, which is why Galway is running scared. We figure he’ll lie low for a couple of days, bail out of the country with the rush after New Year’s. We need to get to him before he gets out. Once we have him, we’ll have Sheridan testify that Galway was in cahoots with Conway. Galway won’t squeak about Sheridan and the coke, because we’ll cop him a plea that gets him off the Imelda Sheridan beef, which Gonzo wears.”

  “And Sheridan?”

  “He gets an amnesty for testifying.”

  “And for knowing the right people to testify to.”

  “Something like that, yeah.” He sucked his teeth. “You still have that number I gave you?”

  “Engraved on my heart. You know they’re trying to kill me and you’re not going to do anything about it?”

  “You had your chance. Yesterday morning, you had all the chances in the world. Now the gig’s fucked you’re coming crying to me? When I can nail Galway?”

  “Jesus.” I felt sick, deflated. “You want his job that bad?”

  Brady checked his watch.

  “You’re a smart fucker, Rigby, work this one out. Eight years ago I’m called out to this gig in Darndale. There’s been a shooting, non-fatal as far as we know. I’m two years on the job, looking to get on, so I’m first through the door. This junkie is lying on the floor in the front room, blood pumping. I’m on my knees with a cushion stuck against the hole and my hands covered in blood before I even think about the AIDS thing.” He shrugged. “I got lucky. Ten months later the junkie’s in some granny’s window and she wakes up long enough for her ticker to give out. He got fourteen quid from her purse, she got a few hymns and a thank fuck from her kids, who’ve better things to be doing than listen to her gripe. The junkie gets eighteen months, aggravated assault, and he’s back on the streets before the granny’s stiff. So fuck you and your junkies and rapists and scumbags.”

  “They’re not mine, Brady.”

  “Yeah, and they’re not mine either. That’s what’s wrong with this fucking hole of a country, no one gives a fuck, someone else’ll take care of it. Then the shit comes down and you come looking to me, expect me to give a fuck. Well, I give a fuck, Rigby. Fuck you, that’s the fuck I give. I’m ten years in this gig, haven’t moved up since the junkie offed the granny. Galway’s job’ll pay the bills and a whole lot more besides. All you give me is a pain in the hole. Besides, you’re smart, maybe too smart for your own good. You’ll lie low until this has blown over.”

  He gave me one last blast of his evil smile.

  “You hear from Galway,” he said, winking, “give me a bell. Regards to the wife and kid.”

  Then he was gone. I threw open the car door and vomited something thin and stringy. Dragged myself back into the car, slumped in the seat, wasted some time trying to square what I knew with Brady’s revelations. Then I gave up, mainly because I was too smart for my own good. Too smart not to meet with the pros at any rate.

  23

  I drove through the deserted streets, stereo on full blast, the Pixies threatening to blow out the windows. Adrenaline, the cleanest drug of them all, charged through my veins. By the time I pulled in opposite The Odeon I was ready. Ready for what, I wasn’t so sure. But I was as ready as I was ever going to be.

  The Odeon loomed into the night sky, four storeys, glowering down, as if I was mocking it by turning up at its doors. It had been an imposing building once, its foyer boasting a vaulted ceiling, gothic fittings decorated in gold flake. The auditorium sat two hundred, most of whom came to see a movie that didn’t necessarily involve helicopter chases and exploding buildings, as was generally the choice on the six screens of the Omniplex on the other side of town. Its main claim to fame, though, was that when the lights went up the double seats in the rear section under the balcony had to be swabbed down.

  The health authority had closed the Odeon about ten years back. The official reason was, people wouldn’t get value for money watching a movie while rats scampered across the back of the worn velvet seats. The real reason was, the secretary of the health authority was a trustee on the board of the Omniplex.

  It was only when I got to the door that I realised I didn’t know what the etiquette was. Knocking seemed a bit twee, and standing out in the snow wasn’t going to achieve anything except maybe get Katie killed. I stood there for what felt like an aeon, feeling useless, stupid and bone-deep tired. But stupid, mostly.

  The bells of The Friary at the top of the street rang ten o’clock. The sound had shivered away on the frosty air before the door swung open, hinges creaking. I couldn’t see anything in the darkness beyond but I took a deep breath, slipped through
the gap. An iron hand gripped the scruff of my neck, pushed me against the wall, grinding my face into the mildewed, mushy wallpaper. Something cold and hard touched the base of my skull.

