Eight Ball Boogie Part 12

"Want some advice?"

"No."

"You're smart enough to play dumb. Don't be dumb enough to play it smart. Conway's a dangerous b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"He hasn't seen my big brother."

He nodded again, made for the door.

"Galway wants Conway," he warned, a parting shot. "And what Galway wants, Galway gets."

"Galway wants your a.s.s. Is he getting that?"

He stared, stony-faced. Then he grinned, eyes crinkling. For a moment he was a different man, friendly and almost human.

"He's getting it, alright. Back of the f.u.c.king head he's getting it."

He left. When I was sure they weren't coming back I slumped in the chair, hands shaking, breath coming too fast. I couldn't work out which was the new bruise when I checked my back in the bathroom mirror, but when it finally arrived my p.i.s.s was a pale shade of pink.

I put the gun away, limped across to The Cellars. Needing a drink like a hole in the head and finding some comfort in the prospect of both.

12.

Dutchie took me into the poolroom, coffee for him, Red Bull-vodka for me, ham-and-cheese toasties all round. He stirred his coffee, chewed his gum and didn't interrupt while I told him about the heavy gang. When I was finished he said: "Want my advice?"

"No."

Everyone wanted to give me advice. All I wanted was peace and quiet, maybe an Audi with go-fast stripes.

"Drop Conway. He's bad news."

"That's what sells, Dutch. Why?"

"His motors? The second-hand ones?"

"They're ringers?"

"More than likely. Anyway, you know Tommy Armstrong?"

"Stretch Armstrong? Gangly f.u.c.ker, talks like he's chewing hot spuds?"

Dutchie nodded, sipped some coffee.

"He drives for Conway. Picks up the cars in Belfast, takes them across the border."

"Nice work if you can get it."

"Stretch picks them up at the port, coming off the ferry."

"They're coming through Belfast? From where?"

"Amsterdam, via Liverpool."

"Makes sense. There's good E in Amsterdam."

Dutchie sniffed.

"f.u.c.kers around here wouldn't know a good E from a blue Smartie. That Belfast s.h.i.te is muck. Cheap speed, a dab of trips, that's your bag."

"Belfast s.h.i.te?"

"That's where all the trade's coming in from. Churning it out like Polo mints, they are. Two cheers for the peace process."

"East or west?" I asked.

"Does it matter?"

"It might, if my client's trying to f.u.c.k them over."

"East."

"Nasty."

"No nastier than West. Want a laugh?"

"Did it this morning, got it over with."

"Just as well. According to Stretch, Conway's planning something big."

"A new town hall?"

"Bigger. Stretch didn't say, but at a guess I'd say Conway's bypa.s.sing East Belfast, not paying his dues. Branching out on his tod."

"Christ on a landmine. How smart is that?"

"You tell me. Those f.u.c.kers aren't happy since Blair cut them off at the knees. They're itching so bad they don't need an excuse to scratch."

I thought it through. Conway trafficking E explained Galway and Brady, but it didn't explain why Conway might think his wife was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. Or why he might want me to think she was. But there had to be a connection. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

"This is kosher?" I asked.

"Like a plague of frogs. Stretch doesn't have the imagination to make it up."

"True enough. Then there's this."

I handed him Katie's newspaper clipping. He scanned through it.

"Sheridan? What's he to do with anything?"

"That girl Katie, who was in last night? She gave me that, yesterday. When Abbott and Costello were in this morning they found it in my desk. It got their attention."

"So?"

"So they were asking about Frank Conway, auctioneer. The real-estate slimebag who happens to be up to his a.r.s.e in illicit loot. Tony Sheridan's a politician."

Dutchie nodded.

"So we just drop the real-estate bit."

"Correct." I pointed out Frank Conway, top corner of the photograph. "That apartment complex he's building on the river, where the s...o...b..xes are going for one-sixty a throw. Remind me about the environmental bulls.h.i.t that went with that."

"You're talking brown envelopes." He shook his head. "So what? They need somewhere to put all the punters they're decentralising from Dublin. Re-zoning scam or no re-zoning scam, those apartments were always going to be built."

"Maybe, maybe not. But that photograph puts Conway and Sheridan together in the same picture."

"That's a big picture, Harry. There's a lot of people in it."

He was right in a way, but he was wrong too. It was a big picture, the kind with a real big frame.

I was wrong too, but I was right in a way. The one time I got it right, I didn't even know it.

I finished the drink and we went through to the bar. Dutchie plunged the gla.s.s and plate into the soapy water in the sink, nodded at the sticking plaster above my eye.

"What did you tell Dee about the hammering?"

"That I fell in the alleyway. By the way."

"What?"

"Gonzo rang."

He stopped plunging. His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his crew cut, which is no mean feat.

"Gonzo?"

"The one and only, thank f.u.c.k."

"Jesus. f.u.c.k." He beamed. "f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, Harry! What'd he say?"

"He left a message, said he'd be home for Christmas. He'll be in here tonight."

He laughed out loud. It sounded forced, too much, not Dutch. I let it slide. I wasn't feeling much like myself either.

"Tonight? Typical f.u.c.king Gonz. How long's it been?"

"Four years, near enough."

"Too long."

"Not nearly long enough, Dutch. See you later."

"Yeah. And Harry? We already know you're a miserable b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You've nothing left to prove."

"f.u.c.k you."

"I'll have to clear it with Mich.e.l.le first."

"No hurry. What time tonight?"

"Here for eight?"

"Sound."

I went back across the road to the office. There was a message on the machine, Herbie with news, call. I called.

"Alright Harry?" Herbie sounded fresh and vital again, he'd obviously gone for snow for his Christmas treat. "I got that Helen Conway stuff for you. Got a pen handy?"

"Shoot."

He reeled off a list of figures. Taking dictation from a c.o.ke-fuelled stoner can take a while when you don't have shorthand but in the end I knew more about Helen Conway's bank accounts than she needed to know herself. There was also information on insurance policies, health plans and membership of various clubs and organisations. Political donations, a trust fund, two company directorships, one of which was a subsidiary of her husband's real estate company. When Herbie got himself motivated, he was rapacious.

"Busy girl," I commented. The bank accounts alone were impressive, nearly three hundred grand spread across five different banks at home. There were also the kind of accounts where you get a tan making a deposit, one in the Seych.e.l.les, another in Barbados, and she also had the obligatory Swiss deposit box, although that was probably for show. "Nice work, Herb. Give me the same on Frank Conway, yeah?"

"Who he?"

I counted to five.

"He'll be Helen Conway's husband, Herb."

"Oh, yeah right."

"Get a chance to download those pictures yet?"