The going rate imm-9

by John Brady

  The other person hadn’t hung up.

  “Daithi? Cathy? Just wait for it to finish. I’m here.”

  “Jaysus,” came the voice in a low, exasperated growl after the tone. “Bad enough I have to listen to you, but two of you — and at the same time? Too much. Too much, I’m telling you.”

  “Tommy. What the hell is this? It’s six o’clock in the morning. I hit the sack at three. I’m far from happy about this.”

  “Have you heard of mobile phones?”

  “They keep you at work twenty-four hours a day. Those things?”

  “I was going to leave a message.”

  “Make it a good one, will you. I have a message ready for you here. But I’ll wait until I hear yours.”

  “Take a powder there, boss,” said Malone. “You had three hours that I didn’t have. Here’s what I do have: Murph, you know about. If it’s Murph, that is. The bit of toast they found in the boot of his car up in the Pine Forest. So you won’t be talking to Murph.”

  “Got that. Move on.”

  “Listen to you. I’m doing your work for you here. I expect a cut of that paycheque of yours, you know.”

  “Settle for a wedding present — but only if you lift the ban, and let me go to the wedding.”

  “That’s another matter. Here’s the goods then: I got this message from a woman the name of Brid O Connor. It was waiting on me when I checked in the office late. Trying to get in touch with me yesterday, but had a bit of an issue tracking me down.”

  “I don’t know the name.”

  “Wife of one Dermot Fanning. Now you know her?”

  “Your ticket to stardom, okay. But what’s this about?”

  “Listen, I’m telling you. You know the routine in our place, about routing calls and that. If we’re out on a job, stuff just has to wait its turn. No interruptions. There’s a gatekeeper, Alec Dowling, a Sergeant. He handles stuff, decides if we get a contact. Anyway. That’s why I only picked this up late, I should say early this morning. She’s in a state. Husband did a bunk, and she can’t get ahold of him.”

  “Okay. Look, Tommy, I haven’t done a jigsaw puzzle since I was a child.”

  “Did they have them then?”

  “Proceed. I’ll save my bad words for when I meet you in person.”

  “She and the hubby had a big row the other night. Out he walks, and she hasn’t seen him since.”

  “Unusual?”

  “Yep. According to her. Oh sure, the artsy-fartsy lifestyle and all, but she’s a teacher. Says she to me, ‘We’re a very normal couple, I want you to know.’”

  “The point, Tommy, the point. I’m on a low battery here, man.”

  “Point is he’s missing, and she says he had been doing some odd things before he, um, took his leave of her.”

  “Odd. Isn’t that what filmy, artisty people do?”

  “She says he came home with a cut on his leg, and he was manky, and out of it.”

  “Like I said about that crowd?”

  “Will you stop hopping the ball on me for a minute there? Fanning was doing research on gangs here in Dublin. Hanging out with them.”

  “Got fond of it maybe?”

  “She says she thinks he was stoned the other night. That that’s the only way she can account for him losing his rag with her. Mild-mannered, wouldn’t hurt a fly, says she.”

  Minogue broke his gaze on the rings of the new cooker.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m getting it, sorry. It’s Murph he was hanging out with.”

  “Good. You saved me shouting at you there. Now I haven’t got to the real story here. She left a message, said that Fanning had tried to call her that night — that morning actually. But she didn’t answer the phone. She knew it was him, she said, and she was mad at him. He leaves a message on their machine, but it gets cut off. She doesn’t know why, but she remembers him talking about getting a new mobile, or something about a battery. So she thinks the phone died on him.”

  “Okay. But why am I here?”

  Malone went on undeterred.

  “What she tells me in this message is that he, Fanning that is to say, mentioned something about a thing that happened down the quays. That he wants to talk to her about it, but he has to think it over some more.”

  “The quays. That’s all?”

  “‘The back of the Custom House Quay’ she says. ‘Something happened,’ says he. ‘Something I’m not proud of.’”

  “Did she save the message?”

  “I don’t know, do I. But by Jesus, I am sitting here outside her house — I know from her phone call that they have a little one, and she was crying — and I’m going to knock on her door right now and find out.”

  “Where is this?”

  “According to my GPS,” said Malone, grandly, “5.3 kilometres from your place. Off Bird Avenue.”

  Chapter 46

  The car was a newish Honda Civic, with a Dublin registration. It was a sensible, reliable safe car, Fanning thought wistfully, a real teacher’s car. Cully had been watching him in the mirror from the time he had turned the corner. There was no sign of his sidekick. There were no lights on at the house, and the Golf hadn’t moved. Fanning looked up at the window of Aisling’s room — a box-room it should be called.

  His legs were still rubbery. He wondered if his fear showed on his face. He wished he had that Swiss Army knife again, the one that had gone missing on him after Christmas. But what use would that be? He wasn’t thinking straight at all.

  Cully looked tired and drawn, with dark patches under his eyes. This surprised Fanning, and for a moment he felt some weird sympathy.

  Cully rolled down his window.

