‘Is that why you’re here? I thought it was to do with Jack Caramac?’
‘It is, I think.’
I mentioned the threat to little Jimmy.
‘Really? A note in his wee pocket? I’m not convinced either of the Millers can actually write. Anyway, it seems a bit anaemic for them, if you know what I mean?’
‘I know. But I thought that seeing how it was Jack, and the publicity that might come with it, they probably didn’t want to go the traditional route, something a bit more subtle.’
‘Aye. Right. Bollocks. Sure they love the publicity. It’s what the half of them is in it for. It used to be they modelled ourselves on The Godfather – now it’s all gone Sopranos, you know what I mean? They lack class.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Boogie.’
‘What’s it with the Murray woman anyway? If she just shut her bake, she wouldn’t get half the hassle. She goes blabbing to the likes of Caramac, she’s just pouring petrol on the fire, you know? She’s her own worst enemy. I’ve people in the Housing Executive, so I know she’s been offered houses outside the Shankill and she’s refused them. She’s an obstinate, mouthy cow and she’s up against the likes of the Millers? Come on. I mean, how many legs does the boy have to lose before she realises she can’t beat them? You know how it is, Dan, they can’t be seen to look weak.’
‘I know that, but Jesus, there must be some way of sorting it.’
‘Dan, it’s their problem, they need to deal with it. It’s not a good time to rock the boat. I notice you didn’t take this direct.’
‘Well, different generation. I thought maybe you . . .’
‘Could have a quiet word?’
‘Or have them shot or something.’
‘As if I would be involved in any of that! But tell you what, seeing as how I probably owe you one, I’ll do you a deal.’
‘I don’t really . . .’
‘Hear me out. You’re well in with Caramac, right?’
‘He’s a client.’
‘He’s a useless waste of space, but he has the ears of the nation.’
‘A certain section of.’
‘You get me a mention for my new poetry collection and I’ll see what I can do about the Millers. And when I say a mention, I don’t mean him tearing into it and saying who do I think I am publishing poetry when I’m responsible for this and that, and then every man jack phoning in to rip me to shreds. And I don’t mean him reading them out in a silly fucking voice and taking the piss. You get me a serious mention, then I’ll see what I can do about getting the heat taken off the auld doll, and maybe that’ll ease up the pressure on Jack and his wee lad. What you say?’
I looked at him. I took a sip. ‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. ‘What’s your book called?’
‘Love and Rockets,’ said Boogie.
11
I parked in Jack’s driveway, behind eight luxury vehicles. Mine was quite luxurious too, but it was the only one with PEDOFIAL etched on the side. I took a copy of Love and Rockets from the glove compartment and slipped it into my jacket. I locked the car and walked up the gravelled drive to the front door. I rang the bell and Tracey answered. Short black hair and eyeliner, turbo tan, fag in one hand, cocktail in the other, and a crowned smile beneath enhanced lips. There was music of a sort in the background, some kind of jazz cack.
She said, ‘Dan Starkey! Long time no . . . Come on in and join the party . . .’ She came forward and kissed one cheek and then the other. ‘Do you wanna cocktail?’
‘No thanks, Tracey, I’m driving.’
‘Leave it, we’ll get you a taxi later.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
She sniggered. ‘Were you always this easy?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
I followed her down a well-lit hall into a large open-plan kitchen. There were about a dozen or more middle-aged well-offs sweating in the heat from a green Aga. I said hello-hello-hello-hello as Tracey led me through to where Jack was setting up the drinks.
‘Hey, Danny.’ He grinned corpulently, holding up a glass. He turned to gaze into a large, mostly empty green-tinged vessel. ‘We had a vat of it made up earlier, but they’ve drunk me outta house and home.’ He poured the remnants into the glass and held it out to me. ‘For you, the Last of the Mojitos.’ He giggled, and then repeated it louder, for everyone else to hear. He was greeted with sycophantic laughter and patronising groans. His producer Evelyn was there, grinning; an older man I half recognised had his arm protectively around her shoulders, his mouth set in what appeared to be a permanent grimace.
‘What’s the occasion?’ I asked. ‘Who needs an occasion? It’s Friday, buddy, Friday.’