  “Move and I’ll kill you.”

  There was no menace in his voice. He was matter-of-fact, like the last time, when he’d been when talking about Ben.

  “Hands against the wall.”

  He ran a practised hand up both inside legs, inside the fleece top and Puffa, around my waist, under the shoulders.

  “Turn around.”

  I turned, keeping my hands high on the off chance that he might think I’d try anything insane, like resistance. He didn’t look at my face. I didn’t look at his. I looked down the barrel of the cannon in his hand. Looked at the hand, which had been grafted on from the wrist of a corpse. He patted the pockets of the Puffa with the other hand, reached inside, came up holding Gonzo’s mobile.

  “Want a go?” I asked. “Dial 999. Shortest number there is.”

  He smiled, turned the phone off, slipped it back inside my pocket. Stepped back, clicked the safety catch on, cuffed me above the ear. When I was able to stand up again, he clicked the safety off and pushed me ahead of him across the vast foyer.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he said.

  I shut the fuck up. He pushed me through a swing door on the far side of the foyer, ignoring the worn sign that said Staff Only. Beyond the door was a rusting spiral staircase. The dust on the floor was thick enough for footprints, and there was a musty smell that made me want to gag, a thick aroma that suggested the disgruntled staff hadn’t swabbed down the night The Odeon finally closed its doors.

  The staircase led to a tiny landing, a door marked Projection Room. He prodded me between the shoulders with the gun; I pushed through the swing door, blinking at the bright light. A huge, moth-eaten tarpaulin half-covered the old projector against the far wall. There were some tea chests behind the door, markings obliterated, a couple of spindly stools. Old movie posters hung in tatters on the walls. I recognised True Romance and Wild at Heart but the rest were too badly rotted to make out. Cobwebs swayed in the breeze caused by the swinging door. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Miss Havisham had stood up, brushed down her wedding dress and come forward to greet me.

  Helen Conway did, which didn’t surprise me at all. Wearing a three-quarters length coat, black with white fur trim on the cuffs and collar, a high-necked ivory-tinted blouse in material that shimmered as she moved. Tastefully understated they most certainly were, widow’s weeds they were not. She smiled, eyes sparkling. Her voice was dry, husky.

  “It’s a small world, Mr Rigby.”

  “Yeah, but I’d hate to have to hoover it. My condolences on your husband, by the way.”

  The smile snapped in two. She stepped up, slapped me hard across the face. It sounded like a pistol-shot in the enclosed space, which was just about when I realised the projector room would have been soundproofed back in the good old days. I took my hat off to her. There are better places to deal with reluctant interviewees than a soundproofed room four stories up in a deserted building. But if your finances don’t stretch to chartering a jet to a Siberian gulag, the projector room of an abandoned cinema will do just as well. The pro growled.

  “I told you to shut the fuck up.”

  “It’s manners to speak when you’re spoken to. You alright?” This last to Katie, hunched on a tea chest opposite Tony Sheridan, who was sitting beside the projector. She didn’t look all right, not by a long shot, not unless you consider abject desolation an acceptable mental state. Her hands were tied behind her back, face flushed, eyes raw and bloodshot. She’d looked up hopefully when I entered the room but now her head hung low, the peek-a-boo bob obscuring her face, her faith in my ability to rescue her matched by everyone else in the room, myself included. The bob didn’t obscure her neck and throat, though, or the ugly red welts that disfigured both. “Katie? You okay?”

  “She’s okay,” the Ice Queen purred. “She’s young and healthy. She’ll live.”

  She turned on her heel, walked back to the projector, footsteps echoing. Sat down on the tea chest beside Tony Sheridan, dusting it off first, lit a cigarette. Katie jumped at the clink-flick of her lighter, eyes bulging, staring at the smouldering end of the cigarette. Tony Sheridan was hunched over, hands jammed in the pockets of his overcoat, glum.

  “Bad night for canvassing, Tone.”

  He looked up, not at me but at the pro, and nodded. This time the pro cuffed me properly. I stayed down for the full count but even so I had double vision when he dragged me back to my feet. That made two Tony Sheridans, two pros, two Helen Conways and two Katies, which was bad news. Plan A was based on getting one Katie out of there, and I was pretty sure Plan A wasn’t going to cut the mustard. I went into my spiel anyway.

  “This is the way I see it.” The words sounded thick in my mouth. “Galway is fucking me as much as he’s fucking you. Whatever problem you have is with him, not me. And not her, either.”

