Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [5]
“You didn’t get anything from him?”
“He didn’t see me, I wasn’t up a ladder. And a word to the wise. If he finds out Regan leaked you the story, Regan’ll be springing a few leaks of his own.”
He swore, sparked up a ready-rolled from his grass-sprinkled pouch, eyeballing the garda leaning against the driveway pillar. Picked a flake of tobacco from his lower lip, flicked it in the garda’s direction, leaving the middle finger extended. The garda stared back, placid. Herbie said: “Think they’re in on it?”
“Who – the Dibble?”
“Who else? Fuckers’re into everything else.”
“Herb – why would the Dibble want Imelda Sheridan dead?”
“Maybe she was running a brothel, got the Inspector in a compromising position. Maybe she’s plotting a coup, Tony for president, the Dibble got wind of it.” He shrugged, matter of fact. “Could be anything.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Get off the weed, Herb. Seriously, man. Your head’s in a jam jar.”
He started winding up, getting excited, tone urgent.
“This is front-page stuff, Harry. Banner headlines. Big fuck-off shots, see them a mile off, my name at the bottom. Mine, not those Fhotoprint fuckdogs.”
The agency took a cut of everything we cooked up, which bothered Herbie. It didn’t bother me, thirty per cent of fuck all being approximately fuck all.
“Nail it down, Harry. I gave you this one on a plate. Coke, suicide, possible murder, the fucking lot. What more do you need?”
“How about proof?”
“What’re you talking about, proof?” He waggled his camera bag. “The shots’re ready to roll, beauts too, hole in her neck you could roll the black ball into. Only words these babies need are someone’s name on a cheque.”
“What about some kind of idea of why? A detail or two?” I was stalling, watching the maroon Civic pulling up, the bodywork too fresh for it to be anything but a rental. “It needs to be done right, Herb. We do it right or we don’t do it at all.”
He heard the Civic, turned and looked. Shrugged, the anger evaporating too quick to be healthy.
“It’ll be done alright, but not by us. Here’s the fucking cavalry now.”
She was petite, five-two at most, the kind of late twenties that takes years of practice. The hair a tangerine peek-a-boo bob, the lipstick apricot. The smile friendly, chasing freckles across the bridge of a snub nose. The eyes deep enough to give me vertigo, wide enough to make me want to jump.
“Gentlemen.” Her accent had the faintest of northern drawls.
“Around here that’s libel,” I said. I nodded towards the house. “And I’d say the pedicure’s been cancelled.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
She ducked under the yellow tape, flashed a card at the garda, clicked away up the tarmacadam.
Herbie fired up the moped, the engine clattering, rattling, until the exhaust belched a tiny black cloud.
“Want a lift?”
“No, cheers. I’m in a hurry.”
He half-grinned, fiddling with his helmet strap.
“Anything I can be doing?”
“You could be running a check on Tony Sheridan. Background material, whatever we’ll need to puff out the story.”
“Money?”
“Yeah, go the tragic route. All that cash and his wife slashed open. The punters love that shit.”
“Alright. I’ll buzz you later.”
I was halfway to town, down around the cemetery and cursing myself for not bumming more skins from Herbie, when I finally remembered where I’d left the car. Which was when the Civic purred by, indicated left and pulled up on the gravel verge. She leaned across, unlocked the passenger door and pushed it open. She didn’t speak, so I didn’t spoil the moment.
She was a good driver. Her movements were easy, assured, and she didn’t look at me as she drove. Up close I could see that the cream two-piece was raw silk. The tiny burn scar just above her left knee whitened every time she changed gear.
She got straight into it.
“What’d you get?”
“Nothing. But that’s off the record.”
“Put your dick away, this is business.”
“I don’t mix pleasure with business. And I don’t do business with strangers. Especially ones who tell me to put my dick away.”
She suppressed a smile, not pulling any muscles doing