Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [14]
“And when you click your fingers, I’ll quack like a duck.”
He flexed his fingers, grinned evil again, a fox spotting a snared rabbit. I tensed, ready to roll with it. He said: “Ever hear of the Official Secrets Act?”
“Of course. It’s right there in the book, next to Freedom of Information.”
I didn’t even see it coming. One second Brady was perched on the edge of the desk, the next the world was all fist. The vast paw stopped maybe an eighth of an inch from my face, no shakes, solid as granite.
“Crack one more. Just one. I’m begging you.”
I kept schtum. The fist disappeared. Brady sat back and sparked one up.
“Okay – this is the way we’re going to play it. I want to know –”
By then I was on my feet, surging forward, pushing the table up and out, Brady disappearing beneath it. He came up fast, knuckles white, face flushed. Found me scared, braced and ready. He came on, dipped a shoulder, I bought it – but he shimmied, feinted an uppercut and cracked a laugh.
“Alright, Rigby, sit down. Show’s over.”
I sat back in the chair. He righted the table one-handed.
“You don’t roll over, Rigby. I’ll respect that. So – I want you on-side but what can we do? The information is still void, there’s nowhere you can put it won’t get you ten years.”
“Why?”
“Can’t say, Rigby. It’s way too big. You’re out of your league.”
“Sheridan’s going down?”
“Sheridan who?”
We stared and smoked, Brady smirking.
“Look Brady, Tony Sheridan’s place turns into an abattoir, that’s big news. Plus – someone kitted her out like a suicide and threw in some coke. All the while Tony’s away, presumably screwing someone else. Put all that together, it’s bigger than Russia. And you want me to sit on it? That’s unethical and criminally fucking stupid, and I’m not criminally fucking stupid.”
His eyes narrowed. I didn’t blink.
“Okay, here’s the news – fuck Russia, this is off the scale, you can’t imagine. But what I’m willing to do is play it tight and keep you in touch. When it all taps out, I’ll hand the lot over, reports, forensics, the works.”
“That’s right, I forgot. I’m criminally fucking stupid.”
He shrugged.
“I’m a cop, yeah, but you can trust me. After I nail this one I want to see investigations, tribunals, the works.”
“You want it buried?”
He let that one slide.
“You’ll get the lot, Rigby, pink frilly bows and satin fucking kisses. Scratch my back and I’ll even help you put it together. Until then – it’s personal.”
“Imelda Sheridan is personal?”
“Indirectly. Bear with me.”
I weighed it up, factored Herbie into the equation. The fast money said run the piece, but the story said fuck the money and I always listened to the story. Besides, Brady was holding aces and was six-four to boot. I rolled a smoke.
“I scratch your back – how?”
“Your side is I need the local dope, the inside. If you’re any good, you’ll hear it and keep me posted. If you’re not, you won’t get the gig when it’s finished anyway. I want someone who’ll stitch this one tight. So, you hear anything I should know, you buzz me.”
He stood up, scrawled a number on the back of a card, flipped it across the desk.
“One more thing, Rigby – no one knows I’ve been here. The Gardai brace you, make like I’m Lord Lucan.”
“Working a little freelance yourself, hey Brady?”
“Something like that, yeah.” He blasted me the evil grin, full wattage. “Be seeing you, Rigby.”
He left, shoulders brushing the doorframe. I heard him again – ‘I’m a cop, yeah, but you can trust me.’ I laughed so hollow I heard it echo and went back to staring at the wall.
6
Conway rang as I was about to start checking out the near wall, just for a change of pace. I rang Herbie and gave him Helen Conway’s details.
“Looking for anything in particular?” he asked.
“Just the usual, much as you can get.”
“Sound – when’d you want it?”
“Yesterday.”
“Alright. I’ll buzz you later.”
I choked down the last of the coffee,