Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [35]
There was a knock on the door some time around three. Katie poked her head in. When she saw I was alone she came all the way. She was holding two Styrofoam cups.
“Coffee? My treat?”
“Sure. Pull up a pew.”
She sat down, lit a cigarette. Fiddled with her lighter while I rolled a twist.
“What happened your face?”
“I fell leaving the pub. Sobered me up enough to get Dutchie to drive.”
“Tell me about it,” she said, a rueful tone. I got the impression she had something to say, that she was embarrassed about having to say it. I also got the impression that Katie wasn’t used to being embarrassed. Hence the fidgeting, the faint puce tinge at her cheekbones. She spoke quickly.
“What I said last night…” The puce deepened to a rosy pink. “I was drunk. That’s not my style.”
I shrugged, magnanimous as all hell.
“Don’t beat yourself up. Women find me irresistible. Desperate ones, mainly.”
“Thanks a lot. Now I’m desperate?”
“Desperate enough to give me your phone number.”
“That’s desperate.”
“Thanks yourself.”
She smiled, and the embarrassment seeped away. The storm struck again, fast enough to leave us becalmed in its eye.
“So how is… Bren?” she asked. Her stare was bold, slightly mocking.
“Ben. He’s fine, no deterioration in the last twenty-four hours.”
She got into it.
“Did you remember anything about Tony Sheridan you’d forgotten yesterday?”
“Not a thing.”
“Hear any more about Imelda?”
I shook my head. She bristled.
“Is this the tough-guy routine again, Harry? Because if it is –”
“No kidding, something else came up, something that’s more likely to pay the bills. The story’s all yours, knock yourself out. If you pull something out of the bag I’ll put you in touch with Herbie, with the shots. I won’t even charge consultancy.”
“Can you give me some names? People I could talk to?”
“I’ll give you the names of people I don’t mind pissing off. Some of them might even know what they’re talking about. You want to check anything they say, get back to me. Again, no fee.”
“This other job,” she said, as I jotted down some names and numbers. “It must be paying well when you’re throwing freebies around.”
“It’s the festive spirit. Stick around, you might even get a compliment.”
“I’d prefer hard information. No offence.”
“None taken.”
She took the list of names and numbers, stubbed her cigarette, checked her watch. She got up, shouldered her bag and stretched, stifling a yawn. Her blouse tightened in all the right places.
“I’d better be getting on. Any plans for later?”
“Just the one – to stay away from flirty brunettes with cleavage to spare.”
Her eyes narrowed, mock serious.
“That was a compliment, right?”
“That was hard information. No offence.”
“None taken. See you around.”
“Take care, Katie.”
She left, but not like she had a train to catch. Five o’clock came and went. I rang Herbie.
“Harry!” He’d been into the coke again. “What’re you up to?”
“Just winding up now. Any word?”
“The whole fucking dictionary. Can you get over here?”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Surf’s up, Harry. We hit the jackpot.”
“Nice one, Herb. I’ll be over in about ten minutes.”
I was halfway to the car park when I remembered Denise had the car. Then I remembered I hadn’t told Denise about the Chinese dinner Dutchie and Michelle had planned. Fumbled in my inside pocket for the mobile, then trudged back to the office, cursing Brady every step of the way.
Denise wasn’t home so I left a message on the machine, be ready for eight, and headed for Herbie’s. Flurries of sleet were coming down with the dusk, quick gusts that caused the orange streetlights to flicker and dull. The streets were wet so it wasn’t sticking, which was a shame, I’d promised Ben a snowman for Christmas. But then, even kids stop keeping count after the first broken promise.
Herbie’s house was sauna warm, almost humid. It was always the same, winter or summer, the heating on full blast to nurture the crop in the attic. Herbie wandered around the house barefoot, in T-shirt and cut-off jeans, a stranded beach bum who hadn’t been on a beach in