Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [63]
We stared. Her hand hovered over the telephone.
“Will you please leave?”
“No. Call the Dibble. I want to make a complaint.”
“A complaint?”
“Yeah. I’m concerned about the moral depravity of your hotel. I’m also outraged by the décor, but there’s nothing the Dibble can do about that.”
“Moral depravity?”
“The words knocking and shop might ring a bell.”
“Knocking shop?”
“Knocking shop. Hammer house. Brothel. Bordello. Call it what you want, the tarts are in and out of here on roller-skates. That’s moral depravity. I’m offended. Blame the Christian Brothers.”
She might have been an old dragon but she was still a dragon. She nearly singed my eyebrows.
“How dare you?”
“Oh I dare, I dare.” I grinned. “Look, there’s nastier stuff going on in this dump than a few farmers getting their festive jollies and I don’t begrudge the livestock their Christmas break. Letting me look at the register will go some way to making sure the nasty stuff doesn’t happen here again. Okay?”
“What kind of –”
“Show me the register or ring the Dibble.”
She thought about it, maybe, while she was waddling away from the desk. I ran my finger down the day’s entries, found nothing under the name of Frank Conway, which didn’t mean a thing, even Frank Conway wasn’t dumb enough to register in the Connaught Arms under his own name. There was only one entry for Christmas Eve though, and that had been booked in early.
I picked up the newspaper lying on the desk, retreated to the three-piece suite. I smoked and held the paper in front of my face, watching the front door, the double doors of the bar. The dragon came back, stood behind the desk and didn’t look in my direction. I repaid the favour.
He arrived twenty minutes later, red-faced and puffing. He was wearing the same heavy tweed overcoat and flat checked cap, which he took off as he came through the door, smoothing down his wiry grey hair. Underneath the overcoat he wore a sky-blue V-necked pullover. He had a banana-yellow cravat tied loosely around his neck.
The dragon’s face lit up when she recognised him but he just nodded, brusque, as he made for the bar. The dragon watched him go, crest-fallen. I sympathised. If you can’t get a politician to say hello to you, then it’s time to fold the tent. Tony Sheridan obviously had more on his mind than votes. I gave him a minute or two to get settled before I followed.
They were in the far corner of the bar, in wicker armchairs around a low table beside the artificial Christmas tree. Sheridan was holding forth, jabbing a stubby finger at Frank Conway. Frank was sitting forward, head bent towards Sheridan, nodding. Helen Conway was sitting upright with her back to the wall. She watched me the whole way across the bar without alerting the other two, treating me to a sardonic smile that was almost worth all the grief.
“The resourceful Mr Delaney,” she said. Sheridan turned, stared like a gutted fish. Frank Conway’s eyes blazed. The Ice Queen’s just twinkled merrily, as was their wont. “Or should I call you Mr Rigby?”
“Call me whatever you want, Mrs Conway, but do call.”
“Ah yes, ever the gentleman. First you’re an insurance salesman, then you’re a private detective. Now you’re a gentleman extortionist. You’re a man of many talents, Mr Rigby.”
“Tell it to my agent. No brown envelope, Frank?”
Conway’s expression didn’t change. Tony Sheridan picked a mobile phone off the table, dialled a number.
“Put the phone away, Tone.”
He ignored me. I leaned forward, plucked the phone from his hand and dunked it in the G&T at his elbow. It fizzed slightly, and then nothing happened at all. He looked at the glass, then at me, and if one were more important than the other you’d have needed callipers to measure it. He got to his feet, looked at the Conways, blank as a sleepwalker.
“If you’ll just excuse me…”
“If you’re going to the bar, get me a coffee. If you’re not, sit the fuck down.”
He stayed standing, bushy eyebrows twitching. His jowls also twitched. I had the feeling that, if I