A Carra King

by John Brady

  Little’s voice had fallen to a murmur. Minogue glanced over.

  “So’s he doesn’t forget, and so’s he can express his damn gratitude in the appropriate manner. I’m going to dump it all in his lap, just like this bloody statue. And then we’re going to discuss the future with him. Yours, mine, and Tommy’s. Here, you’ve got the light.”

  Minogue searched the road ahead as he turned. No Garda cars.

  “And Matt?”

  He waited until Minogue looked over.

  “There’ll be no going back. For me, for you. O’Riordan knows that. Larry Smith knew that too, for about ten seconds, I’d say. He was headed up the same road, looking for his jackpot when he found out.”

  Minogue searched Little’s face.

  “That’s right, Matt. When you do a job, you do it right. What, Smith? Smith was a lying, thieving little shite. He sold amphetamines to kids. He beat up women. He hurt people because he liked to, more than for money. He tried to put the heavy hand on Guards like me. He helped to fuck up my family. Then he thought he’d hit the big time because he had a hook on that moron, Byrne. Whatever his name is, I can never get the nickname right.”

  “Cortina?”

  “Him, yeah. Smith thought he could put the fix in there. Blackmail. A piece of the band, he wanted, if you don’t mind. Delusions of fucking grandeur or what. Not just a payoff, oh no. Or even a wage out of it. He thought he was a businessman. There’s big money here. You wouldn’t know how much. That’s another story. Hey, you probably want the basics, am I right?”

  Minogue looked over again.

  “The basics are that I kept that prick Byrne out of jail. How about that. What he really needs is someone to take him out the back of his bloody mansion and give him a good hiding. Break his jaw for him. See if he can sing for a while.”

  “Smith went to O’Riordan, then.”

  “No. He went to Daly. Daly went to O’Riordan. And then . . . that’s where I get hired.”

  Minogue strained to listen for sounds from the boot, if the motion of the car would bring Malone around.

  “Come on, now,” said Little. “Tell me you’re not surprised. What, you think Smith didn’t deserve what he got? It was a win-win thing. Dance on his grave.”

  Minogue waited for several moments before he spoke.

  “What about Shaughnessy?”

  “Ah, don’t bring that up. That bloody — it came out of the blue. O’Riordan got this phone call. Do you know anything about him? That he was a head case? An addict, he was. He was chasing some statue to give to his oul lad. Leyne. I don’t know who put him on to this statue thing, but he ended killing that woman out there in some godforsaken boghole.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ah, he airs it all to O’Riordan. Phones up in a panic. This woman has put the arm on him, he says. She wants something out of him, to get his oul lad to do something. I don’t know, some history thing. To set up an outfit here she could run. Computers, history, museums, I don’t know. He made her these bloody promises he could never deliver on, that’s what.”

  Minogue’s fingers were down the side of the seat now.

  “History?” he tried.

  “History, right. Like we don’t have enough. Like it matters a damn any more.”

  His fingertips traced over grit trapped in the carpet, collided with the seat-rail.

  “All I know is there’s some priceless rock out there under about four foot of water. A king something. Christ, there I was there by those big boulders waiting for this fella. I used to train out here for years, did you know that? In the sand. Endurance runs, you know? Conditioning. Anyway, there I was thinking: what’s going to come out of all this tonight. The battle of Clontarf was here, then I remembered — the Vikings. Brian Boru? The last high king wasn’t he, finally putting the boots to the Vikings here, wasn’t it? The Viking hordes. The barbarians, that robbed the monasteries. Plundered, all that stuff we learned in school . . .”

  The Opel was gaining on a cluster of cars. Minogue didn’t want to have to change gear. He let up on the accelerator.

  “What about Shaughnessy, then?” he asked.

  Little gave a short laugh.

  “God, the things you ask. And me telling you, what’s worse. Did you do those courses up at the Park, the Techniques course?”

  “Back years ago,” Minogue replied. “When they were starting out.”

