“Good man.” Gringo patted Bunny on the shoulder and started down the stairs. “Rage Against the Machine? Really?”
“Oh yeah. ‘Feck you, I won’t do what you tell me.’”
“Noted.”
Gringo pushed open the door and led the way inside. A wave of warm air, stale smoke and murmured conversation swirled around them. Bunny surveyed the room sceptically. Charlie’s was a small-sized bar but a decent-sized basement. Groups of people huddled around tables. There was an undue prominence of beards but thankfully no berets in sight. Gringo exchanged smiles with the bouncer on the door and a couple of patrons on the way in. Bunny assumed he’d been there a few times before although it was hard to tell. Gringo was the kind of person people instinctively smiled back at.
A small bar stood in the corner and to its right sat an equally small stage, which seemed to be ninety per cent occupied by a grand piano. Behind it sat a short man with tightly cropped, wiry silver hair and a face of pained concentration as he worked the keys, coaxing a not unpleasant staccato melody from them.
Gringo leaned into Bunny’s ear. “That’s the owner, Noel. He’s a dab hand on the piano, only . . .”
“Only what?”
As Bunny looked at him, he noticed his head twitch violently to the left and words spasm forth: “Yada, big cocks!”
“He’s got that whatchamacallit,” said Gringo.
Tinkle tinkle . . . “Yada, fannies. Fannies!”
“Tourette’s?” asked Bunny.
“That’s the one.”
“Is that not a bit of a professional drawback?”
“Not if you own the place. Honestly, you get used to it surprisingly quickly.”
A couple got up from the cramped booth in the corner and left. Gringo nodded at it and he and Bunny slipped in. Gringo leaned back against the wall and surveyed the room. “See, amigo, it’s not that bad.”
“Yeah, so far.”
“Yada, big cocks!”
One of the smartly suited group of men on the next table guffawed and repeated “Yada, big cocks.” His companions shushed him, even as they shared a grin.
“So far,” repeated Bunny.
“It’s good that you’re expanding your horizons, Bunny.” Gringo stood and placed his cashmere coat down beside his stool. “I’ll get them in. You, relax – take your anorak off or you won’t feel the benefit.”
Gringo moved through the tables to the bar. Begrudgingly, Bunny slipped his anorak off and placed it under the table. Then he took his phone out and checked it, for the want of something to do. He had no new messages but he read some old ones, for reasons he didn’t fully understand. He considered playing Snake but thought that might make him look like a bit of a sad sack.
The lanky one amongst the suits at the next table guffawed along with every involuntary invective that came from behind the piano. Bunny noticed some disapproving looks from other patrons that went unheeded.
After a couple of minutes of dead time, Gringo returned and placed two large whiskeys down on the table.
“What madness is this?”
Gringo shrugged an apology. “Look, they don’t have stout.”
Gringo cut Bunny’s tirade off while he was still drawing the breath with which to deliver it. “Chill out, amigo. You like whiskey, remember? It brings out your cheerful side.”
“It’ll have its work cut out for it,” grumbled Bunny.
“That’s why I got doubles. Let’s see if it can’t rise to the challenge. Speaking of which, excuse me while I go water the plants.”
Gringo turned and headed towards the door in the corner. As he passed a table, he nodded to a man wearing a long brown coat with a regrettable earring and goatee combination. The man was accompanied by a brunette wearing enough jewellery to start her own market stall. Bunny watched the man whisper something to the woman before he headed after Gringo. Probably nothing. A sip of whiskey and a glance confirmed to Bunny that his interest was being noted by the woman. Bunny looked at his phone again and noted the time. 1:26 am. Give it four minutes. He was suspicious by nature and doubly so of anyone who voluntarily agreed to be in the company of jazz.
Bunny examined the surface of the table, pockmarked with scars and cigarette burns, wobbling under the weight of Gringo’s whiskey glass. He guessed the mood lighting was hiding all manner of decor sins.
