Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [18]
“The money isn’t great,” I admitted, flashing her a leer, “but I know a bargain when I see one.”
She tossed her ponytail. The big blue eyes flashed and her face hardened.
“You’re a cheap bastard,” she spat.
“Oh do stop flirting,” I told her, grinding the gears. “I’ll get a nosebleed.”
I pulled into a lay-bye half a mile from town, changed the false number-plates. I was getting back into the car when a white soft-top Merc purred by. The Ice Queen was driving, and if her company had turned up they were all midgets or else they were riding in the trunk.
I caught her at the lights on the new bridge, three cars back, staying that way as the traffic snaked through town. She turned into the car park off Francis Street, behind the bank, parked facing out across the river. I slipped into a gap on the far side of the car park.
She sat for twenty minutes, checking the fishing maybe. Then she got out, beeped the alarm, strolled towards the footbridge. I slipped out of the Golf but I didn’t make five yards before she opened the door of a Volvo Estate and sat into the passenger seat. The Volvo’s engine was already running. It took off with a throaty roar.
There was no sign of the Volvo by the time I cut out into the rush hour traffic. I took a gamble, cut east along the river on the far side of the bridge, gunning the Golf south towards the Holy Well, where big houses meant lots of space and not so many people. Across the lake Foynes Hill lurched off towards Leitrim, to the left the fields fell away to the river. The lake beyond was a drop of mercury, silver, static and dull. In town it was murky, the dark clouds jumbling overhead. On Foynes Hill the sun was still shining, weak as orange squash. On Foynes Hill the sun always shone, winter or summer, night or day.
I caught them, the big Volvo neutered on the tortuous bends. Staying well back as they motored past the Holy Well, following the lakeshore and turning into the picnic site at Hughes Point. I turned into the next picnic site, maybe half a mile away through the winding tunnel of pines. I dug Herbie’s digital camera out of the glove compartment, jogged back through the trees.
Dusk was coming down, sleet sifting through the gloom. The picnic site was bounded on three sides by thick pines, on its fourth by the road. I could make out two picnic tables, an overflowing rubbish bin and the Volvo parked on the other side of the clearing, and that was about as idyllic as I can ever handle. Three paths cut through the trees, curving up and away towards the Point, which faced north across the lake towards the town.
I skulked back in the trees, took a couple of shots of the car, considered wandering up one of the paths, just to see if my luck would hold. I’d decided not to push it when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path behind me, the Ice Queen, wearing a mauve silk scarf to keep her hair in place. The man was wearing a heavy tweed overcoat and olive-green Wellington boots, holding a golf umbrella in front of them to deflect the sleet. I hunkered down behind a massive pine, aimed the camera along the path, getting a couple of shots off.
They passed by about twenty yards away, the breeze carrying their conversation towards the road. I made out a pair of red jowls, a skiff of grey hair under the flat cap. He could have been anyone, including the Pope or a drag queen who didn’t get the joke.
They made straight across the picnic area for the Volvo. Its lights arced around, illuminating the pine I was hiding behind. Then it was gone. I sprinted back through the pines to the Golf, only tripping face-first into trees a couple of times, but even so there was no sign of the Volvo or the soft-top Merc when I finally made it back to the car park behind the bank.
It was a bust, the latest in the endless list of thrilling coups perpetrated by Harry J. Rigby, Research Consultant.
7
I strolled across the footbridge, crossed the street to the office, checked the answering machine. The metallic voice whined: “You have reached the offices of First