  “One of the Interview ones, I’ll never forget it. About an unconscious thing: wanting to unburden yourself. Wanting to tell, needing to tell, like the punishing parent thing. Guilt. Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well just remember this, Matt: there’s two sides to it. The more I tell you, the more hangs on your decision. You aren’t going to walk away from this tonight if you can’t persuade me. And you’re deciding for him there in the boot, you hear?”

  Minogue let his hand rest, but Little was suspicious now.

  “Get your hands up there on the wheel where I can see them.”

  Minogue geared down instead of braking for the traffic ahead.

  “Shaughnessy: O’Riordan dumped it down on Daly. Tit for tat: after all, Daly owed him one for taking Smith out of the picture, didn’t he?”

  For a moment, Minogue was back at the scene by the Strand Road all those months ago: the Fiat van peppered with automatic fire, the grey and crimson bits of Larry Smith’s head across the roadway.

  “Daly knows everything about coming and going with the band,” said Little. “This Shaughnessy is going to drop the works on O’Riordan, because . . .?”

  “O’Riordan and Leyne were partners in the old days,” Minogue said.

  “You’ve got it,” said Little. “I told them you were going to come really close, Matt, to be ready. Christ,. . . How things turn out. Yes, O’Riordan and Leyne were dealers. Years ago, but still too. There’s high finance and something to do with O’Riordan moving stuff for this fella. I wasn’t told exactly, but put two and two together and you can figure that O’Riordan had done stuff for Leyne under the table. The basics were that O’Riordan would be up the creek if the son started blathering. O’Riordan tells Daly to talk to him, see what can be done. At least buy time. But it looks bad. This young fella’s off the wall, he’s going to do anything. He puts the heavy hand on O’Riordan pretty quick, it ends up with me. So, it suddenly gets very simple. There’s a conversation to which I am party to: if O’Riordan goes, everything goes.”

  He tested the elbows of his jacket. Minogue gripped the wheel tighter.

  “You know what that would mean, do you?”

  Minogue shook his head.

  “I doubt that,” said Little. “Whether you do or not, it was O’Riordan got that crowd of wankers started up, Public Works. He was the money man. He’s in for half of them, what they make. Did you know that?”

  “A half?” was all Minogue could think of saying.

  “And here’s you and me holding the fort for people like that. So they can do their thing. So that crowd of scumbags can do whatever comes into their addled little minds to do? Millionaires. While me and you, and that gom in the back, walk the streets, or argue with our kids why they shouldn’t pay twenty quid to go to a concert where they’re going to be hanging around with ten thousand other iijits who’ll shove drugs their way. Ever thought about that, have you?”

  “I’m not sure — ”

  “Ah, quit the pretending, Matt! The whole duty thing, the decency thing — what you and me grew up with as part of our bloody genes — the pay-your-way, rear the family, save your money, be polite — that it’s all a fucking con?”

  Minogue glanced at him.

  “Keep going there. Yeah, through Sutton Cross. O’Riordan’s is up Thormanbury Road there. His palace. Where was I? Shaughnessy. So yes, if that’s what you’re asking. I went out to get him. Outside of Lacy’s pub there in Kinnegad. He’d had the sense to lay low awhile there, but was up in a heap when I got there. He actually a
sked me if I could put him in touch with someone who’d sell him coke. Me, a policeman . . .! And I knew this prick had murdered a woman. He’d promised her the sun, moon and stars to get a hold of this rock. His da would pay this and his da would do that — and then he starts in on me, what he’d pay, what his da would do for me. I just about nailed him then. I got him out to a place the far end of Inchicore. A lockup there. Told him we had to hide it until I took care of his car and everything. That I had a fella waiting to bring it into the airport. I don’t know if he believed me or not. Look: he didn’t know what hit him. And the airport? I’ve been in and out of there a half a dozen times since Christmas. Training runs, we have to work up to the standards coming in from Brussels now, the new standards. Thank you, Eurocrats. Can you credit that, they have regulations on Civil Defence emergency communications, and we fall under that too. Anyway. I know me way around the airport. Happy?”

  A fine mist began to glisten on the windscreen. Little reached over and flicked the wiper stalk.

  “Get a move on,” he said. “And turn up the radio, if they’re looking for you.”

