Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [58]
I made my way around the side of the house, avoiding the heaped pile of refuse sacks, sidling up to the kitchen window, peering in. There was no one inside. I tried the back door, expecting it to be locked, which it was. I took a quick look around, glad that Herbie had let the back garden run riot, the hedges grow high and wild. Then, when I was sure no nosy neighbour was standing by with binoculars and Nikon at the ready, I punched my elbow against the glass pane, hard enough to crack the glass but not so hard it might shatter. When I’d pulled out the longer shards of glass, I put my hand inside and slid back the bolt.
The kitchen looked like a Delhi sewer, but that was par for the course at Herbie’s. I tiptoed out into the hall. The living room door was open. I peered through the crack between door and frame. There was no one hiding behind the door. I pushed the door open. The television was on, the sound turned down, which is the only way to watch MTV. A half-eaten pizza, the size of a small wagon wheel, lay on the coffee table beside the couch. I touched the pizza. It was cold.
I picked up the poker from the fireplace, went to check the front room. Then, quietly, I climbed the stairs, poker cocked over one shoulder. If I’d thought about it I’d have reckoned, maybe, that my plan was to catch the pros napping and frighten them to death by waving the poker at them. But I didn’t think about it.
I caught Herbie napping, facedown in a pillow. The pillow scarlet and sodden, hands tied behind his back with electrical cable. He groaned when I turned him over onto his side. It was a tiny sound, a grunt I wouldn’t have heard if I hadn’t been straining to hear it, but it told me all I needed to know. Herbie was alive.
The ginger hair was the giveaway. Everything else was pretty much unrecognisable. It looked like someone had been pulping jam with his head and pineapple jam at that. His nose was pushed to one side, lips split, the mouth an ugly red gash. His cheekbones were stove in, eyes puffed up to maybe three times their usual size. He had no teeth left that I could see, although it was possible they hadn’t been able to get to the grinders right at the back. It wasn’t for the want of trying if they hadn’t.
I dug out Gonzo’s mobile, dialled emergency.
“Herb,” I said, as I untied his hands. “Herb? You hear me?”
“Aauugh,” he whispered. It was a guttural, primitive sound, the blood clogging up his mouth not helping. He was blind and punch-drunk but I got the impression he recognised my voice, although that was probably just wishful thinking. Maybe it was just as well. If Herbie had recognised it, he’d have known it as the voice responsible for getting him into this mess.
“Help’s on the way, Herb. Hear that? I’ve rung for an ambulance.”
There was nothing more I could do for him, what Herbie needed was professional help and early retirement. I went across the hall and checked his computer room. The whole system was kicked asunder, hard-drives mangled, screens booted in. Even the furniture had been smashed. At a rough guess, there was maybe ten grand worth of damage done. I was disappointed. I’d expected more from professionals than petty spite.
I went back to Herbie’s room, opened a window and watched him while I waited for the ambulance to arrive. He was in poor shape. The pros hadn’t been too worried whether he suffocated or just choked on his own blood. He’d live, I was guessing, which was good, but Herbie was never going to be the same again. Maybe it was just as well that most of his friends lived in cyberspace.
When I heard the faint whine of the ambulance siren, the sound carrying on the clear air, I went downstairs. I found a dishcloth in the kitchen, wiped the poker clean and put it back on the hearth. Then I left.
I parked at the bottom of the avenue, started building a smoke. Thirty seconds later an ambulance