Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [89]
I shrugged.
“It didn’t happen that way and now the gig’s fucked. Brady wants Galway, there’s no coke, and there are no ATMs where Helen Conway and Tony Sheridan are going.”
Gonzo nodded, satisfied, as if his plan was working out perfectly.
“They’ll keep. They’ll be out soon enough, if they ever go in.”
“Besides,” I said, “the money was only ever a bonus.”
The temperature dropped a couple of degrees. Galway twisted to stare at Gonzo.
“What the fuck is he talking about?”
I grinned a cold one.
“Jesus, Galway, get with the programme. Gonz didn’t have to come home to sting some sleazebag politico for beer money. He could have done that anywhere in the country, and in any country you care to mention.”
Gonzo looked suddenly tired, his eyes even more sleepy than usual.
“Gonzo’s home for something money can’t buy. Kill two birds with one stone while he’s at it.”
They were a rapt audience, Denise especially. I said, to Gonzo: “I always thought the best thing you ever did for me was screw Celine because if you hadn’t I’d never have met Dee. But that wasn’t the best thing you did. The best thing you did was not turn up for the christening. How could you? Godfather and father of the same child? Even you’re not that sick.”
Denise goggled. Gonzo just stared, cool and hard.
“Think I didn’t know, Gonz?” I laughed, but not for long, because the branding iron slipped back into my side. “Jesus, just look at him. The eyes are the giveaway.”
Denise was shaking her head, a fruitless denial. Gonzo didn’t react. Galway stared at Ben, still snuggled asleep in Denise’s arms. Then he looked at Gonzo.
“It’s yours?”
“Gonzo did the easy part, but Ben’s mine.” Gonzo was still staring at me. “Think again, Gonz. If you’re planning on leaving here with Ben, make a new plan. I’ll kill you first. Believe me, I’ll do time before I let you take him away. Because bad as I am, you’re poison, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you touch him again.”
He sat forward, lazy and slow.
“Nice speech, Harry,” he drawled. “But you’re forgetting one thing.” He changed the angle of the gun, so it was pointing at me instead of Galway. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’m only making the one.”
“Don’t push it.”
“You’re taking him?”
“I’m taking him.”
“You’d better be better than you think you are.”
“Whatever,” he said, lifting the gun and firing in one smooth, practised movement. It clicked. Then it clicked again. Then he went for the floor, for Galway’s gun, and as he went there was a confused expression of admiration and fear on his face.
He didn’t get far. The pro’s gun was already cocked, safety off, deep in the pocket of the zip-up fleece. All I had to do was squeeze. I squeezed. It caught him high in the chest, the impact slamming him back against the cushion. He rebounded, flopping, useless.
“Harry!”
Denise screamed. Galway lunged up off the carpet, going for his gun, a scrumhalf in a loose maul, but he was too late, by then it was too late for anything but a prayer before bedtime. Brady was kicking in the door, two Emergency Response Unit wallahs behind him, machine-pistols to the fore, all three screaming conflicting instructions to freeze, lie down, put our hands behind our heads. Galway froze. I froze. Ben screamed, Denise huddling over him, also screaming. One of the ERU wallahs dragged Galway’s arms behind his back to handcuff him. Then he started to read him his rights.
Brady prised the gun from Gonzo’s grip, pulled his head back, Gonzo’s breathing coming in gurgles. Denise lurched to her feet, a hand to her mouth, retching, making for the door. The second ERU wallah threw out an arm to block her way. Brady nodded her past, and I heard the sound of her bare feet padding up the hallway as the din from the gunshot faded.
Brady looked at me, the burn mark on the pocket of the fleece, then looked at Gonzo. He had fallen to one side, a hole the size of a boxing glove punched through his back, a pool of blood seeping