Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [76]
“And Sheridan?”
“He gets an amnesty for testifying.”
“And for knowing the right people to testify to.”
“Something like that, yeah.” He sucked his teeth. “You still have that number I gave you?”
“Engraved on my heart. You know they’re trying to kill me and you’re not going to do anything about it?”
“You had your chance. Yesterday morning, you had all the chances in the world. Now the gig’s fucked you’re coming crying to me? When I can nail Galway?”
“Jesus.” I felt sick, deflated. “You want his job that bad?”
Brady checked his watch.
“You’re a smart fucker, Rigby, work this one out. Eight years ago I’m called out to this gig in Darndale. There’s been a shooting, non-fatal as far as we know. I’m two years on the job, looking to get on, so I’m first through the door. This junkie is lying on the floor in the front room, blood pumping. I’m on my knees with a cushion stuck against the hole and my hands covered in blood before I even think about the AIDS thing.” He shrugged. “I got lucky. Ten months later the junkie’s in some granny’s window and she wakes up long enough for her ticker to give out. He got fourteen quid from her purse, she got a few hymns and a thank fuck from her kids, who’ve better things to be doing than listen to her gripe. The junkie gets eighteen months, aggravated assault, and he’s back on the streets before the granny’s stiff. So fuck you and your junkies and rapists and scumbags.”
“They’re not mine, Brady.”
“Yeah, and they’re not mine either. That’s what’s wrong with this fucking hole of a country, no one gives a fuck, someone else’ll take care of it. Then the shit comes down and you come looking to me, expect me to give a fuck. Well, I give a fuck, Rigby. Fuck you, that’s the fuck I give. I’m ten years in this gig, haven’t moved up since the junkie offed the granny. Galway’s job’ll pay the bills and a whole lot more besides. All you give me is a pain in the hole. Besides, you’re smart, maybe too smart for your own good. You’ll lie low until this has blown over.”
He gave me one last blast of his evil smile.
“You hear from Galway,” he said, winking, “give me a bell. Regards to the wife and kid.”
Then he was gone. I threw open the car door and vomited something thin and stringy. Dragged myself back into the car, slumped in the seat, wasted some time trying to square what I knew with Brady’s revelations. Then I gave up, mainly because I was too smart for my own good. Too smart not to meet with the pros at any rate.
23
I drove through the deserted streets, stereo on full blast, the Pixies threatening to blow out the windows. Adrenaline, the cleanest drug of them all, charged through my veins. By the time I pulled in opposite The Odeon I was ready. Ready for what, I wasn’t so sure. But I was as ready as I was ever going to be.
The Odeon loomed into the night sky, four storeys, glowering down, as if I was mocking it by turning up at its doors. It had been an imposing building once, its foyer boasting a vaulted ceiling, gothic fittings decorated in gold flake. The auditorium sat two hundred, most of whom came to see a movie that didn’t necessarily involve helicopter chases and exploding buildings, as was generally the choice on the six screens of the Omniplex on the other side of town. Its main claim to fame, though, was that when the lights went up the double seats in the rear section under the balcony had to be swabbed down.
The health authority had closed the Odeon about ten years back. The official reason was, people wouldn’t get value for money watching a movie while rats scampered across the back of the worn velvet seats. The real reason was, the secretary of