Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [30]
“See, they told us about the bullshit,” Brady rasped. “Okay? So you don’t have to be cute. We’re already impressed.”
I looked at the Fruit.
“Get to the punch-line. I’m busy.”
The Fruit sighed, sat down, rearranged his face into what he probably thought was beatific tolerance. From where I was sitting, it looked like he was having a stroke.
“Let’s start again,” the Fruit said. His tone was neutral, dry. “I’m Detective-Inspector Senan Galway.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is Detective-Sergeant Ronan Brady.” He crossed his legs, clasped his hands around a knee. “Do you have ID?”
“Loads, as it happens. For who, exactly?”
Galway sighed again. Brady flexed his fingers, balling his hands into fists. He looked like he was expecting trouble, which made me nervous, the Dibble expecting trouble is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
“For Harry Rigby. He’s a…” He spoke over his shoulder. “What is he?”
Brady, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet, snickered.
“A research consultant.”
“Right,” Galway confirmed. “Harry Rigby. The research consultant.”
“That’s me.”
“I know it’s you. I still need ID. It’s procedure.”
“It’s procedure to know whose rights you’re abusing?”
“Don’t be cute,” Brady growled. “Show him the ID.”
“Fair enough.”
I dug the driving licence from my wallet, held it out. When Galway reached I flipped the licence back, said: “Do you?”
“What?”
“Have ID?”
Brady darted forward, nimble as Nijinsky. Placed his fists on the desk, weight on his knuckles, leaning forward until his face was about six inches from mine. It looked pretty, a kaleidoscope of purples and reds, even a tinge of yellow in the whites of his eyes, which were bulging like they were about to pop out and squelch in my face. The smell of stale whiskey could have cleaned drains. He enunciated each syllable, slow and distinct.
“Give. Him. The. Fuck. En. Eye. Dee.”
“You should floss,” I told him and then he was around the desk, barging me face-first against the filing cabinet, pounding a huge fist into my kidneys. One punch was enough, from Brady a dirty look would have been enough. He let go. I slumped to the ground, coughing up a kidney.
Brady snapped the driving licence out of my hand, handed it over. Galway gave it a cursory glance, put it back on the desk, nodded. Brady backed off, careful, like he’d never done it before. I dragged myself back onto the seat. Galway took a little box from the inside pocket of his jacket, popped a mint. Not wanting to be there, finding the rough stuff distasteful. My heart went out to him. My other kidney stayed where it was, in a coma.
“Now,” Galway said quietly, “tell me about Conway.”
I sounded like a gut-shot accordion.
“Who’s Conway?”
We stared. Galway didn’t blink. I couldn’t remember him blinking since he’d entered the office, although it was possible he had sneaked one in while Brady was using my face to sand down the filing cabinet.
“Francis Conway,” Galway intoned, bored as granite, “auctioneer. He was here yesterday morning, in this office, for almost an hour. What did you talk about?”
There was a knock on the door. Andrea walked in with the coffee. Her smile froze halfway to the desk. I winked as she set the coffee down, letting her know everything was okay. Brady watched her go. Galway stared at me. When the door closed he said: “Last chance.”
“Very generous. I don’t know any Conway.”
He waved a careless hand. Brady moved around the desk, started tugging at the top drawer of the filing cabinet.
“It’s locked,” I told him. “In case some lowlife wants to see what I keep in there.”
“Give me the key,” he rasped, flexing his fingers. I gave him the key. He yanked the drawer open, pulled out the files, flittered them across the floor. He did the same with the second drawer, and the third. I rolled a twist and looked at Galway. Galway stared back, unblinking.
“This is procedure?” I asked.
“I’d have thought you’d be well acquainted with procedure by now.”
“I am. I thought this might be a new Interpol directive the locals haven’t tumbled to yet.