Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Not everyone would agree with you on that front.”

  “Ah, people rarely know the full story.”

  Angelina brushed her long hair over her shoulders and leaned back, moving the conversation on. “So, did I hear you made detective?”

  “I did. I get to dress myself now. Not that it’s a particular strong suit – no pun intended.”

  “If there’s one thing you learn in the fashion business, it’s that clothes don’t make the man. Believe you me.”

  “That’s a relief.” Bunny noticed that what he’d taken to be a glove was in fact a bandage. He pointed at it. “What did you do to yourself?”

  She held up her wrist. “Oh, this? I’m an idiot. I’ve set up a gym upstairs and I should’ve checked how to use all of the machines properly before jumping in. Trying to get this old pile of flab and bones in shape.”

  “Go on outta that,” said Bunny. “You look great.”

  She laughed again. “You old smoothie, you. My husband could learn a thing or two from you.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “A few years now.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She looked down at her shoes. “Oh please, don’t. Needs must when the devil drives.”

  “Have you been back home long?”

  She shrugged. “A while. The modelling world, well, it can mess you up if you’re not careful, and I wasn’t careful. When I got back here, I was broke and broken.”

  “Sorry to hear that. You should’ve …”

  Angelina raised her eyebrows. “What? You can’t save us all, Bunny.” She traced a finger through the air. “Besides, it’s all ancient history. Look at me now. Living the good life.” There was an undercurrent of bitterness in her voice.

  Bunny looked around. “Worse spots to end up.”

  “All that glitters.”

  Bunny jerked his head in the direction of the bookshelves. “If memory serves, you were always a big reader.”

  “Those aren’t even real books. He bought them by the yard.”

  “Really?” Bunny stared at the rows of what he had thought were leather-bound books.

  “My husband is far more concerned with how things look than what they actually are.” She lowered her voice, looking suddenly lost. “Rather superficial, truth be told, and for an ex-model to say that …” She tried out a laugh that she couldn’t make fit. “It’s all hollow …” She met Bunny’s gaze and then looked away.

  Bunny tried to gather his thoughts, but before he could, the other Angelina was back, bright and beautiful.

  “So, what brings you here?” she asked. “Am I under arrest?”

  “You’re alright for the minute. I’m on sabbatical.”

  “Oh really?”

  It was Bunny’s turn to look away. “Yeah. Needed a bit of time away. Figure out what I want to do with myself.”

  “You’re sounding like a man looking for a change, Bunny.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

  “The Gardaí without Bunny McGarry. I’m not sure how well either side would cope with that.”

  “Ah, I’d imagine there’d be a fair few in senior management that would be popping the champagne.”

  “I might be way off,” said Angelina, “but I’m not sure you ever did it for them, did you?”

  “’Tis just a job.”

  “Not the way you did it.”

  Bunny laughed. “Are you working in recruitment for the Guards now?”

  “No. No. I promise,” she said, leaning forward. “I guess a small part of me is still that little girl who remembered seeing you walking round the estate, like the last of the real cowboys.”

  “That horse cost me a fortune in oats, though.”

  She shook her head. “You didn’t need it. You had the swagger.”

  “D’ye know what caused that? Piles.”

  Angelina threw back her head and roared with laughter at the ceiling. “You’re an awful man, Officer McGarry. And for the record, even if it was haemorrhoids, you made it work.”

  “I think you’ve got some of those rose-tinted glasses.”

  She gave a slight shrug. “Maybe. Every little girl needs her hero.” She slipped off her high heels and drew her feet under her. “So, can I ask what brings you to the infamous Coop Hannity’s door?”

  “A personal matter.”

  Angelina raised an eyebrow a fraction.

  “Trying to help a friend out.”

  She nodded. “Now that is the Bunny McGarry I remember. Can’t stop yourself.” She looked towards the door. “Although, sorry, it looks like you might die of thirst trying. I—” As she spoke, the door opened. “Speak of the Kiwi.”

