Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [82]
Katie was hunched in a corner, face to the wall, holding her crippled hand by the wrist. I pushed the tea chest away, staggered to my feet, legs shaking, breathing hard. My eyes were streaming from the stench of cordite, which was good, because it meant I couldn’t focus on the dead pro as I
stepped over him. Tony Sheridan had jammed himself between the projector and far wall, hands over his ears. I prodded him with the gun.
“Get up, you bastard.”
He looked at me, fearful, not fully comprehending. Or maybe he didn’t hear me properly, my ears were ringing so badly I hardly heard myself. I jerked the gun at him. Still he didn’t move, so I cracked him one with the butt of the gun. I hit maybe harder than I had hit anything before in my life, the adrenaline coursing. He slumped, didn’t move. Blood ebbed from his temple. I cracked him another one, for luck.
Katie’s face was blank and white, all colour drained. She looked to be in shock. I hunkered down beside her.
“Katie? You okay? Katie?”
She didn’t answer, gaze riveted on the Ice Queen. I stood up, wiggled the pro’s gun at her.
“Kick it over here.”
She didn’t hear me. She too looked to be in shock, still trying to hold in the spaghetti of guts that overflowed her hands. I walked across, picked her gun up, slipped it deep into the pocket of the fleece. Then I went to the doorway. The Colt .45 must have weighed a ton but his arm didn’t waver. He said, soft: “How you doing, son?”
“Fine, Joe. Now the cavalry is here.”
His eyes were still wide, blue and wild but at least he’d made an attempt to comb his hair. He said: “What happens now?”
“What happens now is you go home. I’ll look after it from here.”
“There’s more?”
“It’s only getting started, Joe. But I’m getting the hang of it, fast.”
“Don’t kid yourself, son. You never get the hang of it.” He gestured at Helen Conway and Tony Sheridan. “But whatever it is, you don’t need these catching up with you at the wrong time.”
“No thanks, Joe. It’s bad enough, me getting you caught up in it. From now on it’s my rap.”
“You’ll do what you’re told, son. And I’m telling you to fuck off and do whatever you have to do. I’ll just sit here and have a smoke, wait’ll I hear the all clear.”
“Your call, Joe.”
“My call, son.”
I helped Katie up, put an arm around her shoulders, which were shaking almost as hard as my own.
“We’re going to get you to a hospital, Katie. Okay?”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t seem to be aware of my presence, still staring at Helen Conway. When I tried to move her towards the door she resisted, reached for the gun in my hand. I held it away, out of her reach. The Ice Queen was slipping fast, shaking hard, pain eating into the shock, blood ebbing out into the kind of pool that has a deep end. She glared, baleful. I looked away, more important things to do than be turned to stone.
I checked on Tony Sheridan. He was still panned out. I cracked him another one, in case he was playing possum. Then I led Katie out of the room, patted Joe on the shoulder in passing. He didn’t acknowledge me. Helen Conway watched us go, face ugly with loathing. I winked at her.
“Sorry about the hole. A good girl like you, Santa’s bound to bring bandages.”
She spat something, through bubbles of blood. I made a wish. It was my third new expletive in as many days.
24
The bells of The Friary were ringing for midnight mass, the sound coming sharp in the clear night air. The cold air started me coughing, which brought up blood, but then that’s a sixty-a-day hazard.
I helped Katie into the car and got in, tugged up the jacket, checked the wound. The bullet hitting the pro had opened the hole again; blood was leaking from under the bandage, weak and thin. I watched it ooze, not feeling any pain. It was just the way things were, something else to deal with it, to get past.
I eased the car down the street, leaving it in second gear,