  The reflective stripes on the side of a squad car were nudging out from a driveway ahead. Little stared.

  “Who the hell are these fellas?”

  “I don’t know,” Minogue said.

  “Hey,” said Little.

  He took the gun out from under his jacket. “You didn’t call for checkpoints, did you?”

  Minogue shook his head. The back of his neck prickled.

  “What have you done? Did you call this?”

  Minogue eased his foot off the accelerator. The ache he’d felt growing under his arms vanished.

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  “Two I can see,” said Little. “There’s one up there on a car. There must be more of them. What is this? Breathalyzers, this time of year?”

  The Guard with the flashlight was decked out in the reflective coat for spot checks. Two cars had parked the footpath the far side of the checkpoint. A Rover, it looked like; a Fiat.

  “There was a — that woman was killed last month,” said Little. “Out walking, her and her husband, the hit and run?”

  He tugged his coat out from behind him to cover the gun again.

  “Get out your card,” he said.

  For a moment Minogue thought the noise was the engine. Malone groaned again. Little turned.

  “Shut up, Tommy!” Little shouted. “So help me, I’ll blow your brains out!”

  Minogue’s fingers slid across the top edge of his wallet. His chest was locked tight. He had to remember to breathe. Malone seemed to be moving now.

  “Not a word, Tommy!” said Little. “And don’t move an inch. This is for keeps tonight.”

  “He has claustrophobia, Damian — ”

  “I don’t give a flying — ”

  There was panic in Little’s eyes. He lifted out his wallet and thumbed it open.

  “Christ,” Little hissed. “What’s he waving us in for? Can’t he spot an unmarked?”

  He nudged Minogue’s arm with the pistol.

  “Don’t play hero, Matt. There’s a lot in this tonight — I’ve got them where I want them for this. All of them: O’Riordan, those fucking stars — There’ll be no more after this, no need — and you can be part of this, you and Tommy. But I’ll do what I have to do, no matter what. You hear that Tommy? Did you? There’s plenty for everyone in this, so think about that, you hear me?”

  Minogue geared down to second. Little took two deep breaths and sat back. Minogue let his fingers off the card.

  “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I dropped me card.”

  “You — where? The gearstick, where?”

  “Let me see.”

  His fingers ran over the end of the handbrake and dropped to the carpet. Nothing. Little leaned against the door to watch.

  “It’s alright, just leave it,” he said. “Give him mine! Stop it! Just leave it there, for Christ’s sake. Come on, here he is.”

  The Guard had stepped out in the road. He stared in at the two. Minogue’s fingernails slid along the carpet. Tiny pebbles, he registered, grit, a cigarette butt.

  The Guard eyed the tax disc as he came around. Minogue’s fingers stubbed the seat rails. The pistol must be right up at the front. Little elbowed him.

  “Take mine,” he said. “Quick!”

  The Guard had a wispy moustache. The collar on his fluorescent jacket was high up alongside his cheek. He let the flashlight run across the interior.

  “Are you aware you’re driving with only one light there?”

  “We had a bit of a ding not long ago,” said Little. The Guard took the photocard. He looked in at Little.

  “I thought the car had the look of one.”

  “We’re active at the moment,” said Little. “I’m CO.”

  “Right so, right,” the Guard murmured. Minogue let his hand down the handbrake again.

  “Take care, lads. Er, Superintendent. No comment on the belt situation, there.”

  “What?” Little said. “Oh right. Thanks.”

  The Guard nodded. He nodded toward the back seat.

  “You have something the matter with your seat back there.”

  Minogue stared at him. The Guard bobbed to look into the back seat again.

  “Is there something loose maybe,” he added. “See? The back there, look.”

  “What,” said Minogue.

  “Let’s go,” said Little. “Sure it’s falling apart, this heap. Come on. Thanks.”

  The Guard took a step back. His eyes finally met with Minogue’s. The Inspector let the eyes flicker toward Little.

  “Let’s go,” said Little again.

  “Damian — ”

  “Shut up! Not a fucking word!”

  Minogue let in the clutch slowly. The Guard had backed off a few steps. He was speaking into his collar mike. The Guard by the Fiat looked over. Sergeant’s stripes, forties; a wide, ruddy face, a hard stare. He cocked his ear and stepped out onto the roadway.