  Samoan Joe ambled through. “Mr Hannity will see you now.”

  Angelina sat upright. “What the hell happened to our drinks?”

  Joe looked like a man with no good answers to give and lots of other places he’d rather be.

  “Honestly, don’t worry about it,” said Bunny, standing up. “My doctor keeps telling me I need to be cutting back.”

  “Yes,” said Angelina, not taking her eyes off Samoan Joe. “The world is full of people who don’t know what their job is.”

  Bunny leaned down to give her a hug as he passed. “Take care of yourself. ’Twas great to see you.”

  She squeezed him tightly for a little too long. “You too.”

  They broke apart and she gave him a brief, embarrassed smile before Bunny turned towards the door.

  “Bunny.”

  He looked back at her.

  “Word to the wise. Be careful. Deals with the devil are for life. I should know.”

  For the Birds

  Bunny stood and waited.

  He got it. The message being sent very clearly was that he would have to stand and wait for as long as necessary while James “Coop” Hannity went about his business.

  The three men – Bunny, Hannity and Samoan Joe – were gathered in Hannity’s back garden. It was an unusual-looking space – at least, it was if you weren’t aware that it was actually the merged gardens of the five houses upon which Hannity’s castle now stood. That was why it was wider than it was long. The trio were standing on the left-hand side, which was dominated entirely by the very things that had earned Hannity his nickname. Outside of business he had one interest, and one interest alone, and that was the breeding, rearing and racing of homing pigeons.

  Bunny watched as Hannity examined and fed his prized possessions. The coops stood on a platform three feet above ground, surrounded by fencing. Arc lights on high poles threw bright light down upon them. Given that the garden was bordered on all sides by mature coniferous trees for privacy, from the perspective of the surrounding properties, it was probably like living near a UFO landing site with an infuriatingly blocked view. Albeit one that came with its own soundtrack. Classical music blared out of speakers dotted around them. Bunny guessed the neighbours loved that. He also guessed they didn’t ever mention it.

  He reckoned there were maybe a hundred pigeons in the cages, although the word “cages” didn’t do the enclosures justice. There were heaters, lights – the whole set-up had a no-expense-spared look to it, which was much in keeping with everything else in the Hannity residence.

  Beside Bunny, the big non-Samoan shifted from foot to foot.

  “You alright?” whispered Bunny.

  Samoan Joe nodded. “Bum knee. Gets sore in the cold.”

  It certainly was cold. Early March, with a biting wind whistling through the trees. It’d be below freezing soon – if it wasn’t already. While there were plenty of heaters close to where they were standing, they all appeared to be directed towards the birds, as if to make clear the pecking order.

  Even though Bunny was well aware of Coop Hannity by reputation, he had never met the man, who looked disconcertingly normal. If you were to pass him in the street, you wouldn’t give him a second look. Average height, slim build, thinning sandy hair – he was neatly if unfl
ashily dressed in trousers, a jumper, a warm-looking overcoat and a pair of leather gloves. He looked like most every other bloke in his late forties, save for the complete lack of even a hint of middle-age spread. To look at him, you wouldn’t guess Hannity was sitting on top of a large semi-criminal financial empire. He looked more like the manager of a mid-sized supermarket.

  Hannity pressed a button on the controller beside him and the music faded away. Without looking around, he spoke for the first time. “Do you know much about pigeons, Detective McGarry?”

  “I can’t say that I do, no. Just the usual …”

  “And tell me,” said Hannity, “what is the usual?”

  “Y’know, very good homing instinct. Fond of a bit of bread. Used to carry messages in the war. There was that cartoon. The one with Dick Dastardly, trying to catch the pigeon. Can’t remember what it was called.”

  Hannity stood upright and only now looked directly at Bunny. “Actually, they’ve carried messages since around 3000 BC. The Egyptians used them.”

  “Is that right? Fair play to them.”

