Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [19]
Beeep.
“Harry? It’s Dutch. Give us a buzz. Cheers.”
Beeep.
Dutchie didn’t like answering machines, said they reminded him of when he was a kid, making his Holy Communion, all that praying and half-afraid no one was getting the message. I changed the tape, rang Denise to tell her about Ben’s bike – with Gonzo back in town I was staying close to them both – but there was no answer. I left a message of my own, short and sweet, short because I knew Denise wouldn’t listen to it all and sweet because I didn’t know any other way to be. Then I closed up shop for the day, sidled back across the street to The Cellars.
I claimed a stool at the bar, beside the arch, where the pub sloped down to a bottleneck. Through the arch was a snug. Beyond, a narrow passageway led outside to the toilets. Opposite the toilet door was another door, a door Dutchie kept locked because Dutchie was particular about who played his pool table.
The bar itself was rough oak, two foot thick, broad. It faced four booths, in which all the tables had beer mats stuffed under their legs. The benches were upholstered in worn red velvet. The carpet was pocked with tiny scorch marks. The low ceiling was tuberculosis brown.
Dutchie ambled down the bar, dressed all in black, as always. Black denim shirt, black moleskin trousers, black motorcycle boots that buckled to the side and came with steel toecaps as an optional extra. The way he was built, Dutchie was never going to make a good accountant and his head was shaved to the skull.
“Alright?” he drawled.
“Dutch.”
“What’ll it be?”
“Cappuccino.”
“Fucks sakes.”
Dutchie ran a clean shop. That meant no drugs, no knackers and no ties. The pub was quiet when you needed it to be and busy enough from its regular trade for Dutchie not to have to entertain undesirables, which in Dutchie’s book meant anyone who asked for mineral water, Cappuccinos or Irish coffees. I ignored his dispirited search among the sachets stuffed under the bar, nodding at Baluba Joe, sitting at far end of the bar, the pint in front of him standing sentry over a half one, the flying helmet placed to one side. Over his head, pinned to the bar, was the yellowing newspaper cutting that announced Joe and his mates were to be awarded their medals for not dying in the Congo.
“Alright Joe?”
“Fuggoff.”
“Sound.”
Dutchie came back with the Cappuccino. He sat up on the dishwasher behind the bar, sipping from a bottle of orange juice. I nodded at Joe.
“Thought he was inside?”
“He went in Saturday.” Joe checked himself in every Christmas for the week that was in it. “Came back out today, said he didn’t want to peak too soon.”
“Fair enough. So what’s up?”
“Nothing much. Just wondering if you and Dee are on for a meal out tomorrow night. Michelle is booking a Chinkers.”
“One step at a time, Dutch.”
“It being Christmas and all…”
I filled him in on the morning’s events.
“So she threw you out. How many times is that?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?”
“I only count the times she’s sober.”
“Smart.”
He chugged some orange juice. I changed the subject.
“Know a Frank Conway?”
He choked on the juice, wiped a dribble from his chin with the back of his hand. Then he hopped down from the bar, dragged a tray of steaming glasses out of the dishwasher. He left them over the sink to drain dry, wiped his hands on a cloth.
“Conway the auctioneer? Slimy bastard, drives a big dick substitute. Runs a sideline importing second-hand cars across the border. Thinks his wife is too good for him. She thinks she’s too good for everyone else.”
“Someone has to be. Anything else?”
“Why, what’s up?”
I sketched the outline of Frank Conway’s visit.
“So why are you digging on him? Shouldn’t you be digging on her?”
“I am.” I told him about my trip to Hughes Point. His mouth turned down at the corners.