“Ouch, ding – thank you for playing.”
“What?”
“You opened with sense of humour?” She sounded exasperated. “Why not just tell me the poor son’bitch got beaten with the ugly stick and has six months to live. Sense of humour? Damn, son, that is some weak-assed shit right there.”
“You put me on the spot. I panicked. What do you want from me?”
“Go for something real. When in doubt, why not try the truth?”
“OK. He’s my best friend.”
“Why?”
“Because, under the bluster, he’s the most honourable and decent man I know. He honestly believes in right and wrong and, in his own fucked-up lunatic culchie way, he actually tries to make the world a better place.”
She finished pouring the drinks and placed the bottle on the counter. She held Gringo’s gaze for a second and then pointed at him. “See, now that – that was real. You should lead with that next time. Anyway, I’m sure your buddy is quite the catch but I’m not fishing right now.”
“Are you sure? You’re making a big mistake.”
“Honey, this ain’t even close to my biggest.”
Gringo took out his wallet and withdrew a ten-pound note and passed it across for the drinks.
“Have I mentioned it’s his birthday?”
“Ah damn, well, let me close the bar and I’ll be right over. Oh wait . . .” She looked around her in mock surprise. “Turns out this isn’t a lap-dancing bar.”
“Jesus, love, no offence, but you are what we Irish call hard work.”
“Honey, I’m what everybody calls hard work.” She smiled at him as Gringo waved away the change. “Tell your friend I said ‘happy birthday’.”
“He’s shy, but I’ll send him up for the next round and you can tell him yourself.”
“Shy? Is this the big guy in the corner we’re talking about?”
Gringo turned to follow her look. Bunny was sitting down, but the three guys who had been at the table beside them were now standing over him in a menacing manner.
“Looks like he’s making some friends.”
“Oh shit.”
Gringo had taken two steps back towards the table when the tubby one cold-cocked Bunny on the back of the head with an empty beer bottle and all hell broke loose.
Chapter Eight
“Aghhhhhhh.”
The sound of Venetian blinds being opened ripped into the very fabric of Bunny McGarry’s soul, as the ensuing wash of sunlight burned his eyes.
“Wara-ta-fecking-Jesus-bastard-garrr.”
“Lovely to see you too, slugger. Come on, rise and shine.”
Bunny forced one eye open to see Gringo leaning nonchalantly against the windowsill.
“There he is, wakey wakey.”
“Feck off. It’s Saturday. I’m off.”
“You were off. We’ve been called in.”
“The feck we have.” Bunny pulled a pillow over his head in a desperate attempt to block out the rest of existence.
“I’m only guessing but, by any chance, when you got home last night, did you happen to get stuck into your emergency booze supply?”
Bunny lifted the pillow ever so slightly. “I . . . Maybe. Remember that bottle of the Portuguese stuff I won in the office raffle?”
“That stuff?” said Gringo. “You know it was the joke prize, right?”
“Well, I’m not laughing.”
Bunny’s mouth felt like someone had thrown up in it. He hoped it was him.
Vague snatches of memory were returning unbidden. He’d drunk alone while watching For a Few Dollars More again on video. Classic. If that couldn’t distract him, nothing could. It turned out nothing could, so he had attempted to drink his mind into submission instead.
“How bad was it?”
“What? Last night? Well, amigo, it had many positives. For example, your attitude to jazz has been drastically revised. You also met the woman of your dreams – well, I met her on your behalf. You saw her and I was about to introduce you after some frankly blindingly good build up work when—”
“Ara bollocks.”
“Yes. If it is any consolation, you did win the fight.”
“They jumped me!” pleaded Bunny into his pillow.
“They did, and I think it is fair to say all three of them learned a valuable life lesson in that regard.”
“Ah Christ.”
“And look at it this way,” continued Gringo, “maybe she is the type that goes for the drunken violent sort.”
“Don’t.”
“Admittedly, at the time, she made some very unkind remarks about you – but that may’ve just been foreplay.”
“I hate you.”
“Course you do, now get the hell out of bed. We have a meeting in town in about forty-five minutes.”
