Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [32]
Galway worked up a glum expression.
“Don’t make me get a search warrant.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, nodding at the mess on the floor. “Spray some graffiti?”
“If I have to get a search warrant I can’t guarantee the safety of anything in this office.”
Brady was quick on the uptake. Picked my mobile phone off the desk, dropped it on the ground. Then he tipped the filing cabinet over, waited for the crunch, laid the mangled phone on the desk again, leaving the filing cabinet horizontal. Galway shrugged, an exaggerated gesture.
“Accidents have a way of happening.”
“Speak up, Chief. The tape doesn’t pick up whispers.”
Brady glared. If looks could kill, I’d have been cremated on the spot.
“It’s illegal to record conversations without mutual consent.”
“So sue me. It’ll go all the way to The Hague and I haven’t been abroad in years.”
“Alright, alright. Jesus.” Galway held up his hand. He sounded tired. He stood up. “We could have done this the easy way.”
“There’s an easy way now?”
“I’ll be seeing you again, Rigby.”
“Maybe, I spend a lot of time in public toilets. And watch out for the first landing on the way down. It doesn’t squeak when you stand on it.”
Brady stayed behind when Galway left. Rubbing his nose, and there was a lot of it to rub. I waited.
“You don’t know Frank Conway,” he said.
“I don’t get out so much these days.”
“I know Frank Conway. He’s scum, a real lowlife. He’d have his grandmother re-zoned for the tax relief.”
I waited again.
“You keeping anything from me, Rigby?”
“Same as before. Nothing you don’t already know.”
“Want some advice?”
“No.”
“You’re smart enough to play dumb. Don’t be dumb enough to play it smart. Conway’s a dangerous bastard.”
“He hasn’t seen my big brother.”
He nodded again, made for the door.
“Galway wants Conway,” he warned, a parting shot. “And what Galway wants, Galway gets.”
“Galway wants your ass. Is he getting that?”
He stared, stony-faced. Then he grinned, eyes crinkling. For a moment he was a different man, friendly and almost human.
“He’s getting it, alright. Back of the fucking head he’s getting it.”
He left. When I was sure they weren’t coming back I slumped in the chair, hands shaking, breath coming too fast. I couldn’t work out which was the new bruise when I checked my back in the bathroom mirror, but when it finally arrived my piss was a pale shade of pink.
I put the gun away, limped across to The Cellars. Needing a drink like a hole in the head and finding some comfort in the prospect of both.
12
Dutchie took me into the poolroom, coffee for him, Red Bull-vodka for me, ham-and-cheese toasties all round. He stirred his coffee, chewed his gum and didn’t interrupt while I told him about the heavy gang. When I was finished he said: “Want my advice?”
“No.”
Everyone wanted to give me advice. All I wanted was peace and quiet, maybe an Audi with go-fast stripes.
“Drop Conway. He’s bad news.”
“That’s what sells, Dutch. Why?”
“His motors? The second-hand ones?”
“They’re ringers?”
“More than likely. Anyway, you know Tommy Armstrong?”
“Stretch Armstrong? Gangly fucker, talks like he’s chewing hot spuds?”
Dutchie nodded, sipped some coffee.
“He drives for Conway. Picks up the cars in Belfast, takes them across the border.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“Stretch picks them up at the port, coming off the ferry.”
“They’re coming through Belfast? From where?”
“Amsterdam, via Liverpool.”
“Makes sense. There’s good E in Amsterdam.”
Dutchie sniffed.
“Fuckers around here wouldn’t know a good E from a blue Smartie. That Belfast shite is muck. Cheap speed, a dab of trips, that’s your bag.”
“Belfast shite?”
“That’s where all the trade’s coming in from. Churning it out like Polo mints, they are. Two cheers for the peace process.”
“East or west?” I asked.