“Get it, Niall, get it!” screamed his lady friend, her high heels in one hand and a wilting rose in the other.
The taxi swerved and honked. Niall stood in the road, angrily gesturing as it disappeared around the corner, its light still on. “Your light is on ye . . . ye . . . ye . . .”
“Bollocks!” screeched Niall’s lady friend in assistance.
“Yeah,” said Niall, heading back to shore, draped in the body language of abject despair.
“C’mon, Niall, that good taxi rank I was telling ye about is only up around the corner there.”
“Ah,” said Bunny, watching on, “the mythical good taxi rank, oft spoken of, rarely if ever seen.”
“You’re not wrong, amigo,” said Gringo. “I reckon it’s a government-sponsored form of contraception. Why else are there so few taxis in this town? It’s their way of keeping the birth rate down. In most other parts of the world, getting the girl to agree to go home with you in the first place would be the tricky part. Here, it’s the actually getting there bit that’s the challenge.”
“Fair point. D’ye think that explains why people who live near the city centre have so many kids?”
Gringo rubbed his chin. “That’s a . . . that’s a good point. I never thought of that. You’re not just a pretty face, amigo.”
“Speaking of pretty faces, shouldn’t you turn yours around?”
Gringo threw his arms expansively wide while continuing to walk backwards. “I am a man of many talents, muchacho, walking arse-first is but one of—”
Gringo was interrupted by a loose paving stone and gravity, his hands grasping for the night sky even as his legs went from under him and his arse ended up deposited in a large pile of bin bags.
He looked up to see Bunny bent double above him, howling with laughter.
“Well, help me up.”
Bunny flapped his hand in admonishment. He looked in danger of passing out from a lack of oxygen, grasping at a nearby railing for support.
Two girls walked by, their arms wrapped ineffectually around themselves as they huddled against the biting winter chill.
“Would ye look at that, Janet, someone threw out a perfectly good auld fella.”
Bunny looked at the two girls and his hysterics redoubled.
“Who’re you calling old?” Gringo put his hands down to try and push himself up and grimaced as something squelched under his right palm.
“Ah for . . .”
Bunny wiped the sleeve of his anorak across his tear-stained face. “Now it really is my birthday. The state of ye.”
“Yes, ha ha, lap it up, ye big culchie. Now, help me up.”
Bunny extended his hand and pulled Gringo upright. “Is that a new cologne you’re wearing there, DS Spain? You’re smelling fierce ravishing.”
“Yeah, it’s called Eau de Cork. Now c’mon, it’s not that much further to this place.” Gringo started striding along the footpath.
“Seriously? Are you not taking your soggy-bin arse as a sign from God to call it a night?”
“No! In fact, I’m on a mission from God! This place serves until the wee small hours, and you can get food there.”
“Really?”
“It’s that trick to get around the licensing laws. It’s a club, serves food. Well, a sort of sweet-and-sour pot-luck surprise.”
“Sounds delightful,” said Bunny.
“I’ve seen you eat how many kebabs? And you still can’t tell me what kind of meat is in one.”
“Kebab.”
They were now back at the end of Grafton Street. The proximity to the events of earlier in the day hadn’t struck Gringo until they were just around the corner. He looked down the street and up to the ledge where he’d watched Bunny and Rory Coyne tussle a few hours before.
“Here we are,” said Bunny, “back at the scene of the crime.”
Gringo stopped and put his hand out. “Just, look, I . . . You know, whatever happens I’ll back you up but . . . that shit today, they could be power-washing you off the pavement now.”
“Ara Gringo, I never knew you cared.”
Gringo’s tone dropped enough to wipe the grin off Bunny’s face. “Listen to me. That was . . . you freak me out, Bunny. You don’t . . . look, you need to take care of yourself, alright? You might not be too bothered whether you live or die, but I am.”
“Ah, would ye calm the feck down, Gringo.”
Bunny went to walk off but Gringo grabbed his arm and held him. “Just listen, OK? Since that thing a couple of years ago—”
“We’re not talking about that.”
