Eightball Boogie by Declan Burke (Harry Rigby)

by Declan Burke

  “Across the street.”

  He grunted.

  “You got that much right, anyway.”

  Then he turned me around to face him. He held up the gun, in case I’d forgotten about it, then he slipped his hand into his pocket. The barrel bulged against the fabric. He looked like Bogie spoofing on Edward G. Robinson. I didn’t laugh.

  “Don’t try anything stupid.”

  “No worries. I’m all out of stupid.”

  “Says you.”

  We crossed the deserted street to the car, crunching snow. I slid in behind the steering wheel, leaned across the handbrake, pulling down the door of the glove compartment. Cursing myself as I pawed through the envelopes, sweet wrappers and empty water bottles. Plan A couldn’t have fallen apart quicker if I’d poured battery acid on it, and I was under no illusions that Helen Conway was letting us walk away from the projection room. We weren’t walking away, we weren’t crawling away and we weren’t going be carried out on stretchers. The only way we were leaving the projection room was in body bags.

  The Ice Queen had overestimated me, and I’d returned the favour by underestimating her and Tony Sheridan. Even after the machine gun on the bridge, I still thought they’d have played by the rules. They were playing by one rule, though, and that rule was, there were no rules. I should have listened to Dutchie. Even knowing that Dutchie had sold me out – especially knowing that Dutchie had sold me out – I should have listened to him, heard what he was trying to say. ‘What’s Plan B?’ Dutchie wanted to know.

  “Come on, for fucks sakes,” the pro growled. He bent down to see what the delay was and my hand closed on the worn butt of a stubby Plan B.

  I didn’t stop to think. The last thirty-six hours I’d tried to plan, working it out step by step. Getting Denise and Ben to safety, confronting Big Frank, leading Brady a merry dance while he chased me the length and breadth of the country. And all that planning had walked me into a death trap, because the only issue in doubt if I handed over the camera was who would put the bullet in the back of my head.

  I started to back out of the car. The pro took a step back to let me out and he should have taken two, because by then I was in his face, inside his reach, the .38 grinding into his throat, my arm around his neck, pulling him onto the barrel.

  “I’ll kill you, you cunt. I’ll fucking kill you!” I was snarling, grinding teeth, eyes wild. We were forehead-to-forehead, close enough to kiss, and I couldn’t give him time to think. His first instinct had to be that I’d lost it, that I was willing to do whatever it took, and that he was first in line for whatevering. “Drop it or I will blow your fucking head off.”

  There was a dull clunk, his gun hitting snow. I didn’t breathe. I ground my forehead into his, in case he tried to butt me.

  “Put your hands behind your head. Real fucking slow.”

  He did it, fear in his eyes. He’d been in this situation before, from the other side of the gun, knew the procedure.

  “On your knees. Real slow.”

  He started to dip, bending his knees. When his forehead reached the level of my nose, I swung my knee full force into his groin. He went down squealing, sprawled out on the snow, face down. Buckled as he was, he still reached for his gun; I didn’t make a game of it. I drew a boot on the side of his head, connected so well he ricocheted off the car door. He curled into a ball, groaning. I flicked his gun away with the side of my foot and booted him again, this time full in the face, crunching bone. He scrabbled to one side, a giant roach as he tried to crawl under the car. I moved away, picked up his gun, checked the safety catch. It was off. I put the .38 into my pocket. His gun was heavier, but not so heavy I couldn’t carry the extra weight.

  “Get up. On your knees.”

  He tried, blood pumping from his face, a pink stain seeping into the snow. I thought of Gonzo in the toilets of the kebab house.

  “Get the fuck up! Now.”

  He pushed himself to his knees, leaning back against the car door, whimpering. I moved in, inching it, hooked an arm around his throat, dug the gun into the side of his neck. He lurched to his feet, staggered forward. I went with him, then jerked my arm tight around his throat.

  “You know, I’ve never done this before. And that’s not good news, because it means I could do anything, anything at all. The smallest twitch, a trip or a stumble, and the gun’ll go off and your head’ll come off with it.” I tightened the chokehold again. “Hear me?”

