Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [45]
True to its name, though, the first race had finished five minutes ago and Heg the Peg was still running. So much for Bob and his cast-iron tips, straight from the stable, the whole crowd of them laying money on it like it was the only horse in the race. If there was any cast-iron, it was in Heg the Peg’s saddle.
So now Marty had two choices. First was finding some other way of raising two thousand euros by the end of the month—and frankly, that was looking about as likely as the stewards disqualifying every other horse in the last race.
Second was borrowing the money off Hennessey and paying back the interest for the rest of his life.
Three choices—he could tell McKeon to sing for the money, leave Dublin, leave Ireland, and find a monastery in Bhutan that was recruiting. Four choices—his next fare could be some crazy American on his first trip to Dublin, wanting to hire him for the whole week, money no object. You never knew with the airport.
The door opened and Marty turned off the radio.
“Wynn’s Hotel, please.” English, in a suit, overnight bag; no big tip here. The fare leaned over and handed him a piece of paper with an address on it. “Could you stop here on the way? I’ll give you a good tip.”
Marty glanced at the address. It wasn’t far out of the way.
“No problem. First time in Dublin?”
“Yes it is.”
Marty pulled away. He could probably take the guy around the houses and he wouldn’t be any the wiser. He found himself going the direct route, though; that was why he ended up in positions like this in the first place—he was too honest for his own good.
He looked in the rearview. The fare looked like a civil servant, or someone who worked in life insurance, nondescript, late thirties, the kind of guy who was born to make up the numbers and get lost in the crowd. But he’d still offer him the same old patter.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to sample some of the good stuff while you’re here?”
“Sorry?”
“Guinness.”
“Oh.” The fare smiled like it was something he wasn’t used to. “Actually, I don’t drink. Very rarely, anyway.”
Marty nodded and said, “So what brings you here then?”
“Business.” He smiled again, though he wasn’t getting any better at it. “But I’ve been wanting to come to Ireland for a long time. I’m of Irish stock.”
Jesus, who wasn’t? The day he picked up a fare at that airport who didn’t claim to have Irish blood, that was the day he’d win the lottery. Still, he put on his best “that’s amazing” smile and said, “Really? What’s your name?”
“Jeffers. Patrick Jeffers.”
Well sure, anyone could call their kid Patrick, but he wasn’t so sure about the Jeffers bit. Didn’t sound particularly Irish to him.
“Don’t know any Jeffers. Must be a name from out west.”
“I think it is.” End of conversation.
Jeffers kept him waiting no more than two minutes. He went into the house empty-handed and came out with a briefcase. Now that was suspicious, no other way of looking at it, particularly some guy who’d never been to Dublin.
By the time he got him to the Wynn’s, though, there was no doubt it was his first time here—he’d been looking out of the window like a tourist for the last ten minutes.
“That’ll be twenty-two euros.”
“Keep the change,” said Jeffers, handing him thirty.
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Jeffers. Enjoy your stay in Dublin.”
One thousand nine hundred and ninety-two to go.
Bryan was a charmer, all right, and there was no doubt about what he thought he’d be getting when they went out later. First day on the job, all the girls had told Kate not to fall for any of his talk, and here she was, second day behind the reception desk, going out with him tonight.
She was smiling at him now as he leaned across the desk. And he thought she was smiling at the silver words coming from his mouth, but it was how much he looked like Danny that was really tickling her. If it weren’t for Bryan’s blue eyes, the two of them could