“I know,” said Gringo, “fair enough. But, since then . . . You’re my best friend, ye dozy plank, and I’m the only one close enough to know, but you’re not that bothered about getting home safe and that scares the shit out of me.”
“Leave me alone, I’m fine.”
“There’s more to life than this job and an under-12 hurling team—”
“Best under-12 hurling team in the county!” interjected Bunny.
“But still, only a hurling team. You need a little balance in your life and possibly – just throwing it out there – it’d do you the power of good to get laid.”
Bunny placed one of his big meaty paws on Gringo’s shoulder. “I’m afraid, Timothy, I just don’t think of you in that way.”
“Yeah, yeah, the night is young. C’mon, talk and walk, I’m getting cold.”
Bunny patted Gringo’s cashmere coat. “Well, if you will dress for style over comfort.”
“Says the anorak boy. C’mon.”
Gringo nodded his head towards King Street and they started trudging in that direction, past the waifs and strays staggering home from the pubs and clubs in ones and twos.
“Seeing as we’re talking about the things we don’t talk about,” said Bunny, “you seem to be enjoying the odd game of cards more regularly these days.”
Gringo laughed. “I go down to Richie’s and play the occasional hand, big deal.”
“You were in that game at Daly’s during the week, too.”
“Having me followed now are you, detective?”
“No, should I be?”
Gringo took a poker chip out of his pocket and flicked it off his thumb. “Relax, amigo. Now that I’m wifeless, I need to find something to occupy my time. I’m thinking of going pro. I need to get me one of those cowboy hats you see the guys on the TV wearing.”
“Ah, pro, is it? Is that why you turned down Creevy’s offer?”
Gringo looked across at Bunny. “How do you know about that?”
“Christ’s sake, Gringo, nobody gossips like coppers. Everyone is busting their bollocks to get an assignment like the Criminal Assets Bureau and you’re turning it down?”
Gringo shrugged. “I’m not that bothered. Lots of paperwork. If I wanted to be an accountant I’d have just become one.”
“That’s bullshit. Look, don’t be fecking stupid and let me hold you back.”
“You’re not. I like working with you. We’re a good team.”
“Yeah, and if you weren’t spending your time keeping me out of trouble with the higher-ups, think where you’d be.”
“I’d be lumbered with some stuffed-shirt pencil-pusher. You’re an annoying prick, McGarry, but you’re my annoying prick. We’re a team, and besides, I asked around, everyone else understands even less of what you say than I do.”
“Is that right, ye little cloth-eared Dublin gobshite, ye?”
“I got none of that.”
“Oh, you’re a fecking laugh riot, aren’t you?”
Gringo furrowed his brow in mock consternation. “Something about a goat?”
“I’ll boot your bollocks into a different time zone in a minute.”
They turned the corner onto Mercer Street, careful to avoid the remnants of some curry chips that may or may not have been eaten before being discarded onto the pavement.
“Oh, speaking of your love life,” said Gringo, “here’s your old fla
me.”
Shambling towards them down the pavement came the familiar figure of Mary Murtagh, or “Magpie Mary” as she was affectionately known. Well into her sixties, she’d been homeless since before Bunny had begun to patrol the streets. She wore an old plastic tiara pinned to her blonde bird’s nest of a hairdo and, on the back of her ragged coat, a tattered pair of angel’s wings that she’d picked up somewhere, probably discarded by a hen do. She always wore make-up, too – enthusiastically if messily applied – although it was a mystery as to where it came from. The overall look reminded Bunny of a doting grandma who had allowed her beloved grandchildren more leeway than was prudent. There had been several attempts over the years to move Mary into stable accommodation, but it hadn’t taken. She had her shed down by the train tracks and that was all she wanted. She roamed the streets, her ever-present shopping trolley filled with her most treasured possessions. That was where her name came from: if it glittered and could be found discarded in a skip or sticking out of a bin, Magpie Mary would retrieve and treasure it.