  He grunted.

  “One step at a time. Go.”

  He went. I pushed him through the cinema doors, across the foyer, holding him close. We went up the rickety stairs side-by-side, which was awkward, but we managed. I pulled him up short on the tiny landing outside the projection room.

  “Move and I’ll do it. And I want to do it. You know I want to do it. Yeah?”

  He nodded.

  “If everyone plays ball we’re out of here. Nothing stupid and everyone walks away. Hear me?”

  Again he nodded.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  We pushed through the projection room door. The Ice Queen turned to greet us and her smile died so fast it went happy. Tony Sheridan started up off the tea chest. Katie looked up, still sobbing, a bewildered expression creasing her face. No one spoke. I realised they were waiting on me.

  “Get up, Katie. Over here.”

  She stood, tottering, made to move towards the door. Without looking, Helen Conway put out a hand to bar her way.

  “I’ll kill him,” I said, tightening my chokehold on the pro. “Don’t doubt it.”

  Katie made to brush past Helen Conway’s arm, cradling her warped hand, but the Ice Queen was made of sterner stuff. So was her voice. The husky chuckle was gone, replaced with a monotone you could have knocked sparks off.

  “I wouldn’t, honey,” she warned Katie. “He’s the one we want. Don’t pick the wrong side now.”

  Katie hesitated, looked at me. I looked at Helen Conway. My plan, if that was the right word for it, had been to get Katie out and then back myself out of the room. Now that the bluff had failed, I had no idea of what happened next. The Ice Queen was first to speak.

  “It would seem,” she said, moving to her right, behind Katie, “that we didn’t underestimate you after all.”

  “You’ve seen too many Bond films. Move again and I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

  She was gliding towards the far wall.

  “I believe you, Mr Rigby. Really, I do.” She reached the wall, holding Katie by the elbow. I watched her from the corner of my eye, keeping the other on Tony Sheridan. He hadn’t moved. “In fact, I’m willing to offer you a deal. We’ll pay your price for the camera.”

  I didn’t believe a word. I’d seen it too often in the movies, where the bad guy talks you into a corner and then, just when you’re least expecting it, he whips out a knife and takes an ear off. Or maybe it’s a gun, and you’re blown into the emergency ward, or the morgue. The Ice Queen was still moving, though, and there was nothing I could do about it. Either she reckoned I was bluffing about pulling the trigger on the pro, or she didn’t care about him either way. She was wrong about the first – I wasn’t sure when, but I’d crossed some line I hadn’t even known existed.

  I was right about the second.

  “How much?” I asked, buying time, still watching Tony Sheridan. Helen Conway I could deal with, even if she was now out of my field of vision, against the far wall. “That camera was worth a neat pile a couple of hours ago and inflation’s a bitch. Right now I’d say it’s worth –”

  I’ve never been kicked in the ribs by a rogue elephant but I won’t have to go on safari to know how it feels. I took off like a burst balloon and hit the ground two seconds short of the land speed record, the pro sprawled across me.

  I hadn’t bargained on Helen Conway carrying a gun. If I’d thought about it, maybe, I’d have considered it a possibility, but I hadn’t even thought about it, mainly because I need keyhole surgery to get idea
s into my head. But she had a gun. Once she had a clear shot, a position where the danger to the pro was minimised, she’d let fly. Minimised, but not entirely neutralised. He’d taken the bullet. I’d taken everything it had left over, which was enough to save my life. The impact pitched us both across the room into the middle of the tea chests.

  As soon as I hit the ground, the Ice Queen started snapping off shots. I scrabbled around, desperately trying to manoeuvre myself under the dead man. Splinters of wood, metal and celluloid flew as I tried to bury myself in the floor. The noise was deafening, so loud I couldn’t even hear myself scream. I was a dead man, as dead as the pro on my chest. I knew it – felt it – it was only a matter of time before a bullet finally found me.