  The indifference was Homeric.

  “What I said this morning still plays. No one fucks with me and that camera stays buried. Everything else that’s happened, I won’t even remember it in the morning. Kids do that, play havoc with your memory. Things happen and then I talk to Ben after, I can’t remember what happened before. Not a fucking thing.”

  Tony Sheridan examined his fingernails. The Ice Queen stared at Katie. Katie stared at the floor. I might as well have been saying grace before meals. Finally Helen Conway spoke.

  “That’s an interesting story, Mr Rigby. Unfortunately, we don’t have time for fairy tales.”

  “I’m not –”

  “We know we can’t trust you.” She picked her words carefully. “We also know that you offered a deal this morning that you have since welched on. I didn’t agree with the deal at the time but –”

  “I haven’t welched on any deal. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Francis told me about your phone call, Mr Rigby. We know how much you want. We’re simply not prepared to pay it.” She made a throwaway gesture with her hand that could have meant anything and nothing at all. “The fact remains that you cannot be trusted. So, this time, we do things my way.”

  “It must have been Galway made that call. He’s fucking with you.”

  She wasn’t listening. She dropped her cigarette, stubbed it out with a delicate size three.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The camera, Mr Rigby. The camera.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Who has it?”

  “No one has it.”

  “You won’t give us the camera?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  She stood up, moved across to Katie, untied her hands. Katie rubbed at her wrists, trying to get the circulation back into her fingers. The Ice Queen helped her, taking Katie’s left wrist, rubbing the back of the hand.

  “Nice hands,” she said, thoughtful. “I used to have hands like that. Soft and smooth.” She picked out a finger, the second smallest on Katie’s left hand. “There should be a ring on that finger,” she said. Then she snapped it.

  The piercing scream went through me for a shortcut. I started forward but a blow from behind brought me to my senses, eventually, face down in the dust. The pro dragged me to my feet again, quicker this time, getting better with practice. He touched the gun against the back of my thigh.

  “Next time, I’ll blow your fucking knee out.”

  The bone in Katie’s finger was sticking out at a ninety-degree angle to the second joint. She was sobbing hard, moaning some word I couldn’t understand, pawing at Helen Conway’s arm. The Ice Queen stroked the back of Katie’s hand, making it impossible for her to pull it away without causing herself unimaginable pain.

  “I’m not accustomed to torture, Mr Rigby,” she said. I could hardly hear her over the drone of Katie’s sobbing. “But I do know this is not torture. Every time I break
a bone, the agony subsides to a level that can be tolerated. Even now, Katie’s body has forgotten the intensity of the pain, because our bodies have no physical recollection process. All that is left is the fear that it will happen again, and fear can be conquered.”

  “I’ve told you –”

  “Ideally, torture should involve the gradual increase of pain, to the point that the victim will do anything to be released. This isn’t ideal, but...”

  She checked her watch.

  “We’ve been here five minutes already. For each minute we are here from now, I will break another finger. Every time I hear a wrong answer, I will break another finger. Now – where is it?”

  “I don’t –”

  Crack.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Crack. Tony Sheridan studied the floor.

  “I don’t fucking have –”

  Crack.

  Katie’s howls were coming in waves, from somewhere deep inside, somewhere where her survival instincts still held sway.

  “You stupid bitch!” I was raving, waving my arms like a loon. The pro’s gun bored into the back of my thigh. “I don’t fucking have it here!”

  She finally got the message. By then Katie’s hand was a swollen, shapeless lump. The fingers stuck out at odd angles. Her sobs were the dry heaves of an agony I couldn’t begin to imagine. Helen Conway said: “Where is it?”

  “It’s in the car! Jesus Christ…”

  She stared, cool.

  “I do believe,” she said, “that we have over-estimated Mr Rigby.” Tony Sheridan looked up for the first time, his glum expression giving way to grim satisfaction, a look that made me sick to my stomach. Machiavelli wasn’t a patch on Tony Sheridan. “And where is the car?”

  “Outside. It’s outside.”

  “It’s outside,” she repeated. “The camera is in the car, which is outside, and you didn’t bring it with you? My God, we have been guilty of over-estimating you. You’re not very bright at all, Mr Rigby, are you? Are you sure Eddie is your brother?”

  She nodded at the pro. He marched me out the door, down the stairs across the foyer. When we got to the front door he said: “Where’s the car?”