Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [34]
Dugan strained to see her. He’d been drugged upstairs in the bar the night before after passing off money from Marty Ryan to three IRA soldiers. They kept him drinking from a Jameson bottle spiked with poteen. Dugan had nearly poisoned himself from drinking.
The woman was sharpening a boning knife at a table near the stairway. Dugan struggled to see clearly. It hurt to hold his head up for long.
He remembered drinking in the men’s room with the soldiers. He remembered them slapping his back and telling him jokes. He remembered laughing out loud and passing the bottle.
Now he couldn’t remember much of anything else.
He had come to Ireland with the twins because Marty Ryan had told him it was important they travel together. Dugan remembered sitting next to them on the flight over. He remembered joking with them. He remembered going through customs together and taking the cab from the airport.
They had separated once they were in the bar, Dugan going off to the men’s room with the soldiers while the twins drank at a table. Dugan couldn’t remember when they had left or where they had gone. He couldn’t remember leaving the men’s room.
He knew he was on Gardiner Street because the cab had dropped them off in front of the bar. Dugan remembered thinking the old neighborhood always looked the same and that he was glad to be done with it.
A door slammed shut somewhere upstairs. “That’ll be him,” the woman said.
Dugan was feeling cramped in the shoulders. He tried to move from the chair and realized his hands were tied behind his back.
“What’s this?” he muttered.
A door opened at the top of the stairs. The woman gave a nod at the stocky man.
Dugan thought he recognized the woman. “Mary?” he said.
She didn’t flinch.
Dugan looked to his left and saw a blue plastic tarpaulin covering something on the floor. He belched and could taste vomit. He gagged from the taste.
There were heavy footsteps on the stairs. Dugan looked up toward the sound. The woman pulled a string cord and a bright light filled the room. Dugan turned his head from the light.
He heard whispers. He tried to open his eyes and felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness.
He was back on the flight with the twins. They were joking about being with the girl, Catherine, the night after Dugan had told them about her. They had stopped by to chat her up and learned her cousin had left early. She had cab fare to get home, but they gave her a lift instead.
“She went without question,” one of the twins had told Dugan. “Like we were sent from heaven saving her six bucks.”
“We spent the night taking turns,” the other twin had bragged. “First me, then Sean, then me again. This way, that way. She finally cried when she was fecked raw around sun-up. We did save her the cab fare, though. And you were right, until she cried, she purred like a feckin’ kitty cat.”
Dugan remembered telling them, “I told you so.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Dugan heard a deep voice say. He opened his eyes and saw a hulking shadow at the foot of the stairs.
The huge man had a thick red beard and looked familiar. He leaned over the woman and kissed her forehead.
“Rusty?” Dugan said. “What’s going on? Why am I tied?”
“You’re to answer for Catherine,” the woman said.
Dugan was confused. “Catherine?”
“My niece.”
“Mary?” Dugan said. “Mary Collins.”
The woman took a drag from her cigarette.
“I’d’ve liked to be here earlier,” the big man said.
“The soldier boyos took care of it,” the woman said. “They were happy to help.”
Dugan saw she was still holding the long sleek boning knife. “What’s the knife for, Mary?”
“You,” the big man replied.
“But it’s easier when the bones are popped from their joints first,” the woman said. “Why I waited for Rusty here. He caught a late flight.”
Dugan turned to the big man. “Rusty, what the hell is this? What’s going on?”
“The other two had something to offer, the boyos took mercy and shot them in the head,” the woman said. “Cutting them up afterwards isn’t a problem. It’s only when you’re keeping them alive so they can feel it does it make a difference.