The song finished and there was an unenthused ripple of applause.
“Yada bollocks!”
There were a few moments of silence, save for the murmured conversation. One of the trio at the next table went to get drinks while the lanky one told a good joke badly.
Then another song began, the piano drifting into a soft, contemplative melody. Then a female voice chimed in – deep, rich, sensuous and sad all at the same time. It started slow, and built.
Bunny didn’t turn around. He sat there, his drink sitting forgotten in his hand as the voice filled the room.
Caught between,
What I know and what I mean,
Helpless to resist,
Not the one who started this.
Falling deep into your eyes,
You know that you hypnotise,
I can’t resist this sweet attack,
So don’t you dare love me back.
The voice swam around him, singing a now wordless melody that seemed to go against the piano and yet, at the same time, fitted it perfectly. They danced in and out of each other in a way Bunny had never heard before.
The lanky one from the next table’s voice crashed in like an unwelcome guest, humming along, deliberately out of tune.
“Shush, Victor.”
“Should do a bit of Frank Sinatra. Something we know.”
Bunny’s hand was on the back of the lanky one’s neck before he’d even had the thought. He pulled him close and leaned into his ear. “You need to be quiet now.”
Bunny pushed him away, with just a touch more force than was required.
The velvety words swam around him once more.
My heart trapped under,
My world torn asunder,
What you do, only you know,
Why it is, I can’t go.
I was gone even as I fell,
No escaping from your spell,
I can’t resist this sweet attack,
So don’t you dare love me back.
Meanwhile, Gringo stood at one of the two urinals and relieved a pressing concern.
“Ahh, sweet release.”
The expected figure of Damo Marsden appeared beside him, leaning against the wall.
“Do you have something for me?”
Gringo looked down. “Not just now, Damo, unless you’re looking to take our relationship in an unexpected direction?”
“Very funny. Where’s my money?”
“Again, my hands are a bit full at the minute, unless you’d like to hold this for me?”
Marsden sneered and moved aside, leaning against the sink.
Gringo shook extensively and then put himself away. He turned to see Marsden standing there with his hand out. Gringo nodded at the sink.
“Hygiene, Damian. You don’t know where I’ve been.”
Marsden begrudgingly moved. Gringo washed his hands thoroughly and reached across for the disposable towels, spending an undue amount of time drying them. Marsden looked at the ceiling and blew out a sigh.
Point made, Gringo tossed the paper towels in the bin and pulled a wad of notes out of his pocket. “Two grand.”
“Very funny, you owe me eight.”
“And here’s two of it. You’ll get the rest next week.”
Marsden took a step towards him. Gringo was tall, but Marsden’s six-foot-five meant he could still tower over him. “I think you’ve got me confused with the credit union.”
“And I think you’ve got me confused with someone who finds you intimidating, Damian. Don’t forget who I am.”
“Oh,” said Marsden, “don’t worry – I haven’t. How would your bosse
s like it if they found out one of their golden boys was running up gambling debts?”
“Try and find out and you’ll be in a world of hurt, Damo. Now calm down. You’ll get the rest next week.”
“Someone pulls this shite, they normally catch a beating.”
“Do they?” Gringo calmly looked up into the other man’s eyes. He could almost see the calculations running backwards and forward behind his pupils. “Don’t bluff me, Damo, you’ve not got the face for it.”
“Yeah, Gringo, well if you know so much about that, how come you’re in eight large to me?”
“Bad run of cards is all. Temporary thing.”
Marsden took a step back. “That so? How come I’m hearing that I’m not the only one holding your paper then?”
Gringo laughed and threw a lightning-quick punch into Marsden’s kidneys, stepping to the side as the taller man crumpled to the floor. He grabbed a handful of greasy hair and pulled his head back up. “If I hear that you’ve been discussing my affairs again, our next chat will be a lot less polite, Damian. I expect a certain degree of discretion from a man in your position. Do you understand me?”