“How do . . .” Bunny pulled his head out from under the pillow and looked at Gringo. “It’s not about . . .”
“Last night?” finished Gringo. “No, no it isn’t. That’s all fine by the way, although you have promised to get Sergeant Dolan up at Pearse Street station All-Ireland tickets.”
“Right.”
“And you’ve got a date with a certain dusky songstress.”
Bunny looked up again.
“Well, I say ‘date’. You left your coat, phone, keys behind.”
“Ahh!”
“Don’t blame yourself. You’d your hands full as you were leaving. To be exact, one of your big mitts had one of your assailants by the throat and the other one had bucko number two by somewhere even more sensitive.”
“And what were you doing at this time?”
“Who do you think was dealing with the third lad? And I was doing so while reassuring Noel that you’d pay for the damages.”
“Was he mad?”
“The thing about a Tourette’s sufferer is that it is very hard to tell. Now, do I have to throw water over you or are you getting up?”
“Feck off.” Bunny put his head back under the pillow.
“One, two, three, four, five, six—”
Bunny re-emerged. “Hang on a sec . . .”
“Here it comes.”
“What’s this meeting about then?”
“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, a fine deductive mind will kick in eventually, even one that’s been pickled in cooking sherry.”
“Gringo?”
“Your old friend Rigger O’Rourke wants to see us. He’s been given the go ahead for something big and he’s pulling in a lot of bodies. Armed robbery task force.”
“You’re shitting me?”
Gringo’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I’m definitely not doing that. Get your arse in gear, Cinderella, we’ve finally been invited to the ball.”
Bunny sat upright, then instantly regretted it. “Christ on a bike.”
“There you go, the worst part is over.”
“Right, I’m going to have a shower and throw up.”
“Good plan, maybe reverse the order.”
“You – find me trousers.”
“Easily done, you’re still wearing them.”
Bunny looked down. “Not these ones, my other trousers. They’re around here somewhere.”
Gringo looked at the mess strewn across the floor. “God, this is clothing? I assumed you’d had a one-night stand with a skip.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Bunny stood up unsteadily. Half a bacon sandwich squelched under his foot. “Ah, breakfast.”
Gringo watched Bunny pick it up. “You’re not eating that.”
Bunny looked at it then extended it towards Gringo. “D’ye want a bite or something?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
Bunny grinned at Gringo. “Armed robbery?”
Gringo beamed back. “Armed robbery.”
“I’ll be with you presently,” said Bunny, before hurrying out towards the bathroom.
“By the way,” shouted Gring
o after him, “if you’re looking for it, the other half of that sandwich appears to be stuck to your back.”
Chapter Nine
Bunny shifted in his seat. He was feeling more or less human but it had been a close-run thing. His body seemed willing to play ball for now, due to the importance of the situation and on the understanding that there would be a reckoning coming further down the line.
They were in a briefing room upstairs in Sheriff Street station. The chairs were occupied by Bunny, Gringo and ten other detectives, all of whom Bunny was on at least nodding terms with. The room was unpleasantly warm due to the heating being whacked up full tilt. Condensation fogged the windows, obscuring the view of a busy Dublin Saturday morning rumbling by outside. Bunny had a bottle of water that he was clinging to for dear life.
Gringo leaned casually across. “How’s the head?”
“I’ll live.”
The door opened and DS Jessica Cunningham and DS Dara O’Shea strode in purposefully and took seats to the side of the screen at the front of the room. O’Shea was a stocky lad from Meath who couldn’t look more like a Paddy if he tried. Shock of red hair, freckles and a wide grin that wasn’t so much cat that got the cream as cat who was more than willing to share the cream; sure there’s loads of cream, lads, get stuck in. O’Shea nodded and smiled at a few faces he recognised, which seemed to be almost everybody in the room. In contrast, Jessica Cunningham sat down and stared at the back wall with an intensity that implied it was her sole objective of the morning and the room’s occupants were a hindrance.
The only other female in the room was Detective Pamela ‘Butch’ Cassidy, but to say there wasn’t much sense of sisterhood between them was an understatement. Cunningham knew it was Butch who had given her the ‘Robotits’ nickname. Bunny watched Butch shifting awkwardly in her seat. Trying to get back on Cunningham’s good side had proven to be a lot like trying to un-hit the iceberg.