Bunny’s first contact with Mary had been a memorable incident. An overly zealous supermarket employee had been sent out with a van to retrieve wayward shopping trollies and had believed his remit extended to the repatriation of Mary’s chariot. This had resulted in a screaming fit on Wellington Quay that’d almost led to Mary being sectioned and the supermarket employee being hospitalised. Otherwise, she was a sweet old dear.
“Here she is,” said Bunny, “my favourite girl!”
Mary looked up and gave them a dazed smile. “Ah, good evening, gentlemen.” Her voice was slurred and slow. Normally, she spoke in a mellifluous Dublin warble of inexplicable poshness.
“You alright there, Mary?” asked Gringo. “Been having yourself a nip against the cold night chill?”
Bunny bowed theatrically before her. “Come, my darling Mary, let me whisk you away from all of this and we shall dance the light fandango in the moonlight, whatever the feck a fandango is.”
“Now, Bunny, you know how I feel about that potty mouth.”
Bunny clasped his hands to his chest. “I do apologise, m’lady. How uncouth of me.” Bunny’s voice returned to normal. “How are you keeping, Mary?”
She didn’t respond. Her trolley clonked into the railings and she looked down at it, an expression of woozy confusion on her overly made-up face.
Bunny and Gringo glanced at each other.
“Are you alright, Mary?” said Gringo.
She swayed slightly and he stepped forward to place a steadying hand on her arm. He raised the other to her face and gently turned it. Blood trickled from a wound on her temple, a crust of dried blood beneath.
“Christ! What happened?”
“Demons!” she responded. “Demons! Young ruffians tried to take Mary’s crown! How dare they!”
Bunny’s fists clenched. “Where are they?”
Mary looked around her. “I was . . . there were . . . I’m . . .” She looked up into the night sky, lit by streetlights and weak moonlight, as if trying to navigate by unseen stars. “Where am I?”
“OK,” said Gringo. “C’mon Mary, let’s get you sitting down for a sec.” He led her over towards some steps below a fire exit and gently guided her down. “Right, let’s have a look at you.” He carefully pushed her hair aside and looked at the damage. “Oh dear, this isn’t great, Mary. We’re going to have to get you a bit of help.”
“Oh no,” she replied, weakly trying to push his hands away. “There’s no need to make a fuss.”
“Nonsense,” said Gringo. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Gringo leaned back to Bunny and spoke quietly. “She’s going to have to go to A&E, this looks nasty.”
“Right. I’ll phone for an ambulance – but this time of night, it might take a while.”
“Yeah,” said Gringo, then stopped as he noticed a taxi coming around the corner. “Unless . . .”
Gringo strode into the road, forcing the taxi to stop. The driver honked hard in irritation. Gringo whipped his wallet out of his inside coat pocket, opened it and held it up. The driver lowered his window and stuck his head out.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”
“Gardaí,” said Gringo, and then indicated towards Mary. “I’m afraid this lady needs to be taken to hospital.”
The driver indicated the blonde woman in her twenties in his passenger seat, and her three friends in the back, two male, one female. “I’ve already got a fare.”
“This is an emergency. Drop her down to the Mater Hospital, it’ll take you ten minutes.”
“So call an ambulance, that’s what they’re there for.”
“I’m appealing to your sense of civic duty, sir. The emergency services are overstretched at this time on a Friday night.”
“So are the taxis.”
The blonde in the front seat lowered her window and stuck her sour expression out into the night air. “Look, we’ve a bleedin’ house party to get to. Do your fucking job and get out of the bleedin’ road.”
Gringo gave her a steely-eyed look for a moment. “Very well, madam, have it your way. Detective McGarry – do you have reason to believe that these people might be in possession of controlled substances?”
“Indeed I do, Detective Sergeant Spain.”
Gringo gave the blonde a pointed look. “Do you feel a search may be in order?”
“I do,” agreed Bunny.
The blonde’s expression went up a whole lemon in the sour stakes. “Go ahead ye spanner, see if I—” She was interrupted by the doors on either side of the back seat opening simultaneously and the other passengers hurriedly exiting the vehicle. “What the fuck are—”
A young guy with spiky peroxide blond hair smiled nervously at the assembly. “It’s fine, we can walk from here.”
