O’Rourke looked around the room again and let the silence linger.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you’re here to finally take him down.”
Chapter Ten
Bunny looked at the sign above the door of Charlie’s Private Members’ Club and nervously ran his hands through his irredeemably uncontrollable mop of dark brown hair. His palms were clammy, mouth dry and a layer of cold sweat was causing his shirt to cling to his back. The remnants of his hangover were only partly to blame for all this. He’d gone home to change into what he thought of as his best shirt, but it had betrayed him by somehow getting smaller in the three months since he’d last worn it. It was perfectly wearable as long as he remained standing. Sitting down allowed his belly button to play peek-a-boo in a way that was not attractive.
After the morning’s briefing, he and Gringo had dropped into O’Hagan’s for a lunchtime fried breakfast and a quick straightener from the hair of the dog. They’d eaten mostly in silence. After they’d left O’Rourke’s briefing, Bunny had revealed that he was going to ask to be excused from the task force and it had not gone down well. “But,” Gringo had pleaded, “half the guards in Dublin would be begging to get on the damn thing!” Bunny had no doubt he was right on that score, and one of those guards would be getting lucky, because his mind was made up. He knew exactly why Rigger wanted him there and he didn’t want any part of it.
So he’d headed home, grabbed two hours’ fitful sleep and then set about making himself presentable. He’d promised the shirt that he’d give up the takeaways for a month if it’d play ball. His black blazer had at least been a bit more forgiving. He even dug out the shoes he wore for weddings, the ones that squashed his little toe and sliced into the back of his heel.
And here he stood, sweating like a turkey in December, drying his sweaty palms on the back of his shirt to avoid messing up his carefully ironed cream slacks.
Bunny walked slowly down the sloping alleyway. He could hear the murmur of recorded music as he approached. He looked down the short flight of stairs to the basement-level bar and saw that a light was on inside. The door was painted red, chipped in places; the window beside it was grimy and had a wire mesh on the outside. Bunny glanced inside and saw the figure of the woman from last night, her hair tied back in a ponytail as she ran a mop across the floor. As he looked at her blurred silhouette, she wrung the mop out in the bucket and dipped it back into the water. Then she raised her head and looked in the direction of the window. Bunny heaved his big head out of view and turned to go, then turned back, then turned to go again, then turned back and hovered his hand in the knocking position above the red chipped paint.
He looked at his hand and whispered to himself, “Oh for God’s sake.”
His attempted knock missed as the door opened before his knuckles could make contact. The face of the woman from the night before furtively poked out from around it. Bunny noticed that her hair was suddenly down again, hanging in a dark curtain over her right eye. She was wearing what appeared to be dungarees.
“Ehm, hi, hello, howerya, hi.”
She raised an eyebrow and gave him a slight smile, and he noticed up close how big her brown eyes were.
“Hi.”
“I’m, ehm, I was, I’m the fella who . . .”
“Smashed up the place last night?” she finished, a playful tone to her voice.
“Yes, I’m really sorry about that. I – you see – not that I’m excusing it, but—”
She held her hand up. “Relax. Noel was pissed at the time but he’s calmed down. A couple of the regulars told him the other three-quarters of the fight were disrespecting the music. He can’t stand that either. That’s not to say we encourage how you dealt with it. We’ve only got so much furniture.”
Bunny followed her gaze as she glanced to his right. The remains of a table and a couple of stools lay shattered and discarded in the small enclave underneath the stairs.
“Ah shitting hell.”
“Don’t worry about it. Noel’s off getting replacements. We might accidentally end up with some furniture where two of the legs are the same length now.”
Bunny shifted his hands about nervously; they suddenly felt like unwieldy slabs of meat that he didn’t know what to do with.
“I can only apologise, I mean – I’m not a violent person.”
She raised the one eyebrow that was visible. “Really? Because you took to it pretty damn fast. You should consider going professional. You got potential, kid.”
“They were pricks, to be fair.”
“I’m glad to hear it. If that’s the way you treat people you like, I’d be worried.”
“So where in the States are you from?”
“All of it. I’m a gypsy soul.”
“Were you, like, a professional singer over there too?”
She opened the door further to show the wet floor behind her. “I ain’t a professional singer over here. Gloria Estefan doesn’t have to mop the floors.”
“Well you’re fantastic, like, at the singing I mean. I was very impressed. Phenomenal stuff.”
She smiled nervously. “Yeah, well, you should see how clean this floor is, it’ll blow your mind.”
“Do you want to be a full-time singer?”
“What? And give up all this?” She gave him a quizzical look. “You ask a lot of questions.”
Bunny held his hands up. “Sorry, sorry – nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
Her face dropped into a stony stare. “My great-granddaddy was killed by the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Jesus, sorry, I . . . hang on!”
She laughed, a soft and surprisingly deep chuckle. “You are too easy.”
Bunny grinned nervously back. “Oh, can I give you the money for the new furniture?” He started patting his jacket down, looking for his wallet.
“Easy, big spender. You’ve not got your wallet, remember?”
Bunny blushed. “Right, yeah.”