  “They are also self-regulating. They breed until the point at which their numbers match the available food supply and then they stop. We humans could learn a thing or two from them.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  Hannity addressed Joe. “The vet will come tomorrow. I want him to take a look at Iris, and Apollo’s wing still doesn’t look right.”

  Samoan Joe grunted and took a little notebook out of his pocket to take down his boss’s instructions.

  “I assumed, Mr McGarry, that you must be a very keen pigeon enthusiast. Why else would you come here and disturb me at home, where everyone knows I do not like to be bothered?”

  “I’m very sorry about that,” said Bunny.

  “No, you’re not. If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “It couldn’t wait. I need to talk to you about—”

  “I know,” interrupted Hannity, “exactly why you are here. It is my business to know such things. Did you think I would be unaware that a Garda detective beat up two of my men earlier today?”

  “I’m on sabbatical. And, to be fair, I didn’t know they worked for you. They didn’t make that clear.”

  “Did you give them much of a chance to do so?”

  “It was them who started swinging.”

  Hannity gave a dispassionate nod. “As I believe the Garda report makes clear. I’m sure they wouldn’t show any favouritism to one of their own in such circumstances.”

  Bunny, trying to play nice, let that dig slide by. “I apologise—”

  “Don’t,” said Hannity. “Those men were hired on the understanding they had certain capabilities. It turns out they don’t. Information, however it is obtained, is always useful. They no longer work for me.” He took a seat in a deck chair on the raised platform in front of his birds and looked down at Bunny. “Do you know how much a pigeon costs?”

  Bunny opened and closed his mouth, slightly thrown by the non sequitur.

  “A good one, I mean?”

  “I suppose it’d mainly be the cost of the feed and the cages and all that.”

  “No. A true champion bird is a good deal more than the cage it is in. One of the birds behind me is worth eighty thousand pounds.”

  “For a pigeon?” said Bunny, forgetting himself. “Jesus, Mary and Josephine. Not bad for a rat with wings.” He couldn’t fail to notice Hannity’s scowl. “I mean, they’re not rats. They’re much nicer than rats. Rats never deliver anyone a message other than ‘you probably need to clean up the place a bit’. I mean …”

  “Shall we get to why you are here?”

  “Right. Yes. I wanted to talk to you about Tim Spain. I believe he owed you some money.”

  ‘No. He did not.”

  Bunny’s brow furrowed in confusion.

  “A man in my position, I don’t deal with much of the day to day. I oversee and I deal with what we refer to as the ‘special cases’. Your friend, Detective Spain, was such a case.”

  “Detective Sergeant.” Bunny didn’t know what made him say it. Maybe it was the effort of kowtowing to a man who represented something he couldn’t stand, or maybe it was just the tone of Hannity’s voice when he referred to Gringo.

  Hannity looked at Bunny for a moment and then bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Of course. Detective Sergeant Spain. A guard in serious debt due to a chronic gambling problem. That is a ‘special case’ in anyone’s book.”

  Bunny went to speak but stopped himself.

  “I sense you are inclined to object, Detective. Put yourself in my shoes. My job is to assess risk and decide whether or not to lend someone money based on that assessment. It is not my job to live anyone else’s life for them.”

  “And you still lent him money?” Bunny could sense Joe tensing beside him.

  “No. As I said. I didn’t. He was a bad risk.”

  “But …”

  “I knew when he showed up that he was in debt to me for a certain amount, and to two of my competitors for similar sums.” The way he said the word “competitors” made it clear that he didn’t see them as a true threat. “When I pointed this out, he assured me that he had a way out of his predicament. He was about to come into a large sum of money, he just needed a little time. The thing with degenerate gamblers, though, their one unifying trait, is that they all believe they are about to come into a large sum of money. They’ve just been unlucky.”

  Hannity withdrew a packet of cigars from his coat pocket and selected one. He cut the end off and lit it as Bunny stood there quietly. He then puffed it into life before he spoke again. “Your colleague, however, assured me that this was not the case. He swore his gambling days were over. He had a big pay day coming. This was on 18 November last year, by the way.”

