Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [37]
A sweat broke out on my back that had nothing to do with Herbie’s attic crop. Suddenly the hammering I’d been given didn’t seem as excessive as it had the night before.
“Wipe the file.”
“What?”
“Wipe it, Herb. Hit delete. Everything you’ve given me, lose it.”
“But this is the angle, the hook. The fucking spread, Harry!”
“Trust me, Herb.”
I told him about the beating, pulled up my shirt.
“Fucking hell.”
“That was when they thought I was just sniffing around. If they get a whiff that you can hook Helen Conway to Tony Sheridan, they’ll be around quick smart. Wipe it.”
“You’re going to bury it?”
“You’d rather we buried Ben?”
He wiped it.
“So what happens now?”
“What happens now is you get paid. Then we keep our mouths shut and hope we don’t find anything else.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We went back downstairs. I put my jacket back on, tucking the printouts into my inside pocket.
“Fancy a quick toke?”
“Christ, no. My head’s fucked up enough as it is.”
“I can imagine.”
He didn’t know the half of it. Death threats, police intimidation, the break-up with Denise, maybe losing Ben – I’d been through it all before, naturally, although I was pretty sure that all four had never collided at the same time. And then there was Gonzo, staring me down, sawn-off and double-barrelled, locked, breeched and both hammers cocked.
It was going to be a long and lousy night.
13
I walked back into town, hailed a cab. The sleet was coming down hard, the flurries a little thicker. It still wasn’t sticking, though, the streets wet and shiny under the orange streetlights. Ben was in the living room, sitting in front of a blazing fire, Pokémon cards scattered on the rug.
“Hey, Ben.”
He was absorbed in a cartoon, Johnny Dangerfield. I barely registered.
“There’ll be snow tomorrow,” I told him. “Then we’ll build the biggest snowman ever.”
I waited for a response, decided to buy myself a Johnny Dangerfield mask, went through to the kitchen. Bracing myself, but either Gonzo hadn’t arrived or Denise was hiding him under the stairs. She was sitting at the table, a coffee at her elbow, leafing through a magazine. Pots bubbled on the cooker. The windows were steamed up.
“You’re cooking dinner?”
“Dinner cooks itself, Harry. It’s a woman’s secret. Don’t tell the lads.”
“You didn’t get my message?”
“I got your message.”
“I thought you wanted to go out?”
“Not if it’s where you’re going. Besides, where do you think we’d get a babysitter at that short notice? It’s the day before Christmas Eve. People are out enjoying themselves, having a good time.” She went back to the magazine. “Some people, anyway.”
It was pointless trying to argue and I didn’t even want to. I went upstairs, had a shower, lay down for a quick nap. Ben shook me awake about three seconds later.
“Dinner’s ready, Dad.”
“Alright, son. I’ll be down in a minute.”
We ate in silence. Ben and I watched Willy Wonka until it was time for him to go to bed. I watched as he brushed his teeth, getting more paste on his chin than his teeth, brought him downstairs to Denise, head buried in my shoulder.
“Want to put him to bed?”
“You’re doing a great job,” she said. “For someone who’s had so little practice.”
“Cheers.”
I tucked him in, gave him a kiss.
“Be a good boy for your mum, okay?”
“Okay,” he muttered, already dozing off. I said: “Who’s coming tomorrow night?”
“Santa.”
“That’s right.”
“And Eddie.”
“Eddie? Who told you that?”
He turned, settled. His eyes were closed.
“Mum said Eddie’s coming tomorrow.”
Eddie. I hadn’t heard Gonzo called by his Christian name in maybe ten years.
“Who’s Eddie?” I asked, brushing his cow’s lick off his forehead.
“Dunno.”
He didn’t know. I didn’t know who Eddie was either, not now, not after four years away. Ben’s mouth was gaping open, which suggested that we both cared about the same. I watched him until I was sure he was asleep, went downstairs. Denise was flicking through the TV channels. I called a cab.
“You’re going out?”
“No, I’m just teasing the cabbie.”
“You don’t think you