  “Go around him,” said Little. “Move!”

  The Sergeant’s stare began to dull. His arm came up, his fingers spread out.

  “Go!”

  Minogue eased his foot off the clutch. The Guard held up a flashlight, waved the beam toward the footpath. Minogue turned the wheel more. The Guard said something. Minogue waited until they drew level, and stamped on the brake.

  The Opel shuddered and bucked twice before the engine stopped, and they rocked to a standstill. Minogue lunged with his left hand and clamped it on the muzzle. The seat belt rumbled out of its drum and ran up to his neck as he followed up with his right hand. He shouldered Little against the door.

  He felt Little’s sinews strain under his grip, water oozing from the leather sleeve. He pushed the gun harder into Little’s leg. Little’s right arm squirmed behind Minogue’s shoulder and slowly rose to his shoulder blades. The car began to shake. Minogue kept shouting for Malone. Little’s right arm broke free over his shoulder. The first blow, more knuckle than fist, hit him in the neck. Something gave way in the car then and hit the back of his seat. He heard shoes scraping.

  Little was suddenly gone. The light dazzled Minogue. A cold breeze brushed across his face as he came up, stabbing at the belt release. The chimes were slow and squeaky. Malone’s face appeared between the seats. Someone was on the road just outside the door. Little was shouting. Malone was scrambling out the back door. He heard Little shouting for someone to get away.

  The roadway was greasy under the drizzle. Minogue slammed the door but the light stayed on. Someone else was shouting now. A car door slammed.

  “Where is he?” from Malone crouched behind him. Little was shouting at someone to get in the car.

  “Damian,” he shouted. “It’s over! It’s no use!”

  Something hit the bonnet of the car.

  “He’s going to do it,” said Malone.

  “Leave it, Damian! It’s
finished, there’s — ”

  The pop was followed by a small shower of glass on the roadway. Malone grabbed his arm.

  “Shut up, will you, boss! He’s going to kill someone!”

  Minogue’s eyes began a giddy slide. He got back on his hunkers. He held his eyes closed tight for a moment. Malone’s white face, his contorted forehead stayed with him.

  “That’s my gun he has,” said Malone. “Where’s yours?”

  “I slid it under the seat there earlier — ”

  “Did he get that one too?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Malone pulled open the door and slithered in on the floor. A car door slammed. Minogue looked over the edge of the door. Through the glass he saw the older Guard, the Sergeant, standing by the squad car with his hands out. Malone scrambled out onto his knees.

  “I got it! Where’s he gone?”

  “He’s taking the squad car. He has one of the spot-check fellas behind the wheel.”

  An engine revved and tires howled on the roadway. Malone edged around the back bumper. He shouted something and stood to a crouch. Minogue saw the tail lights run across the rain-flecked glass of the Opel. Malone had broken into a sprint. The flashes from Malone’s gun came quickly. He counted four. Someone began shouting again. He heard the change into second just before the Orion began to slide. The driver hesitated as the back of the car wobbled and began to bump. Malone’s sprint slowed. The passenger door on the squad car opened. Headlights coming in from Howth dipped. The car, a well-polished Nissan, came to a sliding stop fifty feet from the squad car.

  Little slammed the door behind him and darted toward the Nissan. The driver’s door was opening. Little ran across the headlights to the seawall. Minogue shouted Little’s name. Malone was up again, advancing on the Nissan in a crouch. Flashes came steadily from his gun now. Minogue stood and moved around the back of the Opel. Malone was crouched by the front of the Nissan, waving someone away. There was a flash from the far side of the Nissan. Malone dropped to the roadway and reached around the front wheel with the gun. Minogue saw his hand twitch, the flashes against the seawall.

  Neither rain nor drizzle, but that clammy, oily combination of the worst of both, began to settle on Minogue’s face. The leftovers of the smoke stung in his nose as he lurched toward Malone. He held his ribs and huffed to ease the jabs from his side. He caught a glimpse of something on the path as he slid down by the door. Malone was breathing hard.