The response came out as a stringy croak. “Who d’ye think you’re fucking with?”
Gringo leaned in and smiled sweetly. “I don’t care. You’ll get the rest of your money next week. Until then, I expect you to keep your mouth shut. Are we clear?”
Marsden held Gringo’s gaze for a long moment and then gave the slightest of nods.
Gringo released his hair and wiped his palm on his jeans. He tossed the two grand onto the floor in front of him.
“There’s your money. Don’t forget to wash your hands. That floor is manky.”
The song was coming to an end as Gringo sat back down. “So have ye—”
“Shush!”
Gringo was taken aback. Bunny was sitting there, eyes closed, his face a picture of serene contemplation.
Gringo glanced at the stage over his partner’s shoulder. The black woman who’d served him drinks earlier had joined Noel on stage. She had long dark hair that hung down over her right eye, almost covering that side of her face. She was maybe five four, with brown eyes and full lips. She wore a figure-hugging blue dress that looked like something from the Fifties, but she was making it work. It was strange – it was definitely the same woman who’d served him minutes before, but she looked very different now, as if some internal light had suddenly been turned on. She was not paying the slightest bit of attention to anyone in the room as she sang, standing behind one of those large silver-grilled vintage mics, swaying with the music and humming a soft melody.
As the last notes ended on the piano, the room applauded with genuine enthusiasm, although only one member of the audience was on his feet.
The woman smiled sheepishly in acknowledgment of the applause and moved back behind the bar.
“Glorious. Fecking glorious.”
“Eh, Bunny?”
“What a voice, like. Tremendous.”
“Yeah. Ehm – everyone else has stopped clapping.”
Bunny looked down at his hands as if he’d just become aware of their behaviour. “Oh right, yeah.” His face flushed. “Very good.” He sat back down.
At the piano, Noel began a jaunty number, unaccompanied save for his own random profanity.
“Anyway,” said Gringo, “I know I was in the jacks for a while but I’m afraid you’ll have to move. You’re in the seat belonging to my jazz-hating friend and he’ll be back in a minute.”
“Ah shut up. That wasn’t jazz, that was . . . I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t . . .”
Gringo looked at the bar, where the woman was now back serving once again. “She’s pretty damn cute too.”
“What? Is she?” said Bunny. “Yeah, I suppose. I’d not really noticed.” He glanced at the bar, then looked away, then stole another look.
Gringo gave him an appraising look over his glass as he held it before his lips. “If I believed for one second that you hadn’t noticed, I’d be recommending you getting demoted from the rank of detective immediately.” He threw the guts of a double whiskey back and winced as the sourness burned at the back of his throat. He held his glass up. “Your round.”
“Right, yeah,” said Bunny. He glanced up at the bar, confirmed there was one and only one member of staff in evidence. “Give it a minute, I’ll . . .”
Gringo laughed. “D’ye know something? You are nothing short of adorable, ye big culchie muppet. You sit here and keep looking all mean and moody, I’ll get these. I’ve just remembered I’ve not got you anything for your birthday yet.”
Bunny’s voice became an urgent whisper. “Don’t be a gobshite. Sit – don’t say anything. Feck, it’s not even me birthday.”
The last words were swept away in Gringo’s wake as he nimbly dodged away from Bunny’s grasp. He ruffled the big man’s hair on the way past and was gone.
Bunny fidgeted with the bar mat in front of him before ripping the corner off it. Bloody Gringo, could never leave well enough alone. For want of anywhere else to look, Bunny scanned the room. The tall guy with the regrettable goatee was back with his female companion. They seemed to be having an animated conversation, but his eyes followed Gringo’s progress towards the bar. The other patrons seemed to be enjoying their drinks, oblivious to the atom bomb of humiliation whistling its way downwards towards Bunny.
He was looking for any distraction, and it found him in the form of the stocky one from the table of besuited gigglers beside him.