  “You didn’t knock, did you?” Fanning asked. “Right?”

  Cully shook his head.

  “Let’s go somewhere to talk,” Fanning said. “Brid might be awake. I don’t want her seeing us.”

  Cully seemed in no humour to dispute anything.

  “Get in,” he murmured. He parked by the shops. He and Fanning waited until a long articulated lorry went by, and the road was empty again.

  “Hanging up on people is bad manners,” said Cully.

  “I switched it off actually.”

  Cully looked up from his hands.

  “You know, you’re getting cheekier and cheekier. Talking back? Snappy answer for everything?”

  “Just stating a fact, that’s all.”

  Neither man said anything for several moments. Fanning did his best to swallow without making any sound.

  “So,” he said then. “What are we going to do?”

  Cully stopped tapping his fingers on the wheel. “You’re asking me?”

  “We should do something.”

  “Like…?”

  “Work something out.”

  “What are you talking about here, ‘work something out’?”

  “An agreement, I suppose.”

  “Go on.”

  “To go our separate ways, I suppose.”

  Cully threw back his head and laughed.

  “That a script you’re writing? ‘To go our separate ways.’”

  “We decide on what to do, and stick to it.”

  “Oh, bossy now.”

  “You asked me for a suggestion. I’m giving it. Remember, I don’t have any experience in this sort of stuff.”

  Cully glanced over, but resumed his slow tapping on the wheel.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” he said. “I’ll grant you that.”

  “Look, you take over then. I’m in no fit mind right now probably.”

  “You mean it? I take over?”

  “I’m not thinking straight. I’m tired.”

  “Oh. You like the ‘up’ part, but you’re not so keen on the afterwards bit.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That little bit of white powder you took a liking to?”

  “I didn’t. And it didn’t work for me, didn’t work much anyway.”

  “Tel
l that to the bloke back there, the one you put the boots to.”

  “Me? You mean yourself. It wasn’t me did that.”

  “Really. That’s what you’re going to say to them?”

  A chill grabbed at Fanning.

  “I’m not telling anyone. Didn’t I say that?”

  Cully shook his head.

  “Well don’t get that idea,” said Fanning quickly. “There’s no way I’d want to tell anyone about that, ever.”

  Cully said nothing.

  “Ever,” Cully added.

  “Never, ever, ever,” Cully murmured.

  “Why would I want to do something so stupid as that? Like tell them to throw me in jail or something?”

  “They wouldn’t throw you in jail. They’d probably give you a medal.”

  Fanning stared at him, but Cully kept his gaze on the empty roadway.

  “Or put you on the payroll,” said Cully. “Like Murph.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. No idea.”

  “Oh but you’re the ideas man, and you have no idea? You make it up as you go along. You said so yourself.”

  “That’s about scripts, and story ideas. It’s not about real life. Come on.”

  Cully looked over with the beginnings of a smile. Fanning realized that there was a plaintive tone to what he had said.

  “I’m never going to talk to anyone about it. To tell you the truth, I’m appalled-”

  “Appalled, are you.”

  “Ashamed. Shocked. The things I said, I can’t believe it was me saying them. Racist, even. I can’t believe it.”

  “He pulled a knife on you. Did you notice?”

  “Of course I damned well noticed. I have a cut here on my leg, here I’ll show it to you.”

  “No. Don’t.”

  “I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even my wife.”

  “Well I know that.”

  “What do you mean? Why did you say that, like that…?”

  “Well she told me where to go, didn’t she.”

  “You spoke with her?”

  “Can’t say as I blame her either, can I.”

  “You talked to my wife. When? Tonight, I mean this morning.”

  Cully sighed and looked at his watch.

  “Half an hour ago.”

  “Why did you speak to her?”

  “Actually I didn’t speak to her. She did the talking. Yelling, I should say-”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “…telling me I was the cause of this thing, you showing up all dirty, with that cut and so forth. To stay away from her husband. And so on.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nowt. Nothing. Nada. Couldn’t get a word in, could I.”

  “You had no call to be phoning her, especially that hour.”

  “Whoa there,” said Cully and he rubbed at his eyes. “This isn’t Falluja or somewhere. It’s not a crime to talk to a woman, is it?”

  “Falluja? What’s that about? It’s four in the morning, I just told you, so why are you phoning my wife at four in the morning?”

  “Which question do you want answered first?”

  “You can’t do that, it’s not part of our arrangement. Our deal.”

  “Oh. We have a deal, do we? An arrangement?”

  “You know what I mean. Leave her out of it. We settle this ourselves.”

  Cully seemed to consider it. Then he resumed tapping his fingers on the wheel.

  “This is important,” he said, “isn’t it.”

  “Damned right it is.”

  “Well you shouldn’t turn off your mobile then, should you.”

  “It died. Ran out of juice.”

  “Should I believe you?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  “No, no. Let’s just move on. What were you saying?”

  “Okay. Whatever turns up out of this thing, you know, that guy… We do nothing. Right?”

  “Forget it ever happened?”

  “Something like that.”

