Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [38]
“If Dutchie and Michelle wanted privacy, they’d stay home. They don’t, they want to meet people. I’m people.”
“Just about.”
The cab dropped me at the office. I went upstairs, pulled Ben’s bike out from under the desk. Opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, took out the gun, stuck it in my belt, invisible under my jacket. Then I dug a padded envelope out of the top drawer of the desk. I scribbled the office address on the front, stuck a stamp on it, slipped Herbie’s camera inside. Left the office, Ben’s bike under one arm, and posted the envelope in the tiny branch office at the end of the street. Then I headed across the road to The Cellars.
Dutchie was already at the bar, a pint and a short in front of him. He looked at the bike.
“Traffic that bad?”
“Ben’s Christmas present. Mind if I stash it out back, pick it up tomorrow?”
He led the way out to the storeroom. I put the bike in behind the beer kegs. Then I pulled the gun out of my belt. He didn’t look as surprised as he should have.
“The Dibble were around this morning,” I reminded him. “If they turn the place over, plant a real gun, they have me by the curlies. If there’s no fake to replace, they can’t put in a plant.”
Dutchie laughed, short and hard.
“Wise up, Harry. Those boys’d plant cabbage in concrete if they thought it’d get them a free Danish with their coffee.”
The gun went in under one of the Guinness kegs. Marie, the girl who helped out whenever Dutchie was busy or unavailable or just plain lazy, pulled us a couple of pints.
“So where’s Michelle?”
“Meeting some of the girls from work. She’ll be in later. We knocked the Chinkers on the head.”
“Suits me. Dee isn’t coming.”
“Couldn’t get a babysitter?”
“Or wouldn’t. Does it matter?”
“Not to me. Try a short?”
We were comfortably drunk by the time Michelle got in, maybe an hour later. She wasn’t the most conventionally attractive of women, her hair a frizzy blonde job that would never go out of fashion because it had never really been in style. Her nose was a little too pointed, her chin sloped away like it was ashamed of itself, but she was sexy in the way she carried herself, confident of who she was and what she could do. She leaned in, kissed me on the cheek while Dutchie organised a stool. She sat up at the bar between us, looked me over.
“Fighting, Harry?” She tut-tutted. “And where’s Dee?”
“The negotiations are still at a delicate phase.”
“You’re still out?”
“Mostly.”
“It’s a start.”
“Keep the jump-leads handy.”
Gonzo arrived just after ten. I had my back to the bar, clocked him straight away. He pushed through the crowd, grinning a tentative one. Stood in front of me, hands jammed into the pockets of his frayed denims, shoulders hunched.
“Harry,” he drawled. “Long time no see.”
“Gonz.”
I gave him the once over. Taking in the dirty blonde dreads, the faded Levis stuffed into a pair of heavy-duty biker’s boots. The shoulders that had straightened, broadened, giving him a couple of extra inches up and out. He was bulky but carried it easy. It was just as well. Another couple of pounds and the bright orange Puffa bomber jacket he was wearing would have made him look like the Michelin Man.
“Nice jacket, Gonz,” Dutchie said, reaching out to shake Gonzo’s hand, making a production number of it. “No danger of being knocked down wearing that.” He winked, nodded at me. “If you’re wondering about the smell, it’s the whiff of burning martyr.”
Gonzo laughed. My guts curdled.
“Alright, Dutch? How’s tricks?” He looked at Michelle. “How’re you keeping, Chuck? You’re looking well.”
“Good to see you, Gonzo.” She kissed him on the cheek, barely making contact. That didn’t stop him grinning, wolfish, rubbing his cheek to erase an imaginary lipstick mark.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Maybe I should come home more often.”
I let that one slide. I remembered that smile. It burned, an acid sloshing around with the porter and whiskey. I let it.
“Pint, Gonz?” Dutch asked.
“Stout.”
Dutchie and Michelle made small talk while Gonzo and I stared one another out, neither of us