She picked up his anorak from inside the door and handed it back to him.
“You can drop in and sort it out with Noel during the week. Give him some time to cool off too. He’s here most nights, bar Mondays when we’re closed.”
“What about you?”
“I’m here every night.”
“And will you be singing?”
“Serving drinks, unclogging the ladies, breaking up fights – I’m the total package.”
“Right,” said Bunny. “That’s good.”
She smiled again. “Is it?”
“Well, yeah,” said Bunny. “Can’t have the ladies getting all backed up. Then they start using the gents, and sure, chaos ensues.”
“It’s a complete breakdown in the natural order.”
“And as an officer of the law, I’m very concerned about such things.”
“That right? You got a peach of a black eye coming up there that says different.”
“Well, I . . .”
She looked up into his eyes and fell silent for a moment. When she spoke again, the playfulness had gone from her tone. “Actually, your eye looks a little off, you might want to get that seen to. It don’t look right at all.”
“Ara, don’t worry,” said Bunny, pointing to his lazy left eye. “That’s always been like that.”
“Oh.” She looked suitably embarrassed. “Sorry. I put my big ol’ foot in it there, didn’t I?”
“Don’t worry about it. I slammed a lad’s head through one of your tables – neither of us is brilliant at first impressions.”
“I wouldn’t say that. That guy will certainly remember meeting you.”
“I’m just saying, I’m not some lunatic going about hurling digs into every mouthy gobshite without the sense his mother gave him.”
She gave him a bemused look. “I know some of that was definitely in English.”
“Sorry, I, ehm, I was just saying I’m not some drunk bloke who gets into fights.”
“Course not, you’re just a jazz fan wit
h an admirably low tolerance for rudeness.”
“Exactly.” Bunny nodded and smiled a wide grin.
“So who’s your favourite?”
“Favourite?”
“Jazz artist?”
“Ehm . . . you are.”
She rolled her eyes, over a skewed smile that made Bunny’s tummy go a tad fizzy.
“And who is yours?”
She stopped and pointed behind her, indicating the music playing inside. “Depends on my mood, I s’pose. Right now, Billie Holiday.”
“Oh yeah,” said Bunny. “He is great.”
She shook her head. “Oh dear. And you were doing so well.”
Chapter Eleven
“Stephen Colgan, wallop the fecking thing! Wallop it!”
DI Fintan O’Rourke heard Bunny McGarry a long time before he saw him. He was parking his car up on Philpott Street when Bunny’s distinctive Cork bellow carried over the wall. Fintan double-checked all of the doors, because he of all people knew that in this area you couldn’t be too careful. The Celtic Tiger economy may have been raging all around it, but Philpott Street remained steadfastly Philpott Street. Flats dominated it, always looking down in the mouth and overdue a paint job. At its centre sat St Jude’s Hurling Club. It had only been set up a couple of years before, on a playing field vacated when a private school decided it would rather bus its progeny out to the suburbs than play on sports facilities it found inadequate for their needs. The land had belonged to the council and McGarry had nipped in before any redevelopment deals could be sewn up.
O’Rourke looked up at the wall over which the sound of ash clattering against ash could be heard, mingled with occasional cheers of support and grunts of exertion. Above it all rose the voice of Bunny McGarry. “Dennis O’Malley, stop chasing the fecking ball around. You’re a full back, not a Yorkshire Terrier!”
Fintan passed through the gates, such as they were. “Club” was a grand title for St Jude’s: it was one pitch and a couple of Portakabins. Graffiti – mostly unimaginative in both style and content – marked the walls at random intervals. The Portakabins were the worse for it. Someone had tried to distract from what was clearly an enormous cock and balls drawn on the side of one of the structures with the strategic placement of a couple of posters advertising a jumble sale that had already happened.
While pre-teen boys in helmets that looked way too big for them inexpertly hacked a ball back and forth on the field, various knots of parents stood around watching on. Bunny McGarry stood at halfway, red-faced and bellowing. There was notably nobody standing within twenty feet of him, save for one tubby ginger kid who was dunking the top of his hurling stick into the bucket that sat at his feet.
“Davey Ryan, you’re the goalie! You’re the goalie, son! What are you looking at me so confused for? Are you in the goal right now? Well, get back there!”
Bunny turned to the child standing beside him. “You heard me, Deccie, didn’t I say to him before the match, just stay in the goal? How hard is that?”
“He has no understanding of the nuances of the game, boss.”
“You’re not wrong, Deccie, you’re not wrong.”
“D’ye want me to tie his leg to one of the posts again, boss?”
Bunny gave the child a look. “No, Deccie, remember we talked about this. Ye can’t do that.”
“Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.”
“Good instincts though. PHILLIP NELLIS! What are you doing sitting down? The ball is in play! I don’t care how far away it is, you’re playing the fastest team sport on the planet! Get up, wake up and buck up!”
The ginger kid looked behind him to see Fintan O’Rourke standing there. He tugged at Bunny’s sleeve. “Boss, the pigs are here.”