Bunny leaned casually across to Gringo. “Looks like you’ll be working under Sergeant Cunningham again.”
“Try not to speak, ye muck savage. Your breath is like a wino’s jockstrap.”
Bunny sat up straight and ran his hand across his mouth. The air he captured under his nostrils indicated Gringo might have a point. No doubt he was also keen for Bunny to shut up.
DI Fintan “Rigger” O’Rourke strode in and closed the door behind him. He stood in the centre of the room and immediately commanded it. A tall man with a firm but wiry physique that spoke of his obsession with long-distance running, O’Rourke was quite the high-flyer. For several years, he had been the youngest DI on the force and nothing indicated that he planned to stop his ascent there. You wouldn’t find anyone with two brain cells to rub together who would bet against him for the top job one day. Himself and Bunny had been firm friends back in the day, although O’Rourke had long since started hanging out in loftier circles, even before the unfortunate incident at his wedding when Bunny had protected himself from the advances of an irate swan.
“Right,” said O’Rourke, “thanks for coming in. You have all been seconded to my team, the major robberies unit, for the foreseeable. I’m DI O’Rourke and this is DS O’Shea and DS Cunningham, who are my right hands. Technically, we are supposed to cover all major robberies that happen anywhere in the state. Don’t ask me to define what major means. It’s like true love and loitering with intent, you just know it when you see it. That’s the theory – here’s the reality.”
O’Rourke nodded to O’Shea, who turned off the lights and fired up the projector attached to a laptop.
A picture of a man in his early twenties appeared on the screen. He had tightly cropped hair that was gelled down and he wore tinted glasses. He was fairly short in stature but he had the look of a man who could handle himself if required.
“Tommy Carter,” said O’Rourke, “the king of Clanavale Estate and the leader of his very own crew of modern-day highway robbers. They have been the sole focus of my unit for the last six months. That farce on the Quays yesterday was them, as was the Prasart van job in July and the Bank of Ireland job in Dalkey. That’s just the ones we’re certain of this year. Going back over the last two, we like them for several other outings. Basically, if it’s high-end and unsolved, odds on it was them. They are ruthless, efficient and sharper than anything we’ve ever dealt with. Put it this way, if most of the crews working in Dublin are still cavemen banging their nuts off a rock trying to make fire, these lads are sitting around laughing while smoking cigars and scoffing barbecue. They’re lapping them – and frankly, us – and you’re here to see if we can’t catch up.”
Nobody said anything but Bunny could feel the ripple pass around the room. Everyone was sitting up a little straighter, bright-eyed. This was the kind of case you joined the force for.
“Carter is only twenty-two, which is an unusually young age to be the head of an outfit like this, but believe me, the lad is anything but typical.”
O’Rourke nodded and the picture changed to an old press cutting of a middle-aged man standing defiantly at the front of a crowd of neighbours, like a king before his tribe.
“Tommy is the son of Donal Carter, seen here, a name some of you will no doubt remember.” Bunny caught the slightest of glances from O’Rourke. “About twelve years ago, he was the man who announced the Clanavale Estate was a drug-free zone. He rallied the residents and became quite the media darling. Some dealers who objected to his endeavours tried to burn his house down with his kids still inside it.” Again, just the slightest glance. “Luckily, that didn’t come to pass, thanks to Garda intervention. Donal also did the unthinkable and won. To this day, nobody deals hard drugs on the Clanavale Estate, at least not for very long and rarely without it causing them and the health service some major inconvenience. These days, Daddy is side-lined, dealing with a serious kidney complaint, so Tommy runs the estate now – and I mean runs it. It also means he and his crew are dug in there like termites and we can’t get near them. Patrol cars get their tyres slashed. If you go around to lift any of them, you’ve to bring a lot of bodies, or else your car will be a bonfire. Covert surveillance is impossible and forget getting anyone close to them. Everyone on that estate grew up there and they don’t leave. It is an island and Tommy is their boy king.”
