Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [31]
Brady rammed the filing cabinet doors home.
“Nothing,” he growled.
“Try the desk,” I said. “That’s not even locked.”
He muttered something coarse, pulled the top drawer open. The notepad and chequebook went the same way as the cabinet files. Then he paused, picked up the newspaper clipping Katie had left behind. He handed it to Galway. Galway looked it over, shot me a look of cool appraisal. It made my flesh crawl, like he had finally decided how much I was worth. He tapped the clipping.
“What’s this?”
“They call them newspapers. People read them. You could always look at the pictures.”
“What’s it doing in your desk?”
“Somersaults, mainly. But I’m teaching it to miaow.”
The mint swapped cheeks. Galway nodded again. Brady opened the bottom drawer. I heard a sharp intake of breath, and then my neck was seized in an iron grip. Brady hooked the gun by the trigger guard and placed it on the desk in front of Galway. The fingers were talons. Bolts of pain shot through my shoulders, doing wonders for my posture.
Galway wasn’t looking at me. Galway was looking at the .38, resplendent in all its short, stubby glory. It didn’t look too impressive lying there, but Galway knew as well as I did that a Special can stop a charging Rhino if you pick the right spot. He looked at me, a gleam in his eye.
“I hope you’ve a licence for that. Because if you have it’s a fake and I’ll peg you to the wall and not charge for the nails.”
I gurgled, Brady’s huge vice still folded around my throat. Galway motioned with his hand. Brady relaxed his grip, took one step back to the window, the better to block out the light. I gasped, whooped in a couple of deep breaths that caught fire on the way down. Galway nodded at the gun.
“Have you?”
“Have I what?” I snapped, rolling my head from side to side. Galway frowned at the surly tone but too many people were taking advantage of my sunny disposition for me to care. Hospitality is one thing, taking liberties is another. Galway pointed at the gun.
“Have you a licence for that?”
“Where would I get a licence for that?”
For a second I thought Galway was going to spontaneously combust.
“You wouldn’t,” he smirked. “Like I said, it’d be a fake.”
“Exactly. Like the gun.”
“Say again?”
“Like the gun. It’s a replica. I bought it from a barman on Ibiza, an English bloke called Winston, if you can believe that. Got special permission from Spanish customs to bring it on the plane, too. Nice blokes, Spanish customs. They ask first, strangle later.”
Galway studied my face. Then he nodded at Brady. Brady picked up the gun, snapped it open. Threw it back on the desk.
“Replica,” he said, disgusted. Galway’s lips disappeared.
“What do you need a replica gun for?”
“We get a lot of Dibble around the Quarter. You can’t be too careful.”
His eyelids flickered. Red spots appeared below his cheekbones. I wondered if I hadn’t pushed him too far, let stubbornness cloud what little judgement I have. Brady seemed to be of the same opinion. He shuffled from foot to foot. Finally he came around the desk, stood behind Galway. Galway came to a decision.
“Alright, picnic’s over. Let’s talk Conway. We can talk here or we can talk in the cells. Personally,” he added, popping another mint into his mouth, “I’d rather talk in the cells, where we can have a little privacy. But that’s up to you.”
I nodded. Then I sparked the twist, exhaled at the ceiling, picked a stray flake of tobacco from my lower lip.
“First off, we’ll do this here because unless you want to arrest me you have no legal basis to take me anywhere. Second, I’m telling you nothing about Conway because the only reason I might know a Conway was if he was a client of mine and it’d be unethical to breach client confidentiality. Third, I’m letting fuckwit there off with the Tyson bullshit but only because he’s a repressed homosexual and I’m blaming his parents.”
Brady tensed but didn’t move. It was just as well. I was in no shape for jumping through the window.
“Fourth, if he so much looks crooked at me again I’m taking him, you and the whole fucking Dibble