Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [41]
“Save the nostalgia for when you retire, Gonz. What are you trying to do, make me feel good about myself?” I laughed, bitter. “I don’t need you to tell me I’m smart, I know I’m a fuckwit, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you. So cut to the chase. Give me some of that old eight ball boogie.”
He stared, squinting, like he wasn’t sure I was really me. It was an old trick he had, letting the other person think he was taking them seriously, gaining time while he thought up another lie. I was pretty sure he was about to start spoofing again. He didn’t. He told me the truth. It wasn’t the whole truth, I found out later, but at least he wasn’t lying.
“Ever get bored, Harry? So bored your brain shuts down because it has nothing to do?”
“You were bored, so you decided to come home and fuck us all up again. Is that it?”
“There’s only one place you get that bored. I was there eighteen months, kept my head down, got out eight months early.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo.”
He ignored me.
“Stir isn’t as bad as people make out. You need to fuck some fairy early, so no one tries to fuck you, but you’re fed and watered, everything’s taken care of. Anything you want you can get, providing you can pay for it.” He shrugged. “Seven fucking tabs got me twenty-six months. There’s paedophiles walking the streets, sticky-fingered fuckers running the country, I'm banged up for a few party favours. The big laugh inside was when they started letting the Provies out. Funny, that was. Fucking hilarious. Worse than psychos, we were.”
“I’ve heard sadder on The Waltons. So, what?”
“When you’re bored, Harry, you talk. You’ll talk to anyone, even the screws. You’ll talk to yourself. Then you get really bored and you start listening, just for a change of pace. And you hear all sorts of mad shit on the inside. Most of what’s said is crap. Wasters pumping themselves up, throwing their weight around, hoping someone’ll catch it. Anything anyone tells you when you’re inside, it’s cell-talk, bullshit.” He jabbed the air with his cigarette for emphasis. “Unless they’re selling it.”
“It isn’t bullshit because they’re selling it? Tell it to Ronald McDonald.”
“You get to know the score. What’s what and who’s who. Punters who say fuck all are the ones in the know. When they say something, it’s worth hearing. Worth paying to hear, too.”
“And you heard what?”
The wolfish grin flashed.
“What I heard isn’t the point. What I didn’t say is the point. And what I had to say was worth hearing, only I didn’t say anything. So, I’m owed.”
“Owed?”
“Owed. And I’m collecting.”
“You’re putting the bounce on?”
“You watch too many movies.”
“Blackmail has a new name now? They call it something different inside?”
“It’s an investment, Harry. Like with houses. You don’t sell it now because it’ll be worth more next year.”
“Get away from me, Gonz. You might be contagious.”
“Relax, Harry. A couple of days, I’ll be gone again.”
“You think I’m having you around Ben when you’re fucking around like this? Think again, Gonz. Tomorrow morning you’re gone, and if I never see you again it’ll be too soon.”
“You’re in for a cut. I owe you that much.”
“You owe me nothing. Because that’s all you’ve ever given me. Nothing.”
Dutchie and Michelle arrived back at the table, laughing, faces flushed. I went to the bar. When I got back I slipped in beside Michelle, as far away from Gonzo as possible. The lights came up soon afterwards and we finished our drinks, shivering when the bouncers opened the front door to allow the night filter through the club. Dutchie dug some tickets out of his back pocket.
“Do us a favour, Gonz.” Gonzo was sitting closest to the coat-check cubicle. “Get the jackets, big man.”
“Sound. Someone ring a taxi. It’s fucking freezing out there.”
“The phone’s out by the cubicle,” Michelle told him.
Gonzo took out his mobile phone, tossed it at me.
“You know all the numbers.”
Gave me his own number, in case the cabbie needed to ring back. Fat chance. I tried about six numbers, no joy.
“Bad as the fucking