People shifted in their seats. Coppers didn’t like to admit it but Clanavale was one of those estates – if you went in at all, you went in the daylight and you went with company. It hadn’t always been that way, Bunny knew better than most, it having been one of his first beats, but times had changed.
“These are his crew,” continued O’Rourke. The picture changed to a man in his forties with a paunch. He appeared to be standing outside a pub, smoking a cigarette and glaring at the camera in a way that suggested that if looks couldn’t kill, he was willing to finish the job.
“Franko Doyle, the self-styled consigliere. A friend of Carter senior from back in the day, he did time for stolen goods once and housebreaking twice. He’s married to Carter’s cousin. It’s not technically correct, but Tommy – and hence everyone else – calls him Uncle Franko. He seems to be the connection with the bigger criminal world, not that they generally have much to do with any of it. They keep themselves to themselves and anyone who has tried to change that arrangement from outside has regretted it.”
O’Rourke nodded and another face appeared on the screen. This time a passport photo of a man in his late twenties. He had shoulder-length blond hair, tied into a ponytail, and one of those faces that was all sharp angles.
“Meet John O’Donnell. At one time unofficially considered the most lethal man in the Irish armed forces – only he’s no longer in the armed forces. A Wexford boy, he rose quickly through the ranks to join the Irish Rangers. Jokes about our army aside, those lads are special forces and are highly regarded amongst their international counterparts. It’s a tough gig to get. O’Donnell won commendations, was clean as a whistle and was generally GI fecking Joe. He was their golden boy and th
ey were gutted when he upped and left at the end of his tour a couple of years ago, for no apparent reason. He’s been to Somalia on peacekeeping where, incidentally, the Irish Rangers wore US uniforms to blend in. He won some medal in a competition with the Yanks. I asked around; his nickname was, I kid you not, ‘Iceman’. Seriously. O’Donnell is an expert in surveillance, counter-surveillance, ordnance and weaponry with a specialism as a sniper. He is, in short, quite the badass, and an absolute nightmare for us.”
O’Rourke nodded and the picture changed again, this time to a shaven-headed man in military fatigues, posing with a large knife and a bigger grin. He had a heavily muscled physique below a face with a hint of chubby cheeks to it. Bunny would have laid money he had been a fat kid and was now seriously overcompensating.
“Jimmy Moran, another Clanavale Estate alumnus. Was in the Rangers too, but not for that long. Allegations about his behaviour. The army aren’t wild about sharing details with us, but from what we’ve gathered through backchannels, when his unit were in Canada on a training exercise he got rough with a local girl. Charges were never brought but it was enough to get him dishonourably discharged. His buddy O’Donnell left three months later, and we reckon they both teamed up with Carter straight after.”
O’Rourke nodded again and O’Shea turned the lights back on and killed the projector. The detective inspector took a few moments to look around the room, making eye contact with each occupant in turn.
“Those lads – the last two in particular – are serious individuals. We reckon when they first teamed up with Carter, he was nineteen. Nineteen. I don’t know what you were like at that age but I know I was still having a hard time getting served in pubs and finding a young lady willing to do more than hold hands.”
A smattering of laughs from around the room.
“Tommy Carter was successfully convincing special forces boys to take his orders. The reason they did? He’s smart, really smart. Genius IQ when he was in school. They say he could have been anything. Then, when he was fifteen, an older boy touched his sister in a way she didn’t like. Carter, still a runty little fucker at the time, smashed this big lad to pieces and then broke both his arms. Let me clarify – he knocked the bloke out and then calmly broke both his arms. He didn’t see any time for it because the lad wouldn’t testify. It got Carter out of the school system though. Not that he seemed to care. He isn’t some rocket – he is cool, calm and very thorough. He reads constantly – the little shite seems to permanently have a book on him. He plans everything to the last detail. When we were about to bring him in for a chat after the last job, he turned up at the station before we could send for him. He then sat there for eight hours and said nothing except for reciting a bit of James Joyce over and over again. He likes to play with us and frankly he’s been doing whatever the hell he wants and we’ve been helpless. It’s about time that changed.”
Angels in the Moonlight Page 6