  Time comes in split seconds, infinitesimal moments. Somewhere, sometime, in a parallel universe, that split second arrived; the bullet found me and the cosmos ceased to be. Back on planet Rigby, another split second arrived. One of the tea chests toppled over, giving me a clear view of the Ice Queen along the barrel of the pro’s gun, her head suspended above the sight like a coconut at a shy. Never mind your Grand Canyons, your newborn babies or your tropical sunsets – the sight of the Ice Queen’s grim features resting on the barrel of the gun was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. I realised that I hadn’t flipped the safety catch off. Then I heard a twenty-one-gun salute and the Ice Queen buckled sideways, disappeared from sight.

  I rolled to one side, aiming to get as far under the tea chests as possible. I had no idea where Helen Conway was or what she was doing, but I had a fair idea she wasn’t ringing out for wreaths. And then I heard, dimly, through the pealing bells, the voice of God.

  “Son? You alright, son?”

  I peered over the tea chest. Baluba Joe was standing in the doorway, taller than I remembered him. Shoulders back, still wearing the grimy greatcoat, the soiled pants, the black beret. His right arm was extended, the old Colt .45 at the end of it pointed at the Ice Queen’s face. She didn’t seem offended, too busy trying to push her guts back into the hole in her side.

  Katie was hunched in a corner, face to the wall, holding her crippled hand by the wrist. I pushed the tea chest away, staggered to my feet, legs shaking, breathing hard. My eyes were streaming from the stench of cordite, which was good, because it meant I couldn’t focus on the dead pro as I

  stepped over him. Tony Sheridan had jammed himself between the projector and far wall, hands over his ears. I prodded him with the gun.

  “Get up, you bastard.”

  He looked at me, fearful, not fully comprehending. Or maybe he didn’t hear me properly, my ears were ringing so badly I hardly heard myself. I jerked the gun at him. Still he didn’t move, so I cracked him one with the butt of the gun. I hit maybe harder than I had hit anything before in my life, the adrenaline coursing. He slumped, didn’t move. Blood ebbed from his temple. I cracked him another one, for luck.

  Katie’s face was blank and white, all colour drained. She looked to be in shock. I hunkered down beside her.

  “Katie? You okay? Katie?”

  She didn’t answer, gaze riveted on the Ice Queen. I stood up, wiggled the pro’s gun at her.

  “Kick it over here.”

  She didn’t hear me. She too looked to be in shock, still trying to hold in the spaghetti of guts that overflowed her hands. I walked across, picked her gun up, slipped it deep into the pocket of the fleece. Then I went to the doorway. The Colt .45 must have weighed a ton but his arm didn’t waver. He said, soft: “How you doing, son?”

  “Fine, Joe. Now the cavalry is here.”

  His eyes were still wide, blue and wild but at least he’d made an attempt to comb his hair. He said: “What happens now?”

  “What happens now is you go home. I’ll look after it from here.”

  “There’s more?”

  “It’s only getting started, Joe. But I’m getting the hang of it, fast.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, son. You never get the hang of it.” He gestured at Helen Conway and Tony Sheridan. “But whatever it is, you don’t need these catching up with you at the wrong time.”

  “No thanks, Joe. It’s bad enough, me getting you caught up in it. From now on it’s my rap.”

  “You’ll do what you’re told, son. And I’m telling you to fuck off and do whatever you have to do. I’ll just sit here and have a smoke, wait’ll I hear the all clear.”

  “Your call, Joe.”

  “My call, son.”

  I helped Katie up, put an arm around her shoulders, which were shaking almost as hard as my own.

  “We’re going to get you to a hospital, Katie. Okay?”

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t seem to be aware of my presence, still staring at Helen Conway. When I tried to move her towards the door she resisted, reached for the gun in my hand. I held it away, out of her reach. The Ice Queen was slipping fast, shaking hard, pain eating into the shock, blood ebbing out into the kind of pool that has a deep end. She glared, baleful. I looked away, more important things to do than be turned to stone.

  I checked on Tony Sheridan. He was still panned out. I cracked him another one, in case he was playing possum. Then I led Katie out of the room, patted Joe on the shoulder in passing. He didn’t acknowledge me. Helen Conway watched us go, face ugly with loathing. I winked at her.

