Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [46]
There was a knock on the door. A garda stuck her head into the room. She jerked her head at Brady.
“Phone.”
Brady got up, stubbed his smoke.
“Think it over, Rigby. Think about what you owe Frank Conway.”
He left. I thought it over. Gonzo was back in town to put the bounce on Conway, that much I knew. Which was why Conway had been checking me out, trying to work out if I was in cahoots with Gonzo. All that added up.
Gonzo falling for dodgy E didn’t make sense, though. Gonzo knew his Class A inside out, although it was possible Flatliners had passed him by while he was on the inside. But even if everything Brady said fell into place, there was still the matter of Helen Conway and Tony Sheridan. The last thing Frank Conway had expected me to find was the first thing I’d tripped over. No one gets that lucky first try. I never got that lucky, period.
I rubbed at my temples, the side of my head a fire of dying embers. Stifled a yawn, too tired to think. I had the feeling of watching a car pull away from me, late at night, its taillights fading, watching it go with nothing left under the bonnet.
Brady came back into the room. He said, soft: “Rigby.”
His tone told me everything I needed to know but I lumbered down the corridor to the phone anyway. Dutchie was on the line. He had something wedged sideways in his throat.
“Harry?”
“It’s me, Dutch.”
“Jesus, Harry.” He choked. “Jesus.”
I was aware that Brady was watching me. I focused on the poster thumb-tacked to the wall above the phone. Four tacks: three red, one blue. The blurb on the poster wanted information on criminal activity, had a free-phone number in bold red numerals underneath with a guarantee of anonymity for the caller in the small print. I wondered who the poster was supposed to target, stuck away in the back of the bacon factory. My voice wandered in from somewhere out over the Aran Islands.
“What happened, Dutch?”
“Don’t know, Harry. I don’t fucking know. They were pumping him out, no worries, and he just took a fit. Started thrashing around on the table, foaming at the mouth. They fucked me out, and then this Paki came and asked if I was family. I said yeah, he’s my brother, he said Gonzo had gone into arrest and he was sorry, he’d done everything he could.”
“They give him penicillin?”
“Jesus, I don’t –”
“He’s allergic, Dutch. We’re both allergic.” I thought, briefly, how an hour ago was the time to lay that one on Dutchie. “He wasn’t wearing tags?”
“I don’t know, Harry. I wasn’t –”
There was no reason why Dutchie would have been wearing tags. I didn’t wear tags. It was just one of those things you never get around to doing, like buying limescale tablets for the kettle. I bit my lower lip, and maybe that was why my eyes started to water.
“He’s dead?”
“I’m sorry, Harry.”
“Dutch? He’s dead?”
“He’s dead, Harry.”
I pursed my lips, sucked at my cheeks. My eyes prickled. Someone had let a bear into the building and he had my ribs in a hug, crushing my chest so I couldn’t breathe.
“Alright, Dutch. Hold on there, I’ll be about twenty minutes.”
“You’re coming here? Why?”
I didn’t know. It just seemed the right thing to do.
“Don’t they need someone to identify the body?”
“They will, yeah, but tomorrow morning’s plenty of time. You okay?”
“Never better, Dutch.”
“Yeah, stupid fucking question. I’m not thinking straight. I’ll meet you back at the pub, I need a drink.”
“Not for me, Dutch.” My voice sounded hollow, but it might just have been a bad connection. “I’m getting home. Dee should know.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Jesus.” Dutchie choked up again. I tried not to notice the tremble in his voice. Dutchie and Gonzo had been good mates once, a long time ago, but mates are mates. Time and distance don’t change that kind of thing.
“I’m sorry, Harry.”
“Wasn’t your fault, Dutch.”
I hung up. I felt limp, battered and bruised, body and soul. My knees trembled. I didn’t know where to look, what to do. Brady was still watching me.
“No luck, Rigby,” he said, quiet.
“Fuck you, Brady.”
“Rigby –”
I turned to face him. Arms out wide, palms up, daring