Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [71]
“Ben?”
“I keep my trap shut about Sheridan and Helen Conway. Never saw a fucking thing, I was tucked up safe and warm in bed with Dee for the last week. Dee will back me up, no one can say different. The photos get buried. That way, nothing happens Ben and I’m happy as a pig in the proverbial.”
“You’re betting on Ben?”
“I’m not betting on anyone, least of all Ben. I’m just letting them know what my priorities are.”
“What about Gonzo?”
“Fuck Gonzo.”
“Jesus, Harry. He’s your brother and these boys put him to sleep. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“On its own it might count for something. Put Ben in the picture and it counts for fuck-all.”
He had a problem swallowing it but he got it down in the end.
“Alright,” he said. “That’s Plan A. What if they don’t bite?”
“I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.”
“That’s it?” He was incredulous.
“Pretty much.”
“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”
“Dutch? The Dibble?”
“You’re doing it?”
“It’s doing me, Dutch. I’m just along for the ride.”
He left, slow and heavy. He was gone about ten minutes, and as far as he could make out no one was watching the office from the street.
He wouldn’t meet my eye. I couldn’t blame him. My being there was already asking too much, and he reckoned I was going to ask for more. I stood up, faked a yawn.
“Once more unto the breach, Horatio. I’m running late.”
“Yeah, yeah. Right.”
He let me out the side door, followed me into the alleyway.
“Be cute, Harry.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Hey, Dutch?”
“What?”
“Did Gonzo say anything, before he died?”
“About what?”
“About anything. I don’t know.”
He looked away, shook his head, no.
“He didn’t get the chance, Harry.” He was choking up again. “I told you, he never came out of the coma.”
We looked at one another for a second or two, awkward in the darkness, and then I walked away down the alleyway towards the river. Feeling lonelier, more vulnerable, than I’d ever felt in my entire life.
“Hey, Harry?”
“What?”
I didn’t look back. Dutchie had sold me out and he wasn’t reneging on the deal. Something perverse in me admired that, but still.
“You want me to go with you, I’ll go.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask, Dutch.”
22
I was a tumbleweed crossing the street. Locked the door, stood in the stairwell, listening. The building was quiet, a mausoleum. I hoped that wasn’t an omen, started breathing again.
I climbed the three flights of stairs. Bright yellow tape was tacked in an X across the doorway of the office. It jazzed the place up, although I’d preferred the doorway when it still had a door. I tore the tape down, balled it up and volleyed it out over the banister, wincing at the sudden dart of pain in my side. Then I stepped across what was left of the door.
Elephants had been through, tap-dancing. The filing cabinet lay on its side, contents scattered across the floor. The desk and chairs were smashed, splintered. The desk drawers had been rifled. The carpet had been ripped up, and some wallpaper had been torn off the wall. Looking for a safe. Or wanting me, or the Dibble, to think they’d been looking for a safe.
Still, it could have worse. I might have been insured, in which case I’d be looking forward to the drip-drip torture of my claim being denied.
I found a sheet of paper, scribbled a couple of lines that didn’t take any longer than a good lie took to tell. I had an insurance policy on the mortgage, which looked after Denise. What cash there was I left to Ben, to be put into a trust fund for his education. Or to be released to him when he was twenty-one, if he turned out like his father, who was genetically conditioned against learning. I knew it wasn’t legally binding as a last will and testament, but I was damn sure there wouldn’t be anyone contesting it either.
When I was finished I folded the sheet, slipped it into an envelope and scrawled ‘Denise Gorman’ on the front. I pinned the envelope to the doorframe and took one last look around. All things considered, I approved.
I ghosted back across the street,