Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [50]
I swore at my stupidity, slipped my hand inside the jacket, folded my hand around the phone to muffle the sound. It was a smart move. At that hour, down at the docks with no traffic, no one around, the chirping would have sounded like a twenty-one gun salute.
I didn’t take the call. I’d had enough bad news to do me for the rest of my life, and the call meant bad news. Whoever the pros were, they knew Gonzo – had known Gonzo – well enough to know his mobile number. When the phone stopped ringing I dialled a number, the phone buried deep inside the jacket. It took her maybe ten or twelve rings to answer.
“Dee?”
“Who’s this?”
Her voice thick with sleep, sounding nervous.
“It’s me. Harry.”
“Harry? What’s wrong?” She paused. Then, coming back stronger, accusation in her voice: “What’s wrong, Harry?”
“I’ll tell you everything later. Right now you have to get dressed, pack a bag, get Ben out of the house.”
Silence.
“Dee?”
A deep sigh, then: “Harry, I don’t know how long –”
“Just take the car and get out of town. It doesn’t matter where.” A light bulb popped – Brendan and Maura had a holiday home about an hour north of town. “The bungalow,” I told her.
“Stop it, Harry. You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain it all later, Dee. Okay? Right now I need you to pack a bag and get out of the house. It’ll be alright tomorrow, I swear.”
“What will?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Dee! Get Ben out of the fucking house now! Fucking now!”
“Okay. Jesus.” She sounded sullen. “Where’ll I go?”
“I told you, the holiday home. Tell Brendan our place flooded, that I’m staying behind to keep an eye on the place until it gets sorted.”
“They’re away for Christmas, you know that. They’re gone to Dallas, to Marian and Jeff.”
“Fuck.” I’d forgotten they were away. “Okay, that’s even better. You have a key, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but –”
“But nothing. I’ll come and pick you up tomorrow. Alright?”
“What about the presents?”
“What presents?”
“Ben’s presents, Harry. Jesus.”
“Fuck the presents, Dee! Just get out of the fucking house!”
“It’s Christmas, Harry!”
“Jesus H.” I took a deep breath. “Alright, grab something small and get out. I’ll bring the rest.”
“Okay, okay. Harry?”
“What?”
“Where’s Gonzo?”
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Okay?” I gave her the mobile number. “Ring as soon as you get there. And go now.”
She hung up. My knees buckled and I keeled over against the wall. Rolled a smoke, the tobacco still dry, buried deep in the Puffa’s pocket beside the mobile. Considered my next move. If I stayed out all night in my condition, hypothermia was the best I could hope for. And if the pros knew where I lived, chances were they knew where I drank, which ruled out Dutchie’s place. The office was a non-starter, if the Dibble could find me there anyone could.
When I finished the smoke I dug out my wallet, checked behind the condom. Dialled the number, and either the phone was in the bedroom or Katie was a late-night kind of girl. She answered on the third ring, cautious.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Harry. Harry Rigby?”
“Jesus, Harry. You frightened the life out of me. What time is it?”
“About three. Listen, Katie, I need a big favour.”
“How big?”
“Huge. Can you put me up for the night?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” She hesitated. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
“Alright.” She laughed, sounding nervous. “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Alright then.”
She gave me the address, an avenue off Northlands Estate, a plush neighbourhood on the far side of town with a commanding view of town and bay.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a while. And Katie?”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
“De nada.”
The door opened a crack. Haunted eyes peered through the gap. I was shivering hard, slumped against the wall. It had taken fifteen minutes to wake him up, get him to the front door.
“Who’s there?” he whispered. He probably intended it to sound fierce but his voice was cracked, brittle.
“It’s me, Joe. Harry Rigby. From the pub?”
The crack widened.
“Harry