Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [9]
“Only reason I ask,” I added, “is Monday’s bin day and I’d hate for someone to mistake you for trash.”
He fed me a faint smile. He nodded at the sign, stencilled on the frosted glass: Harry J. Rigby, Independent Research Bureau.
“What’s the J stand for?”
“It stands for get the fuck out of my seat.”
He stood up and stretched, letting me know he was as big as he thought he was. Moved slowly around the desk, settled in the other chair. I slid in behind the desk, set my fresh coffee down, rolled a loose one. He said: “Ever get lost in here?”
“Sorry, I don’t do sarcasm before breakfast. Now – is this an interior design kick or is there something I can actually do for you?”
Usually I let the dick stuff go, but I didn’t like Conway. He was too smooth, too slick and oiled, like a lazy cat’s coat, and I hate cats, especially the lazy ones. He sat back, laid an ankle on a knee.
“Get much business with that attitude, Bud?”
“Tuesdays, my attitude makes me cry. Mondays I think I’m cute. Now start again and if you behave I’ll let you finish because I haven’t had a laugh in days.”
I was half-hoping Conway would take the hint and leave but all he did was lean forward, flick his cigarette at the ashtray, although not like he was worried about getting the scholarship. He put his elbows on the desk, cleared his throat, said: “You’re Harry Rigby?”
“Unless you’re from the Revenue, yeah.”
“You’re a private investigator?”
“I’m a research consultant.”
“What’s that when it’s not at the zoo?”
I took a deep breath and pitched the spiel.
“I research information that isn’t readily available to private individuals. Running credit checks on prospective business partners, finding long lost lovers, that kind of thing. I provide covert observation for insurance companies in cases of suspected fraud. I document infidelity, or confirm that the husband’s suspicions are just that, and they’re usually the husband’s. I assist companies with security surveillance, and sometimes I hop along behind bouncing cheques. Missing dogs and family trees are steady earners. The perks include creative tax returns, fast food, late nights and the manners of a Protestant. The ulcer I had before I took the job. The coffee’s getting cold, by the way.”
He nodded, sat back. Took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. I was guessing infidelity.
“The name’s Conway. Frank Conway. And this is strictly confidential.”
“Think of me as a priest, all the women do.”
He laughed, a nasal bark.
“You should meet my wife.”
“She likes funny guys?”
“They’re all hilarious, far as she’s concerned.”
“Does she have a name, or is it relevant?”
“Helen.”
I dug a pad out of the top drawer, scribbled some notes.
“And has she left or is she going to?”
“Neither. I’m going to break her fucking neck.”
“And you want me for what – an alibi?”
He blew smoke rings at the ceiling.
“Most husbands,” I prodded, “want to kill the bloke.”
“Fuck him,” Conway rasped. “He doesn’t know any better. If he did he wouldn’t be screwing the bitch.”
“You know for a fact that Mrs Conway is having an affair?”
“She’s screwing around. I know.”
“Worst thing you can do is jump to conclusions.” From where I was sitting, jumping to conclusions was all the exercise Conway got. “Maybe you should consider other possibilities.”
“Like what?”
I knew, from experience, that the rational approach was pointless. When a man is so convinced his wife is screwing someone else that he can tell another man, an act of God won’t change his mind. I tried anyway, needing the gig. I always needed the gig. Chasing missing dogs is no job for a grown man.
“Most dick jobs are paranoia,” I explained. “Blokes who work so hard to compensate for the size of their dicks, they don’t get to use them. It’s only a matter of time before they start wondering why wifey is so happy with the situation. Sometimes the bloke is right, wifey’s playing away from home, but it doesn’t happen that often. And either way, a happy ending isn’t on the cards.”
“What the fuck is