Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [59]
It was time the pigeon threw himself among the cats.
The foyer of Conway’s office was bright, airy. Dust motes hung in the sunlight that angled down through the slatted wooden blinds. There was so much potted greenery I expected a pygmy to jump out and shoot off a poisoned dart.
A row of low chairs occupied the far wall. A young couple sat on two of them, her blonde, him bland, the furrowed brows suggesting that they were newly married and about to dive headfirst into insolvency. A balding gent in his sixties occupied a third chair. He wore a plain grey suit and his shoes were trimmed with dry mud. His face was round, ruddy and slightly anxious, the way all farmers look when walls hem them in.
The secretary was in her forties. Prim, the precise make-up job screaming inferiority complex. Her desk was so big it looked like she needed to yodel to be heard on the other side. I didn’t want to be responsible for her face falling off, so I marched past. Her expectant expression creased in confusion as I headed for the door marked ‘Private’. The last thing I heard her say was, “I said, you can’t go in there,” but I’d heard that line from younger women than her so I just closed the door quietly behind me.
Conway’s office was an amphitheatre. The plush carpet rippled away towards the horizon, where Conway sat behind a mahogany desk that could have hosted the Ziegfield Follies. The lighting was subtle, art deco, the temperature cool. The colour scheme exuded mellow repose, pale blue walls with lime-green borders. There was more potted greenery in the corners, and the room was so quiet I guessed it was soundproofed. Given the way the property market was running, the ambience was perfect. When you’re an auctioneer trying to minimise the chances of your client suffering a coronary, every little helps. Especially when you still have to tack on your own five per cent.
The woman facing Conway, cut off in mid-flow, glanced over her shoulder. She was power dressed in matching skirt and jacket, gunmetal grey with a light pinstripe. It looked like it cost an arm and a leg and she’d have looked just as good after the amputations. It took her a moment to recognise me. I slipped her the usual grubby smile.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mrs Conway. But your husband and I have some urgent business to attend to.”
She smiled, icy.
“You’re persistent, Mr Delaney, I’ll grant you that. And what might you be selling today?”
I sat down in the other chair, a leather-and-tubular-steel affair that probably cost as much as all the furniture in my office put together. Started rolling a smoke. I looked at Conway and we made sheep’s eyes at one another until the secretary burst through the door. Her face was livid, the skin stretched tight. If she’d been annoyed more often, maybe, she wouldn’t have needed the nips and tucks that left her face looking like a map of the Burren.
“I’m sorry, Mr Conway,” she said, shooting me a venomous glance. Her cheeks were flushed beneath the layers of foundation, or maybe she’d taken time out to apply blusher before the big entrance. “He just walked right by me.”
Conway held up a hand.
“That’s okay, Martina.” If I was a surprise, I was a pleasant one. He sounded composed. There was no trace of the bluster he’d treated me to last time out. “I believe I forgot to remind you that I had a prior appointment this morning.”
The secretary glared a couple of daggers and left.
“I don’t mind if she stays,” I told Conway, nodding at the Ice Queen. “But it’s money talk.”
“Helen is privy to all my financial affairs.”
I sparked the smoke.
“This is dirty money, Frank. It’s dirty because it’s buried and it’s buried because you can’t tell anyone about it. I know about it already, but then I wouldn’t recognise money if it didn’t come all grimy and worn.”
The Ice Queen stood up.
“I wouldn’t dream of eavesdropping, Mr Delaney.” It was an unnecessary kindness, if I ever came