I sipped my drink. We were thirty years of global warming short of a highball summer, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
Jack came out from behind the counter, put his arm round my shoulders and squeezed. ‘Danny and I,’ he announced, ‘started out in journalism. And now I am what I am and Danny boy here is a private eye!’
‘I’m not—’
‘Danny’s a private detective,’ Jack declared, ‘a PI, a bird dog, a bloodhound, a peeper, a sleuth . . . anyone else think of . . .?’
‘Nark,’ said one.
‘Shamus,’ said another.
‘Dick,’ said Evelyn.
Everyone laughed. I gave them my tight smile and said, ‘Very funny, heard them all before . . .’
Jack gave me another squeeze. ‘Loosen up, man! Friday night!’
He propelled me into the centre of the room, in amongst his fan club. I forced myself to make small talk and answer mindless questions about what it was like to be a private eye. I made shit up. They didn’t know any different. They weren’t particularly obnoxious, they were just from a different world. Maybe I had been like them when I’d had a bit of money, but I hoped not. They talked Swiss chalets and the après-ski, they talked school fees and who was a useless idiot on the board of the Lyric Theatre, who was going to Castleward for the opera and their hopes for Ireland in the Six Nations. Nobody mentioned Liverpool, nobody talked about The Clash, nobody seemed aware of exactly how many wonderful cans of Harp you could get right now for a fiver at Stewarts Wine Barrel.
After a while I pulled the sliding doors open and slipped out of the stultifying heat and conversation on to a sheltered patio. It was still raining, and dark now. I sipped my third bottle of imported Australian Crown lager and checked my watch. I was only really there to pass the poetry book on to Jack and kill time till Happy Hour. Ahead of me there was a long garden festooned with kids’ play things: a climbing frame, a slide, a set of swings, three pedal cars and balls in various sizes. The lawn beneath the swings and around the frame was immaculate. I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of little Jimmy since I’d arrived.
The doors behind me opened, giving me several bars of something that to my eternal shame I recognised as the Swingle Singers, and quickly shut again. Tracey joined me. She was on the vodka now, and her voice was thick. She said, ‘Who’re you hiding from out here?’
‘You,’ I said.
She snorted. ‘Dan, you’re still a geg, so you are. How’s that wife of yours?’
‘Absent without leave,’ I said.
‘Really? You mean like split up?’
‘Yes, like split up.’
‘So you’re available?’ she asked, and followed it with a throaty cackle and the flick of her lighter.
‘For the right price,’ I said.
Tracey grinned. ‘You okay, Dan?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Yer man seems in good form, considering.’
She inhaled, blew out and said, ‘Yeah, he’s okay. So what do you think of the auld castle? Smart, eh?’
‘It’s very nice, Tracey.’
‘Be a lot nicer if that monstrosity wasn’t there.’ She nodded towards the hedge that separated their garden from next door and the dark outline of the partially built house beyond. Blue plastic sheets on the roof flapped in the breeze. ‘Our garden used to be perfect, sou
th-facing, sunlight till sunset, now half the light’s blocked and once they start building again I won’t even be able to get me tits out without them having a bird’s-eye view.’
‘Sure they’re half out anyway,’ I said.
She giggled. ‘You noticed.’
‘It’s difficult not to.’
‘Too much?’
‘Absolutely not. I’m all for—’
The doors opened behind us again and we turned to see Jack coming out. ‘Here’s youse are,’ he said, and handed me another bottle.
‘Never worry about me,’ said Tracey, holding up her now empty glass.
‘I don’t.’ He winked at me and kissed her cheek. He slipped an arm around her waist. ‘Get you in a mo, honey, soon as you tell me what you two are jabbering about.’
‘I was just saying,’ I said, ‘about what good form you were in. Life and soul and all that.’
‘And why not? Listening figures up, advertising up. Did you see yer man with Evelyn?’ I glanced through the glass at the unhappy-looking bloke still standing with his arm around Jack’s blonde producer. ‘Face like a fucking Lurgan spade. Do you know him?’
‘He looks vaguely . . .’
‘John D. Lehane. Anyone who introduces themselves with their fucking initial in their name deserves a rocket in their arse. He owns the station.’
