Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [108]
Fitzmaurice waited a decent interval before dialing Paquette’s mobile number. “Did you get the document?” he asked when she answered.
“Who is this?” Paquette replied.
“That’s not important. Did you get it?”
“Yes.”
“I have all of the remaining forged papers George Spalding used to convince you to help him. If the Garda comes calling again, I’m sure you could make use of them.”
“How much do you want?” Paquette asked.
“Money isn’t at issue. A favor would suffice.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Simply tell all that you know about George Spalding’s recent adventures in Ireland to a journalist. He will call you later in the day on your mobile and arrange to meet you.”
“Why should I trust you?” Paquette asked.
“Would you rather I destroy the papers?”
“No, don’t do that.”
“Very well, then,” Fitzmaurice said. “If you handle this as I ask, you’ll have sufficient proof of your innocence to avoid having any charges being put forth.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“It serves a larger purpose,” Fitzmaurice replied. “Are we agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’ll receive the remaining documents from the journalist after he’s met with you.”
At noon Fitzmaurice stood outside Davy O’Donoghue’s Pub on Duke Street and waited for John Ryan, an investigative reporter for the largest newspaper in Ireland, to make his appearance. An eccentric by nature, Ryan was hard to miss as he came strolling down the street with his full beard and shock of thick, curly hair badly in need of a trim. He wore a double-breasted suit and carried the ever-present, prized walking stick his grandfather had won in a game of cards from the famous Irish dramatist Sean O’Casey some eighty or more years ago.
“Why are you loitering about in front of O’Donoghue’s,” Ryan asked as he drew near, “when you should be inside with a pint in your hand waiting for me?”
“To resist temptation,” Fitzmaurice answered. “You know I can’t drink while on duty.”
“ ’Tis an insufferable rule you are forced to live by. What scandalous information do you have for me today?”
“A story to match your considerable journalistic talents.”
Ryan laughed and waved the walking stick at the entrance. “Well, in we go, then. There’s not a moment to lose.”
Davy O’Donoghue’s didn’t cater to the tourists or the up-market types who worked in the city center, but to the true working-class denizens of Irish pubs who ate their lunches at the bar or at the small tables jammed together at the back of the narrow room that would forever smell like stale cigarette smoke, even though such unhealthy behavior had now been banned in all drinking premises throughout the Republic. In defiance of the law O’Donoghue occasionally lit up a cigar while standing behind the bar, much to the delight of his clientele, who would quickly follow suit. The pub was one of the few city-centre drinking establishments that had escaped becoming a tourist stop on the famous Dublin pub crawl.
Amid the clamor and the clatter, with their elbows knocking against those of nearby diners, Ryan listened and ate lunch while Fitzmaurice talked. After he put aside his plate and drained his pint, Ryan said, “ ’Tis a very interesting story, but certainly not front-page news without proof that this Spalding fellow pointed the finger at Carrier as a member of his smuggling gang. Is there nothing Paquette can tell me about this Carrier chap?”
“She has no knowledge of him,” Fitzmaurice replied. “But she’s a starting point that would allow you to ask questions about the highly unusual way in which this case has unfolded.”
Ryan held up his empty glass for a refill, and the bartender gave him a nod in return. “Which would be greeted in return by nothing more than official denials, protestations of ignorance, invocations of court orders barring disclosure of information, and the like. I don’t doubt what you’ve told me, Hugh, but I see no way to pursue it without more evidence in hand.”
Ryan paused to accept his fresh pint from the bartender. “Using only Paquette as the gambit to expose all the diplomatic maneuvering