Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [60]
“If you’re interested, you can always listen to the tapes when your husband does.”
She chuckled, too deep in her throat for the humour to reach her eyes, and then she left too. Conway was sitting forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled and touching his lips.
“Thought you’d like a report, Frank,” I breezed. “Everyone likes to get good news at Christmas.”
“You have good news?” Calm, collected.
“Yeah. Your wife is screwing the College football team, keeper included.”
He didn’t take the bait.
“You can tell so soon? I’d have thought your investigations would be a little more rigorous than that.”
“Trust me, Frank. She’s fucking with a few more people too, only now we’re talking metaphors. And that includes you.”
Again he ignored the dig. I was impressed. I thought a slur on his wife’s character would have been enough to get Big Frank out from behind the desk, seeing as how that’d be muscling in on Big Frank’s turf. Instead he reached for the chequebook on the desk.
“That is good news.” He picked up a pen. “What do I owe you?”
“That isn’t the good news, Frank. At least, it might be good news but it’s nothing you didn’t know already. The good news is that you’re getting a new partner.”
“Partner?”
“Not in the biblical sense. You’re a good-looking cove but you’re not my type. I want in.”
“In?”
“A cut, Frank. A percentage. A tidy little earner for doing sweet fuck all. And that includes not repaying the visit I had from the Dibble yesterday morning.”
He didn’t flinch. Not a twitch. He really was good. I thought about what Brady told me. If Conway inspired respect in Brady, then his office was the last place I should have been sitting. Then again, Brady hadn’t been shot at, or forced to put his family on the run. Not that he’d told me about anyway, Brady seemed shy that way. But I was guessing that any of those reasons would have put Brady where I was and it was unlikely Brady would have been my side of the desk.
“You want to get into the real-estate business?” His tone was polite, but edgy, like he was playing to a crowd.
“The surreal-state business. Drugs, by any other name.”
“I’m a bit old for doing drugs.” He laughed, but it came up short, ending on a high note. He cleared his throat, reached for his Marlboros.
“You’re never too old for a high, Frank. But I’m not talking about a few tokes. I’m talking about distribution, profit margins, the full nine yards. Word’s out, Frank, you’re the Candyman. I know it, the Dibble know it, and if they know it you can bet half of Christendom knows it.”
“That’s libel, Rigby.”
“Slander, actually, and only if it’s not true. Or is it the other way around?” I dropped him the shoulder. “What’s your favourite Bond movie, Frank?”
He bought the dummy.
“What?”
“Your favourite Bond movie, everyone has one. Mine is Thunderball. Connery’s the main man, the only Bond. Moore’s too camp and Brosnan’s too posh. Anyway, there’s a line in Thunderball where Bond reckons that once is coincidence, twice is happenstance, three times is enemy action. Know that line?”
He shook his head, licked his lips. I sat forward, grinned, waded in swinging.
“You came to me two days ago, Frank. Gave me some bullshit about how your wife was screwing around. Which didn’t scan, any time I said she was playing away you jumped like someone was into your strides with a cattle prod. Which meant you had some other reason for being there. I don’t know, maybe you knew the Branch boys were keeping tabs and you were looking for a patsy.” I shrugged. “All you had to do was ask, Frank. I don’t mind being anyone’s patsy, so long as they pay for the privilege.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I played along, Frank. Did a little digging on the lovely Mrs Conway, not really expecting to find anything, because generally I wouldn’t find water in a well, especially when the well is dry. So imagine my surprise when I discover that the lovely Mrs Conway is not only screwing someone but I manage to capture the Kodak