Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [33]
“It might, if my client’s trying to fuck them over.”
“East.”
“Nasty.”
“No nastier than West. Want a laugh?”
“Did it this morning, got it over with.”
“Just as well. According to Stretch, Conway’s planning something big.”
“A new town hall?”
“Bigger. Stretch didn’t say, but at a guess I’d say Conway’s bypassing East Belfast, not paying his dues. Branching out on his tod.”
“Christ on a landmine. How smart is that?”
“You tell me. Those fuckers aren’t happy since Blair cut them off at the knees. They’re itching so bad they don’t need an excuse to scratch.”
I thought it through. Conway trafficking E explained Galway and Brady, but it didn’t explain why Conway might think his wife was screwing around. Or why he might want me to think she was. But there had to be a connection. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.
“This is kosher?” I asked.
“Like a plague of frogs. Stretch doesn’t have the imagination to make it up.”
“True enough. Then there’s this.”
I handed him Katie’s newspaper clipping. He scanned through it.
“Sheridan? What’s he to do with anything?”
“That girl Katie, who was in last night? She gave me that, yesterday. When Abbott and Costello were in this morning they found it in my desk. It got their attention.”
“So?”
“So they were asking about Frank Conway, auctioneer. The real-estate slimebag who happens to be up to his arse in illicit loot. Tony Sheridan’s a politician.”
Dutchie nodded.
“So we just drop the real-estate bit.”
“Correct.” I pointed out Frank Conway, top corner of the photograph. “That apartment complex he’s building on the river, where the shoeboxes are going for one-sixty a throw. Remind me about the environmental bullshit that went with that.”
“You’re talking brown envelopes.” He shook his head. “So what? They need somewhere to put all the punters they’re decentralising from Dublin. Re-zoning scam or no re-zoning scam, those apartments were always going to be built.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But that photograph puts Conway and Sheridan together in the same picture.”
“That’s a big picture, Harry. There’s a lot of people in it.”
He was right in a way, but he was wrong too. It was a big picture, the kind with a real big frame.
I was wrong too, but I was right in a way. The one time I got it right, I didn’t even know it.
I finished the drink and we went through to the bar. Dutchie plunged the glass and plate into the soapy water in the sink, nodded at the sticking plaster above my eye.
“What did you tell Dee about the hammering?”
“That I fell in the alleyway. By the way.”
“What?”
“Gonzo rang.”
He stopped plunging. His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his crew cut, which is no mean feat.
“Gonzo?”
“The one and only, thank fuck.”
“Jesus. Fuck.” He beamed. “Fucking hell, Harry! What’d he say?”
“He left a message, said he’d be home for Christmas. He’ll be in here tonight.”
He laughed out loud. It sounded forced, too much, not Dutch. I let it slide. I wasn’t feeling much like myself either.
“Tonight? Typical fucking Gonz. How long’s it been?”
“Four years, near enough.”
“Too long.”
“Not nearly long enough, Dutch. See you later.”
“Yeah. And Harry? We already know you’re a miserable bastard. You’ve nothing left to prove.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll have to clear it with Michelle first.”
“No hurry. What time tonight?”
“Here for eight?”
“Sound.”
I went back across the road to the office. There was a message on the machine, Herbie with news, call. I called.
“Alright Harry?” Herbie sounded fresh and vital again, he’d obviously gone for snow for his Christmas treat. “I got that Helen Conway stuff for you. Got a pen handy?”
“Shoot.”
He reeled off a list of figures. Taking dictation from a coke-fuelled stoner can take a while when you don’t have shorthand but in the end I knew more about Helen Conway’s bank accounts than she needed to know herself. There was also information on insurance policies, health plans and membership of various clubs and organisations. Political donations, a trust fund, two company directorships, one of which was a subsidiary of her