‘Ah – right. He’s your boss.’
‘So he thinks. Whenever I joined it was going down the pisser, so I was able to cut this fucking cracker deal. I get such a whack off the advertising, you wouldn’t believe it. He resents every bloody farthing he has to give me. He should be happy we’re doing well, but oh no, all he can think about is how much he’s paying me. I hate glass-half-empty people.’
‘My glass is completely empty,’ said Tracey.
He kissed her again. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll get you one now . . .’
He began to turn, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest and said, ‘No, you talk to your mate. I’ve some entertaining to do. I think it’s time the karaoke machine came out.’
She gave us a mischievous grin and disappeared. Jack smiled after her.
‘Some woman, heh?’
‘Yep, you pulled a cracker there,’ I said.
He lurched suddenly to one side, but just managed to steady himself against one of the wooden support pillars for the patio cover before he landed on his ear. He looked accusingly down at the patchwork flags, as if they had somehow conspired to unbalance him.
‘How’s the wee man?’ I asked.
His brow furrowed. ‘Wee . . .?’
‘Jimmy.’
‘Ah – gotcha!’ He cackled. ‘Never worry about Jimmy, he’s at his granny’s.’
‘I do worry. At least until I get—’
‘I hate kids at parties, they’re always whining for attention. I’ll pick him up in the morning.’ He tapped his head. ‘Or the afternoon, depending on the auld noggin.’
‘I meant, from the security point of—’
‘Dan, I know what you mean.’ He straightened against the pillar. He cleared his throat. He nodded at me. His mouth worked as he fished for the right words. He was leading up to something. It’s always fun watching a drunk trying to be taken seriously. And God knows I’m an expert. ‘Dan, yes, good, listen. While we’re here, alone, like, I’ve been wanting to have a word.’
‘Have several,’ I said.
He contemplated that for a while, then said, ‘Never mind that, I’ve been thinking about us . . . what we’re doing. I mean, about you looking into this, Jimmy, the whole . . . kidnapping thing, and, anyway, I think maybe we overreacted, a wee bit. I’ve talked it through with Trace, and people at work, and, I know people too, if you know what I mean, and they’re all inclined to agree that it was most likely local kids just fuckin’ with us, you know what I mean? That or maybe some listener on day release, a bit mental, but no real harm done, and lesson learnt.’
‘Jack, your boy was snatched. He was gone for an hour. You were very lucky.’
‘We don’t know that. He’s four!’
‘He’s still three, Jack.’
‘Oh pish and sticks, Dan, I know this job means a lot to you, but there’s no point in turning it into something it isn’t. If there was a woman in some mythical silver car, most likely she found him wandering and brought him home, y’know? Nothing happened to him. It’s not that kind of a neighbourhood.’
‘And the note?’
‘Well maybe she wrote it as a warning to be more careful. Or he coulda just as easily found it lying in the street; you know what they’re like, pick everything up. Anyway, Dan, I’m sorry, we panicked. It’s over.’
‘Over?’
‘Over.’ He patted his left trouser pocket, then his right. He looked momentarily confused before remembering his back pocket. He produced a folded envelope. He unfolded it and handed it over, not a hint of the sheepish about him. ‘This is for your trouble.’
So that was it.
I took it. I opened it. Two hundred quid.
‘That okay? I presumed you’d want it in cash.’
So, that was how it was. I slipped the envelope into my jacket and drained the rest of the bottle.
‘Whatever you think, Jack. I just hope you’re right. I should hit the road anyway.’
‘Hey – don’t be like that. Dan. Stay, buddy, we’re hardly getting started.’
‘Nah, gotta see a man about a horse anyway.’
‘Dan, c’mon.’ He punched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘We go back.’
‘I know we do, and it’s not a problem. But seriously, I’m late already. No hard feelings, your decision.’
‘You’re a good man, Dan. I appreciate the help.’
I nodded, turned, and then stopped, and pulled out Love and Rockets.
‘Would you do me a favour, though?’ I asked.
‘Anything,’ said Jack.
12
I had five pints of Harp in the Bob Shaw, and a packet of Tayto cheese and onion crisps, for fresh breath and confidence. Leontia was behind the bar, and every time she served me, I gave her a winning smile.
