Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [7]
“So what can I get you?” I asked.
“Tony Sheridan.”
“You want cream with that?”
I ordered a couple of cappuccinos that didn’t take long enough to arrive and bummed some skins from Andrea, the waitress. Katie took a sip and grimaced. I poured three sugars, made a wish and said, stirring and not looking at her: “What makes you think I can get you Tony Sheridan?”
“Detective…” She dug a little black notebook out of her shoulder bag, flipped it open. “Brady?”
“Big lad?”
“That’s him.”
“He was having a laugh. Besides – what would I be getting Tony Sheridan for?”
She pushed the coffee away, lit a Silk Cut, exhaled. Crossed her legs again.
“Let’s start over, Harry.”
“It’s okay with you, I’d rather keep going with the legs.”
She smiled a thin one.
“Sorry, you’re not my type.”
“Types are based on previous failures. You should think more about your future.”
“Look, Harry –”
“Alright, Jesus, don’t get sour. If I had cleavage you’d be hearing echoes. Everyone does what they have to do.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“And you want to do Tony Sheridan.”
“Correct.”
I let it hang, rolled a cigarette. It was her move. She pulled a manila folder from her bag, leafed through a file of newspaper cuttings, handed me a clipping. It had a modest headline: Controversial Development Officially Opened. There was a photograph of mostly men in their Sunday best, smiling their Sunday smiles, standing on the forecourt of a hotel. The dude holding the scissors was tall, well preserved and answered to Tony Sheridan if you had a homeless vote. The rest were a supporting cast of investors, councillors and the usual pick-n-mix of wives, fools, flutes and thrill-seekers, some credited, most not.
“So – what?”
“I presume you know the backdrop?”
“Sure, it’s about a mile east of town, just where the river empties out of the lake. Used to get a lot of kingfishers up there. Good salmon fishing too.”
She stared. Then, patient: “This is front page anywhere we put it. With the right spin, everywhere.”
“If, say, we turn up a steak knife in Tony’s glove compartment.”
“Steak knife?”
“Forget it. I’m kidding.”
She looked over both shoulders and leaned in over the table, which caused the front of her blouse to drop a good six inches. I stayed where I was, losing my balance anyway.
“This could be big, Harry. There’s a lot of typists out there calling themselves journalists, still trading on that one story, still hitting the front page, pic by-lines, the works. This is my one story, Harry.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Besides, there’s other people want the story.”
“Who – pizza-face on the moped? Come on.”
“He doesn’t flash me cleavage but he’s a good bloke. More to the point, he has the shots.”
“So he opens a gallery, big fucking deal. The shots are useless without the story and a place to put it.”
“Say I humour you – what’s the split?”
She wasted some time trying not to look shrewd.
“We take a joint credit. The money we cut fifty-fifty. You can share yours with moped boy.”
“Fair go. What do you want to know about Tony?”
“What do you know?”
I nodded at the clipping on the table.
“That hotel, it happened maybe five years ago. It was a total fucking mess.”
“Sheridan rushed the planning process through?”
“Not so fast. He turned up in the locals’ corner, it’s his ward and he lives up there. He made speeches about the environment, his grandchildren, endangered species. Couldn’t have been greener if he was about to puke.”
“So?”
“So he got backing from the Greens up in Dublin, did a deal with some bog-trotting Independents who were looking for an abortion referendum. Went over the county manager’s head, got an injunction. Happy days.”
“But the hotel was built.”
“Yeah, but two years later. Fianna Fail were back in power, holding a majority, they didn’t need