Bunny turned, an expression of surprise crossing his face. He looked down at the boy. “Deccie, what’ve I told you? It’s the Garda Síochána and you will say that with respect as I am one too.”
“I won’t tell anyone, boss.”
Bunny looked exasperated. “I’m not trying to keep it secret – AH FOR FECK’S SAKE, REF!”
Around midfield, multiple members of both teams had just shambled into each other and descended into a flailing crescendo of limbs and accusation. The referee was blowing his whistle repeatedly but seemed to be having little effect on proceedings.
“Deccie, sponge time. Go easy on the magic juice, we’re running low.”
The fat kid saluted and huffed onto the field, the precious bucket held in front of him in two hands.
O’Rourke moved forward to stand beside Bunny. “Magic juice?”
“It’s just water with a bit of lemon in it but they think it works wonders.”
“Right,” said Fintan, a smile on his lips. “And which lot are yours?”
Bunny looked sideways at him, indignation etched on his face. “Which d’ye think?”
Fintan nodded his head. Of course. The ones in the red of Cork, naturally. Even without that, he might have known. The team in blue had noticeably better gear and all their jerseys matched perfectly, as opposed to the St Jude’s kit, which looked rather patched and mended, showing the strain here and there.
“So,” said Bunny, “I didn’t know you were a fan of under-12s hurling, Fintan?”
“I’m not – no disrespect. I came to talk to you.”
Bunny turned his head back towards the field. “Sorry, Inspector, but I’m a bit busy at the moment. Could you not have given me a ring or something?”
“I couldn’t locate your number this morning when I went looking for it.”
“Yeah, you must’ve deleted it. I’ve certainly not heard from you in long enough.”
“I’ve been busy, and you didn’t exactly cover yourself in glory the last time we met.”
Bunny flapped his hand above his head in exasperation. “For the last fecking time, that swan came at me like a . . . like a bloody—”
“Relax,” said O’Rourke. “I’m not here to talk about that. I’m on my way into town to finalise the names for the task force and DS Spain informed me yesterday that you do not wish to be on it. Is he correct?”
Bunny didn’t even look at him. “That’s correct. Thanks, but no thanks . . . C’mon, lads, here we go! CONCENTRATE!”
Everyone having regained their feet and their composure, the referee was preparing to throw the sliotar in again.
Deccie waddled back towards them, still in possession of the bucket and magic sponge. He gave a thumbs up. “All good, boss.”
It was a matter of eight seconds between the ball going back into play and it sailing over the St Jude’s bar for a point.
“Holy Mary on a moped – Phillip Nellis, will you throw yourself in front of the ball! No pain, no gain, son. The rest of ye, stay in your positions – at least that way the ball might hit off ye by accident on its way to the goal.”
“Boss,” said Deccie, “the ball’s gone out on the road.”
“Ara crap, can you go get it?”
Deccie sighed. “On my way, boss.”
“Good lad.”
Bunny picked up a sliotar from the kitbag beside him and hurled it onto the field.
“Be careful with this, it’s our last one.”
“Bunny,” said O’Rourke, “I need an answer.”
Bunny glanced briefly at O’Rourke, clearly annoyed. “You already have one.”
“I mean an explanation.”
“For feck’s sake, Fintan, can’t this wait?”
“No. I’ve a meeting with the commissioner in forty minutes.”
“I don’t want the assignment – simple. And for exactly the reason that you want me. You know Donal Carter and I have a bit of history.”
“I do. The Clanavale Estate was one of your first beats in Dublin, wasn’t it?”
“I’m guessing you know the answer to that already. Now, d’ye mind? I’m trying to coach a game here. C’MON, LADS, KEEP IT GOING!”
“Oh for God’s sake, Bunny, just give me one minute of your time, please. You
’re clearly losing this thing anyway.”
Bunny turned so fast that O’Rourke took a step back. “What the hell are you talking about? We’re up by six!”
Despite his lack of interest, O’Rourke couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. “Really?”
The St Jude’s goalie, Davey Ryan, hopped the ball up to restart the game and belted it with everything he had, sending it careening towards midfield. It was then that a slight kid, who’d done nothing up until this point that O’Rourke had seen, effortlessly fielded the ball off his hurl while sending two opponents the wrong way. He then soloed it up the field, the ball seemingly glued to his stick as he wove effortlessly between three defenders before pulling back and in one fluid motion sending it thirty yards through the air to sail over the opposition bar.
Spontaneous applause broke out – some of it, O’Rourke noticed, coming from the parents on the opposition sideline.
“Beautiful stuff, Paulie Mulchrone, beautiful. Keep it going, son. Everyone else – be more like Paulie.”
“Wow,” said O’Rourke.
“Finest pure striker of the ball you’ll ever see. Going to play for the county.”
There was then a break in play as Deccie had yet to return with his ball and the other one had skated into the tall grass at the end of the field. The opposition goalie and the referee were leading a search party. As the players from both sides took this as a signal to sit down, chat or bug their parents, Bunny turned to Fintan O’Rourke and looked him square in the eye.
Angels in the Moonlight Page 7