In the old days – and I hate people cracking on about the old days, it’s really fucking boring, but I’ve gotten to the age now where the old days are the most fascinating part of my life – publicans were sole traders surviving on luck and circumstance; then, when our war flagged, big business began to squeeze out families and install dead-eyed managers with timesheets, franchises and corporate practice. But there are still a few oddities dotted about the city. The Crown, on Great Victoria Street, is arguably our most famous pub – a replica of it was built at Denham Studios in Buckinghamshire so that James Mason could film Odd Man Out without having to get on the ferry – and is now operated by the National Trust. You can drink and protect your heritage at the same time, which is just bizarre. The Bob Shaw is another. I’m growing to love it. It has a slightly bohemian feel and boasts good vibes. I have a favourite chair. I even have a mild affection for the books of the man it is named after, and I fucking hate science fiction. Bob Shaw is better known now as a pub than he ever was as a writer, but I’d read his Orbitsville as a kid and loved it, and later kind of related to his ‘Light of Other Days’, a story that introduced the concept of slow glass, through which the past can be seen. He probably didn’t mean pints of Harp, but I’d lost months to them. Thankfully, apart from a few posters of his book covers, the bar is just a bar, and not stuffed with sci-fi memorabilia.
I was quids up on my case, but annoyed and unsatisfied. Jack, on the other hand, was smug and self-satisfied. He’d engaged me on a results-based basis, but had still paid me off. Of course, he could afford it. But the way he did it, half-cut and cash in hand, made it feel less like a reward for hard work and more like a donation to charity. He had been worried enough about his own safety to seek me out in the first place. Now suddenly, with nothing apparently having changed, he had sacked me. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. And then I thoug
ht that maybe the reason I didn’t like it was because I was so pathetically grateful for the cash, and that it just underlined where our respective lives and careers had taken us, him with his big house and cars and local celebrity lifestyle, and me with my mortgaged-to-the-hilt flat and my baldy tyres. About the only thing we now had in common was his wife. He probably wouldn’t have employed me at all if he’d known I’d given her one for Ulster, and a couple for the twenty-six counties we hadn’t yet seized.
It was a long time ago, of course.
Now I was strictly a one-woman man.
Leontia set me up with another one. ‘Happy Hour approaching,’ she said, leaning against the bar. ‘And did I mention that the hubby has taken the kids up the coast, and won’t be back till tomorrow, so I can stay over?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Well he has,’ said Leontia, ‘and he won’t.’
‘Oh goody,’ I said.
One woman at a time, I mean.
Previously the time constraints that went with Happy Hour had required our union to be all-consuming and explosive. Now, the removal of the shackles also seemed to drain it of some of the passion; it started furiously enough, gradually became languid, and then ultimately pretty hard work. Perhaps the Malone Mojito, four bottles of Crown and six pints of Harpic didn’t help, though it may have been the crisps that did the real damage. Banter over beer pumps and whispered encouragements between sweaty sheets had not revealed very much about Leontia beyond the fact that she could impersonate a child psychologist with aplomb and was in fine shape for a woman with four kids and a Labradoodle, but an entire night together gave us the opportunity to get to explore our inner beings and share our regrets, thwarted ambitions and lingering hopes.
Naturally, it was a disaster.
For a start, she complained about my taste in music. I’d the iPod shuffle on and she either kept telling me to turn it down or complained that she couldn’t make out the lyrics. When ‘In the Ghetto’ came on, she said it was hard to believe that Elvis had been dead for so long, and I said, ‘Elvis Costello is dead?’ and she didn’t get it. She had never heard of ‘Less Than Zero’, ‘Goon Squad’ or ‘(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes’. I could have forgiven her his collaboration with the fricken Brodsky Quartet but still. I knocked off the shuffle and played her the best of him and she lay there making encouraging sounds and forcing a toe beat against the mattress, but her eyes were glazed with boredom and when she said, ‘Do you have “Uptown Girl”?’ and I said, ‘The Billy Joel or Westlife version?’ she thought I was being serious. Not only that, she preferred the Westlife version. She was lucky I didn’t drag her from the bed by her ankles and hurl her through the window into the piazza below.
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