  Hannity smiled down at him. Bunny tried to keep his face as a mask while he slotted together some dates in his head. That was three days before the Carter gang robbed a plane on the runway at Dublin Airport containing millions in uncut diamonds, and then Gringo, Dara O’Shea and Jessica Cunningham had attempted to ambush the gang as they swapped vehicles, which had resulted in O’Shea’s death. Gringo never would have told Hannity about any plan, but it wouldn’t have taken the loan shark much to piece it together after the fact.

  “So, I made him a deal. I bought his house for sixty thousand pounds. I have the deeds, if you’d like to see them?”

  “Sixty?” exclaimed Bunny. “It’s worth at least five times that.”

  “True,” said Hannity, puffing out a ring of smoke, “but beggars can’t be choosers. He also had the option to buy it back for eighty thousand within ninety days.”

  “Alright. Give me some time and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “The ninety days ran out a few weeks ago. There is nothing for you to do.”

  Bunny went to take a step forward but Joe placed a hand on his arm. “Be reasonable.”

  “I am being reasonable,” said Hannity with a smile. “I’ve sent Mrs Spain three eviction notices.”

  “You fecking parasite,” snarled Bunny.

  Hannity laughed. “How refreshing. It’s been a very long time since anyone has dared to stand in front of me and hurl insults. Most people have far too much sense.”

  “You’d throw an elderly woman out on the street?”

  Hannity gave the merest shrug. “Business is business.”

  “The mother of a decorated Garda officer who died in the line of duty? D’ye not reckon that might bring your business a lot of unwanted attention?”

  Hannity raised an eyebrow. “It’s been even longer since someone came here to threaten me.”

  “You’re a good-for-nothing bottom-feeding leech, Hannity. You do this and, believe me, I’ll get you one way or another, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you’ll try. Your reputation for both violence and belligerence precedes you, Detective McGarry. Tell me, does it give you pause for thought that I am so e
ntirely unfazed by your threats?”

  Bunny glanced at Samoan Joe, who stared at him, poised to move if Bunny tried anything.

  “Bullies are always full of piss and vinegar when the odds are on their side.”

  Hannity nodded and then turned at Joe. “Joseph, be a good boy and go and look at the rhododendrons for a while.”

  The big man gawped at his boss in confusion. “But …”

  “Don’t worry. Detective McGarry will be on his best behaviour. I’m sure of it.”

  Bunny said nothing. He was trying to control his temper, and was very aware he was being messed with.

  Joe hesitated.

  Hannity’s voice dropped to a lower register. “You know how I feel about having to repeat myself.”

  The big man withdrew. Bunny and Hannity watched as he walked to the bottom of the path and then they locked eyes.

  Hannity leaned back. “Feel free to move closer, Detective.”

  “I’m fine where I am.”

  “As you wish. Now, where were we?”

  “You were throwing the widowed mother of my best friend out on the street.”

  Hannity flicked some ash off the end of his cigar. “That’s right. And you were warning me of the dire consequences if I were to do so. Rest assured, Detective, I very much wish to stay on the right side of the law. In fact, did I read in the newspaper that there’s going to be an inquiry into the Carter affair? Lessons to be learned. Three officers losing their lives et cetera.”

  Bunny said nothing. His palms were starting to sweat and he was calculating how many pigeons he could feed to Hannity before Joe could pull him away.

  “Tell me,” continued Hannity, “as a law-abiding citizen, do you think it is my duty to turn over the tape I have which shows a supposed hero police officer discussing how he is about to come into a massive financial windfall three days before he and two other officers ambush some criminals in possession of highly valuable diamonds? It might rather change the context in which their actions have been viewed, don’t you think?”

  Bunny tried to keep his expression blank but clearly failed.

  “That’s right, I have a tape.”

  “Bullshit,” spat Bunny.