Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [65]
“I presume you won’t take my word, and I’m not taking it personal, you’re a politician. Your guarantee is my being alive. So long as I’m breathing you’re in the clear, and I smoke sixty a day so you better start praying they find a cure for cancer.”
“I’ll need some time to think about it, naturally.” He didn’t even look at Conway. “What about him?”
“He’ll take his chances with the law, and the way the legal system is these days I give him a fifty-fifty chance. Besides, it’ll be tough pinning Gonzo on him without me on the stand. Anyway, it sounds to me like it’s time he repaid his debt to society. And I’m sure the lovely Helen will wait for him.”
She chuckled. I stood up, looked down at Tony Sheridan.
“Don’t take too long thinking it over. I might grow a conscience, it’s the right weather for it. And I hear the witness protection programme gets you a travel-pass on Bus Eireann.”
I turned to go, remembered something. Sheridan looked up, expectant. I balled my fist and popped him one, just under the ear, behind the chin. He pulled the wicker armchair with him going down, scattering drinks across the low table. I knelt beside him. He was too stunned to focus, not used to people punching him out, although that prospect didn’t seem to intrigue him in the slightest.
“That’s for the hammering the other night, I’m presuming it was you sent the pros around. If not, you deserve it for wearing a cravat.”
The barman, thin and nervy, came at me as I turned. I feinted a dig. He jumped back and I edged by him, jabbing a forefinger at his face, for show.
“I’ve thrown better than you out the way to get at a fight,” he sneered.
I didn’t argue with him. He was probably right.
20
I tooled around town in second gear, one eye on the rear-view mirror. When I was sure I wasn’t being followed I took the bypass out of town, heading north.
I dug the mobile out, checked the signal. It was still strong, Gonzo must have powered it to the hilt when he’d last charged it up. I rang Denise.
“Harry.” Her sigh of relief blew ash off my cigarette. Then, in case I might interpret it as a sign of weakness: “Where the fuck are you? I’ve been ringing all fucking morning!”
“I should be there in an hour, tops. How’s Ben?”
“He’s okay. He thinks we’re planning a surprise for granny and granddad.”
“Good thinking.” Denise was a smart girl, a lot smarter than I felt right about then. The thought occurred, and not for the first time, that maybe her name should be on the frosted glass and I should be the one who spent his day switching the TV channel away from Cartoon Network. “Okay, I’ll see you about twelvish.”
“Is Gonzo with you?”
“He’s not, no.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ll tell you everything later when I get there.”
“I’m scared, Harry.”
“Just trust me, Dee. This once, okay?”
I hung up, checked the rear-view. Caught the briefest glimpse of a blue Mondeo, maybe quarter of a mile back, a battered farmer’s Range Rover and a metallic-blue Mitsubishi Galant between us. It didn’t look to be in any hurry, cruising along at the same steady sixty I was motoring at. It was too far back to make out the registration, so I couldn’t be sure if it was Brady or Galway, or both, but the hang-glider bloke swooped low out of the jumble of grey clouds, cocking a sardonic eyebrow. I drove on, keeping one eye on the rear-view.
Dutchie wasn’t at home, or he wasn’t answering the phone, so I powered down the mobile to save the battery. Turned up the stereo, sifted through the events of the last twenty-four hours, noodling the jigsaw pieces around, trying to make them fit. I was frazzled, though, too tired to concentrate, couldn’t find the straight-edged pieces that framed the puzzle. And no matter how I forced the pieces together, they always segued into the same grainy black-and-white images – one of the pros sneaking up on the back door, safety catch off, Ben jumping out from the door of the shed, shouting ‘Boo!’ Sometimes he even got the word out, but the tape always wound off the reel on the same finale – Ben’s body jerking, ripped