  “He takes his licks, and he — what do they say in the television things… ‘he moves on with his life…’?”

  Fanning felt the fear returning. Cully didn’t do irony. He must know what he’d done to the man.

  Cully let his hands drop from the wheel.

  “You give me your word?” he asked.

  “Absolutely, I do.”

  “Not a word, even to your missus.”

  “Not a word. As if she’d let me talk to her now anyway.”

  Cully’s half-smile returned and then dissolved.

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on her there. You and her wouldn’t be fighting if neither of you didn’t care, would you.”

  “It’s hard to remember that when you’re in the middle of it.”

  Cully nodded, and yawned.

  “So we’re okay then,” he said. “You and me.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Even after you read the papers, or whatever you writer people do every day.”

  “Right.”

  “Because, sooner or later, you’ll come across something, and you’ll wonder,” Cully said. “Sooner, rather than later.”

  “There are a lot of those kinds of things in Dublin,” said Fanning. “What happened there, with that guy. It probably won’t make the papers.”

  “Well there’ll be something,” said Cully. “I’m pretty sure about that. Just want you to think about that.”

  “I gave you my word.”

  “They have the car by now,” said Cully. “Doesn’t take much, obviously.”

  “The car. What car is that?”

  “Murph’s car.”

  “A lot of joyrides end up like that. I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Leave it to Murph to worry, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well he’s not worried.”

  “That’s good,” said Fanning. “I suppose?”

  “It’ll take them a couple of days though,” said Cully. “On account of the petrol.”

  “Well I could phone him and tell him if you like,” said Fanning.

  “That’s a good one. I like that. Nothing wrong with a sense of humour, is there. Sign of that creativity thing, isn’t it. That’s what they say.”

  They looked at a lone cyclist on a racing bike heading out toward the Scalp and Wicklow.

  “Wants to get out before the rush hour,” Cully murmured.

  Fanning felt the weight begin to ease.

  “So…?”

  Cully looked over.

  “I’ll give you a lift then,” he said. “You were making a run for it, weren’t you?”

  Fanning froze, but saw that Cully was putting him on.

  “From the missus,” he added.

  “I was going to go into town, see if someplace was open, I could get a cup of something. Think things over — with her, I mean.”

  Cully started the engine.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Fanning allowed himself a bit more room to stretch.

  “Don’t forget your belt there,” said Cully. “Don’t want a fine now.”

  He pulled out slowly onto the road.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Fanning.

  “Falluja,” said Cully. “Let me guess. That’s another story. But not now.”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking that. More like, why you’re interested in this stuff. What I’m doing, I mean. Scriptwriting is not that exciting, you know.”

  “Oh I don’t know about that. But to tell you the truth, I’ve always been interested in films. I mean who hasn’t.”

  He looked over at Fanning.

  “Larger than life, and all that? Better than the real world, and that’s no joke. Right?”

  Fanning was not in a mood to disagree.

  “Money, of course. There’s money in making films, isn’t there?”

  “Not enough,” said Fanning. “From my end anyway.”

  Cully had dropped something down between h
is seat and the door. He stopped fumbling for it to change into third gear.

  “Never quite realized the impact of a camera,” said Cully, and began fumbling again. “But, like I mentioned there, you see things.”

  “What place is that?”

  “Falluja. Actually not in the place itself.”

  “I thought it was an expression of yours, you know, I’ve got a pain in the fallujia, or something? Like a cockney expression or something?”

  “Cockney?”

  Fanning saw that he had stopped fumbling.

  “Just a guess,” he said to Cully. “It’s not important.”

  Cully looked over at him. His face had taken on the blank expression that Fanning remembered from the dog fight.

  “I’m Irish,” said Cully. “People don’t seem to think that’s proper, or something.”

  “No offence,” said Fanning. “Really. Look, at this stage, I’m just babbling, I’m so knackered. Just stupidity. I’ve been saying stupid things all night. But I’m going to fix that. Starting with Brid. She’s right, you know.”

  “They’re always right,” said Cully, absentmindedly, and returned his attention to the road. “Aren’t they.”

  Fanning closed his eyes to yawn. Opening them, he saw lights in the mirror, a car turning onto the road behind them. An early shift, he thought; nurse maybe, bakery or the like. Cully had noticed it too.

  “Much more practical,” said Cully, glancing in the rearview mirror again. “Women. Wives.”

  Something was working its way into Fanning’s mind now, and it suddenly loomed.

  “They say that men are the facts people, but it’s not true,” Cully said. “They make things up more than the women, I tell you.”

  He turned in his seat to look at Fanning.

  “They lie more too.”

  “Wait,” Fanning said loudly, the terror already engulfing him.

  He saw Cully’s hand come up, and the flash that came at the same time as the explosion. The belt cut hard at his neck. There was another flash but he did not hear any sound this time.

  Chapter 47

  “Jaaay — zzus,” said Malone, and pocketed mobile. Minogue hadn’t even tried to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “They had a row, you say,” Minogue said.

  “They did all right.”

  “Over what he was doing, she said?”