He loomed over Bunny. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing putting your hands on my friend?”
Bunny didn’t even look up. “He was being rude. I asked him to keep it down.”
“And what’s it to you?”
Bunny picked up his glass and swirled the remains of his drink around in it. “I’m like a modern-day Mary fecking Poppins. I fly around the place giving lessons in manners.”
Without moving his head, Bunny glanced to the side. The lanky one and the fat one were a rapt audience for this little play.
“You put your hands on somebody where I’m from, that’s fighting talk.”
Bunny finally looked up. “That’s talk is it? What, are you deaf? Is it some form of sign language?”
“I’ll sign language you in a minute.”
“Jesus,” said Bunny. “No offence, but you are terrible at this. Do you want to go back and send Lanky or Tubs over, see if they might do any better?”
Stocky leaned on the table, in a way he’d probably seen in a movie – one where you intimidated somebody by giving them a wide open shot at everywhere from your knackers up.
He lowered his voice an octave. “You’re not taking me seriously.”
Bunny leaned back on his stool. “No, no I’m not. A smart man would ask himself why that is. Why I appear to be completely and utterly unaffected by your little hard-man routine here. A smart man might take a moment’s pause to consider that. So prove you’re smarter than you look there, fella. Go back to your seat and spend the rest of the night discussing with Lanky and Tubby how you could have definitely shown me a thing or two but you decided not to. Give peace a chance – that’s what a smart man would do.”
Bunny’s lips curled into a grimace of disapproval as the foul waft of Stocky’s breath washed across him. “There’s three of us and one of you.”
“Good point,” said Bunny. “You might want to call some people.”
The blonde in front of Gringo picked up her drinks and departed, leaving him as the only customer.
The barmaid-cum-songstress ran a cloth across the bar, smoothing out the spillages. “Hey, what can I get you?”
“Can I just say, you’ve a fantastic voice.”
She smiled. “Well, it helps if your audience is drunk, but much obliged.”
“My, eh, friend over there thought you were incredible.” Gringo pointed over his shoulder.
“And let me guess, he’s some big record produ
cer, gonna whisk me away from all this?”
“No, ’fraid not. We are but humble detectives in the Garda Síochána.”
“That right? Well, if this is a raid, least you’re being awful polite about it.”
Gringo held up his hands. “Relax, we come in peace. Besides, you’re within the terms of the licence for a private club. As long as you’re serving food on the establishment. Speaking of which, isn’t there supposed to be some complimentary grub available?”
The woman looked at the door behind the bar. “There’s food, but nobody has been complimentary about it. It’s a bowl of sweet-and-sour something. Cooking ain’t Noel’s forte.”
“Yada, big cocks!”
“I’d offer you some, only it might count as assaulting a police officer.”
“Fair enough. Is that an accent I hear?”
“Damn, I wasn’t sure if I believed that detective thing but you won me around.”
“I’m guessing . . . Deep South?”
“Correct. Kerry.”
“Yeah, I meant America.”
“You saying there ain’t many dark-skinned maidens from down in Kerry?”
“Not that look like you.”
“Oh dear, and you were doing so well. So are you going to be ordering drinks any time soon or did you just come up here to take your twinkly-eyed Irish charm for a spin?”
“Ouch. You are tough.”
“And judging by that line on your ring finger, you are married. So what can I get you?”
Gringo leaned against the bar. “Two double Jack Daniel’s, please and, for the record, currently getting divorced.”
She put two glasses on the bar and started pouring the measures from a near-empty bottle. “Let me guess, she didn’t understand you?”
“Nah, I didn’t understand her. Que sera, sera. And for the record, I wasn’t up here on my own behalf . . .”
“Ahh, wing man. Gotcha. So tell me all about your friend then.”
She tossed the now-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s into the bin under the bar and began opening a new one.
“Well . . . he’s got a cracking sense of humour.”
Angels in the Moonlight Page 5