“But we—”
“C’mon Karen.”
“But—”
“Come on, Karen!” He said the words through gritted teeth as he furiously bobbed his head to the side.
Karen sneered at Gringo one last time, opened her door and clomped off angrily after the rest of the party. “D’ye know your problem, Darren? Ye’ve no bollocks. You’re like one of them you-nicks.”
Bunny turned to Mary. “C’mon, m’lady, your carriage awaits.” Mary took his proffered arm and unsteadily got to her feet.
“This is nonsense,” said the driver, “you can’t commandeer my taxi. I’ve got rights.”
Gringo leaned in. “Calm down. Look,” he produced one of his cards from his pocket and held it out for him, “how would you like a friend in the police?”
“I’ve already got lots of friends on the force.”
“OK,” said Gringo, “how would you like a couple of enemies?” He pointed across at Bunny, who was helping Mary towards the taxi. “That’s Detective Bunny McGarry, he’s got this whole damsel-in-distress thing going on that, believe me, you do not want to get on the wrong side of.”
The driver shook his head in resignation. “She’d better not stink out my taxi.”
“You’ll live.” Gringo produced a pen from his pocket, flipped his business card over and started writing on the back of it. “Sister Elaine Doyle. She should be working A&E, or, if not, the head nurse will know her. Give her this note, tell her it’s from DS Tim Spain and she’ll take care of her for me.”
The taxi driver took the card reluctantly and then watched as Gringo carefully wrote his licence plate down on the back of another one.
“I said I’d do it.”
“Good man,” said Gringo. “I’ll be ringing to check in the morning, so you’d better make sure you do.”
As Gringo spoke, Bunny opened the back door and guided Mary in. As he did so, he gave a wave to the five cars that were now waiting behind them.
“Wait,” said Mary. “My things! All my precious things!”
Gringo looked at the shopping trolley and then back at the taxi driver.
“Open the boot.�
�
Three minutes later, Bunny and Gringo stood on the pavement, watching the taxi disappear around the corner – its boot open and tied down with climbing rope to hold Mary’s trolley in.
“Fancy a pint?”
“Gasping for one.”
Chapter Seven
Bunny gawped at the sign that dangled over the doorway, then at Gringo, then back at the sign.
“No fecking way.”
“Don’t be so close-minded.”
Bunny pointed an accusatory finger at the sign that indicated the establishment was Charlie’s Private Members’ Club – Dublin’s Premier Jazz Emporium. “Fecking skiddle-dee-diddly-wah-wah daddy-o jazz? Have you lost what little mind you have left? You know I wouldn’t be caught dead in some wanky jazz club.”
“Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you where we were going. But look – we’re here now.”
“No way. Jazz, me hole. I’m not watching some navel-gazing numpty in a turtleneck playing all the right notes but in the wrong order. Goodnight, Eileen.”
“You’re supposed to be a fan of music.”
“Indeed I am,” said Bunny. “Bit of Springsteen, nothing better. Johnny Cash is the man. I’ll even go you some Led Zeppelin and your man who blew his brains out . . .” Bunny clicked his fingers at Gringo.
“Kurt Cobain?”
“Had some tunes. I’ve also got a soft spot for Rage Against the Machine.”
“Unexpected.”
“My point is, I’m a fan of music, but jazz isn’t music. Jazz is some cockwomble in a beret, wanking himself off with a saxophone.”
“Sax-a-phobic, are we?”
“Don’t come that with me, Clarence from the E Street Band is a legend, but he’s not doing a twenty-minute atonal arse-clenching solo that sounds like someone sodomising a goose.”
Gringo folded his arms. “Would you calm down? We’re going in for a couple of drinks. It’s a late bar and there’s a bit of grub. You do pick the weirdest things to get on your high horse about. We’ll just stay for one if you don’t like it.”
Bunny looked at the sign again, as if he was half expecting it to leap off the wall and bite him. “First sign of a beret . . .”
Angels in the Moonlight Page 4