Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [44]
“Sit still,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
From the depths of my torpor I heard someone say: “Put your safety-belt on. I’d hate to see you fined.”
He looked across, laughed a reedy laugh, turned away again. Then he straight-armed me flush on the ear with a punch of pure napalm. The side of my face blazed into flame. My head pitched back, clipping the reinforced glass window. Stupefied, screaming a sound I’d never heard before, I balled a fist on the recoil, putting every last atom of my existence into a punch that was four years brewing.
I was still swinging when Brady’s second caught me full on the bridge of the nose. I saw something flash, bright and impossibly white, and then the light dulled to something red and warm. I dove into the embers, found myself a convenient black hole.
I was lying on a thin, grimy mattress, a couple of migraines playing charades inside my head. Wrists handcuffed somewhere down around my kidneys. My head was an over-ripe melon, big, soft, raw and pulpy. My nose was blocked. When I snuffled, my ears nearly exploded. My shirt was covered in snot and puke. That made two nights running. I was on a roll.
I put the erection down to the handcuffs. When it finally went away, I started kicking at the cell door. Brady unlocked the handcuffs, marched me down to the end of a long, narrow hallway. The room was big, bright. Apart from the chair Brady pushed me into, there was a table with a scuffed Formica top and a blackened foil ashtray, for show. The carpet was threadbare and snot-green. The walls were a dirty-brown colour, the paint streaky, like someone had been left there long enough for a dirty protest to get out of hand.
Brady sat on a corner of the table, one leg dangling, placed Gonzo’s plastic wrap on the table. He looked comfortable, assured, on his own turf, or maybe he was just more relaxed when he didn’t have to impress the boss. He dug a packet of cigarettes out of his coat pocket, offered me one. I could barely hold it, my hands were shaking so hard. Brady lit the smoke, cocked his head to one side.
“You carrying anything, Rigby?”
“Could be.”
“Could be?”
“The jacket’s his. He wanted to wear mine. There could be something in the pockets.”
He held out a hand, snapped his fingers. I unzipped, handed the jacket across. He made a cursory search of the pockets, inside and out, ran his hand down the lining. Then he handed it back. I put the Puffa back on. It might have looked ridiculous but it was warm, quilted on the inside and worth every penny Gonzo had paid for it. Providing, I acknowledged, he had actually paid for it.
“Alright. Now, at the risk of repeating myself, tell me about Frank Conway.”
“First off – am I under arrest?”
“Not yet, no. That’s up to Galway, when he gets back.” He leered. “He might want to frisk you himself, by the way.”
“I’m all a-tremble. Why haven’t you arrested me?”
“You want me to?”
“I’ll try anything once. Besides, you’d be surprised how much false arrest is worth these days.”
“I wouldn’t. And who says it’d be false arrest?”
I stubbed the cigarette.
“Come on, Brady. Even I’m not thick enough to walk into a bacon factory with gear on me, and you have nothing that says I’ve ever taken anything stronger than Solpadeine. So what’s the drill?”
“You’re here because Galway wants you here.”
“You’re pimping for Galway?”
“He calls the shots.” He scratched at an ear. “Still, while you’re here, no reason we can’t be chatting.”
“I’ll wait for the coffee morning. Cheers all the same.”
He drummed a tattoo on the tabletop, came to a decision.
“You like Frank Conway, Rigby?” He waved a dismissive hand before I had a chance to answer. “And save the routine, I might start heckling.”
“I like everyone, Brady. Even you.”
“Okay, let’s do it this way. Your brother, Eddie?”
“We call him Gonzo.”
“Gonzo. Jesus.” The grim smile belonged in a morgue. “That’s not what he called himself when