  “Sorry about the hole. A good girl like you, Santa’s bound to bring bandages.”

  She spat something, through bubbles of blood. I made a wish. It was my third new expletive in as many days.

  24

  The bells of The Friary were ringing for midnight mass, the sound coming sharp in the clear night air. The cold air started me coughing, which brought up blood, but then that’s a sixty-a-day hazard.

  I helped Katie into the car and got in, tugged up the jacket, checked the wound. The bullet hitting the pro had opened the hole again; blood was leaking from under the bandage, weak and thin. I watched it ooze, not feeling any pain. It was just the way things were, something else to deal with it, to get past.

  I eased the car down the street, leaving it in second gear, letting gravity do the work. The snow was slick with frost, thick enough to keep all but the most dedicated penitents from venturing out, which meant The Friary would have a higher ratio of drunks to God-fearing Catholics than usual. It was a good time to get Katie to emergency, before the winos started shuffling up the Mall, looking for a warm bed for the night that was in it. I met no traffic on the drive through town.

  Katie stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Cradling her swollen fist, whimpering when her hand moved. Her complexion was cream cheese, the orange mop of hair in shocking contrast to the pale below. She seemed oblivious.

  In the hospital car park, I leaned across and touched her cheek. She didn’t flinch. I was tempted to touch the ugly welts on her throat but I got out the car, locked it, crunched through the snow to the hospital. I knew it was callous thing to do, leaving her alone. I knew that. I didn’t feel it.

  The antiseptic smell washed over me when the automatic doors slid back, the blast of heat giving me goose bumps. The girl behind the reception desk was mid-twenties, homely, eyeing me over a pair of half-moon glasses as I made for the desk, begrudging the effort of sliding the window back. I didn’t hold it against her. No one wants to be in hospital on Christmas Eve, least of all the staff.

  “Hi,” I breezed, digging deep. “I’d like to check on a friend of mine?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her tone that let me know that, whatever she was apologising for, it was my fault. “Visiting hours finished two hours ago.”

  “That’s okay. I just want to know how he’s doing. He came in this morning. Hit and run. His name is Herbie O’Malley.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, a mechanical tone, “but we could only release that information to a family member.”

  “I’m a family member.”

  She frowned.

  “You just said you wer
e his friend.”

  “He’s a cousin, actually. But we’re good mates too.”

  “I’m sorry, only immediate family members are privy to that kind of information.”

  “His family are away for Christmas. I’m the only one around. I’m going to be ringing them later, and I’d like to let them know how he is.”

  “You’re not going to go away until you find out, are you?”

  I smiled, apologetic.

  “Alright,” she sighed. “Wait a minute.”

  She pulled the window closed, so I couldn’t hear what she was saying, made a couple of calls. Pulled the window open again, holding the phone against her none too impressive embonpoint.

  “Herbie O’Malley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you are?”

  “Frankie Byrne. His cousin.”

  “Hold on.”

  Back went the glass door. She finished the call. Again with the window.

  “Herbie O’Malley wasn’t involved in a hit and run.”

  “No? I heard he was, in the pub. The boys said he’d been mangled.”

  “Well, he’s badly hurt alright. He’s still in intensive care. He’s going to need extensive surgery but the ECTs showed up positive. There’s no serious tissue damage and he’s in a stable condition.”

  “Thanks a million. You’ve been a great help.”

  She said: “Don’t you want to see him?”

  “I thought visiting hours were finished.”

  “They are. But in your case…”

  Some people are born spoofers. Other people die every time they lie. She knew it sounded wrong and looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. I scoped the foyer for a night porter or security guard but we were alone in the vast hall. I reckoned I had about five minutes, if that, before the Dibble arrived.

  “That’s decent, cheers. Where’s intensive care?”

  “Fourth floor. Take a right when you get out of the lift.”

  I turned away from the desk, hesitated, turned back. She had the window half-closed. I played the hunch.