George Halligan was wearing a cream single-breasted suit, pale blue shirt with a white collar, red silk tie with a diamond tiepin and gold cuff links. His one concession to the heat was to drape the jacket over the back of his chair; his red suspenders had a pale blue trim. He looked at my black suit and white shirt and shook his head.
“You look like some drunk cunt on his way home after a dress dance. Have you no other clothes?”
“The airline lost my luggage.”
“We’ll have to see about a new wardrobe for you. Dress sense. Lacking in this town. Fucking lamentable. Changing, yes, but too fuckin’ slowly, still look like a shower of culchies up for the day. Anyway, down to business: Ed, I hope you’re serious about this, because I need a serious man here; I’m surrounded by yes-men, gobshites and savages.”
“What exactly would you want me to do for you, George?” I said.
“I’d want you to be the public face, the legitimate face, of the Dawson—excuse me, the Halligan, eh, empire. Because things are evolving. Maybe in the past, I acquired a pub or a bookie’s as a way of giving certain moneys a bit of a rinse. But now, pretty much everything is profitable in its own right. I’m pulling in more aboveboard than otherwise. So it’s time to phase otherwise out.”
“And how does Podge feel about that? I mean, he is Mr. Otherwise, isn’t he?”
“Ah. Podge is a bit of a nostalgist all right. He likes the old ways. But change is ruthless, know what I mean, Ed? It doesn’t take account of individual preference: it runs roughshod over us all. Podge will have to, eh, make an accommodation with it.”
“I don’t know that I’d be keen on making an accommodation with Podge.”
“Leave Podge to me, Ed. Leave Podge to me. Now, drinks. Where’s the girl from Ipanema? Jaysus, you’ve hardly touched yours, what’s the story, are you playing games here, Ed, letting me get langers while you sit there beady-eyed, takin’ notes? I don’t like that.”
George’s tiny eyes narrowed, and the expansive fug of boozy bonhomie vanished in an instant. Veins stood out on his temples; the sinews in his neck corded and pulsed with sudden tension.
“Bit early in the day, George. Anyway, I’ve already been picked up once for drunk driving,” I said.
“Fuck that,” George said, wielding his rasp of a voice like a scythe. “Sure we can always have you driven home. You’re well in with the Seafield Guards there anyway.”
The Brazilian servant arrived and refilled George’s glass with champagne. George stared at me until I emptied mine, then he nodded for it to be refilled.
“Letting a man drink alone, your host, no less, the height of bad manners,” George said in a tone of mock outrage.
“Leave the bottle, and the juice,” he said to the Brazilian girl, touching her lightly on the forearm, his eyes fixed on mine. The girl flinched, and pulled her arm away as if it had been scalded.
“My apologies,” I said.
“Accepted,” he said solemnly, then cracked a grin that dispelled little of the menace he had suddenly invoked. It was an impressive reminder that the difference between him and his brothers was merely one of style. George Halligan snipped the end off a large Cohiba, ran it under his nose and sniffed. It made a scrabbling sound as it chafed against his mustache, like a small animal trapped behind drywall. I thought of ramming the cigar up his nose. It would pass the time, but it wouldn’t help to crack the case.
“So would I be involved with your burgeoning property empire, George?”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind for you, Ed. Right now we’ve apartments, a few pubs, some commercial units, a small office block—but what we’re getting into now is development land: parcel it up, hold on to it for long enough, get it zoned the right way, and then release it back onto the market at the right time. That’s easy money—the legal way.”
“And my role would be…?”
“I’d want you to piece together consortiums—consortia—of investors. All those nice lads you were at school with, the dentists and the barristers. Respectable citizens with plenty of money who want to make more. Not that I haven’t done well without those cunts in the past. But the only way I’m going to do well in the future is with them on board.”
George lit his cigar, exhaled a large gust of smoke and winked at me. I was suddenly sick and tired of George Halligan, of his delusions of business respectability, his air of casual menace, his fantasy lifestyle copied from a Robert Palmer video.
“Is the golf club development first on the list then?” I said. “The one you and Peter Dawson were trying to get rezoned? What’s the status of that, now that Peter Dawson’s dead?”
The beam froze on George Halligan’s face; his coal black eyes bored into mine.
“Down to business straightaway. Good sign, Ed, shows willing. Predicament attached to this kind of conversation however; can’t go disclosing highly sensitive business details to nonemployees.”
“Can’t really think about accepting a job unless I know some of the details, George. Maybe you should have your solicitor present. Set your mind at rest.”
George considered this.
“Maybe. Nah. Trust the important thing. And you’d be well aware, the consequences of a breach of trust. Wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Good man,” George said. “Trust we must.”
George stirred the orange juice with a long silver bar spoon and held up his glass. I drained mine, and he took it and filled it with champagne and juice.
“A toast to the future, Ed,” he said.
“The future,” I agreed.
We both drank. George was drinking champagne without the juice. His head was stronger than mine, or maybe it was the heat: already I was feeling a little hazy.
“So there must be a council meeting coming up soon?” I said.
“Friday.”
“And you’re confident it’s going to go your way?”
“How’s that?”
“You’re confident you’ll get the golf club rezoned for high-density development?”
“Business is all about confidence, Ed. You know that.”
“And were you Peter Dawson’s business partner in Courtney Estates? I mean, you weren’t giving him money to bribe councillors just for the crack, were you?”
“Why would I give money to Peter Dawson? Don’t you think he could have afforded to bribe his own councillors? They’re not short of money, the Dawsons, case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Someone was into Peter Dawson for a lot of money, bleeding him dry. If he was going to put this deal together, he needed cash to persuade the necessary councillors to come on board. Cash he didn’t have access to day-to day.”
George looked at me, his eyebrows raised. I felt hot, and my throat was dry. I drank some more mimosa. I was thirsty, but I needed to stop drinking. What did that mean? I couldn’t think straight.
“I mean, this is the kind of stuff I’m going to have to know, George, if I’m going to run things for you. Need-to-know stuff. On a need-to-know basis.”
There was fur in my mouth, and panic sweat on my brow and in my hair, and a catch in my throat like I had swallowed sand. I drained my glass. The bubbles felt like sulfur in my chest. George leapt up, bottle of Cristal in his hand. I shook my head.
“No thanks.”
“Are you all right there, Ed? You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine. Maybe just some orange juice. I feel a little weird.”
“No bother. I’m beginning to think you just don’t have the head for booze. Sure the last time I saw you on it you were scuttering your guts up, weren’t you?”
George Halligan stirred the jug of orange juice again and poured me a glass.
“Now, knock that back, do you the world of good. Vitamin C, the business.”
Something was happening to my eyes; it felt like cold cream had been daubed on them. I reached for the glass, but couldn’t quite seem to connect with it; George guided it int
o my hand. I brought it to my mouth and bent my head down to meet it. I tried to lift glass and mouth together, but my coordination was shot; the juice spilled down my cheek and onto my jacket. I was moving in slow motion; the air boiled in my ears like a river in full spate. George tipped the rest of the juice into my mouth and then tossed the glass away; it detonated on the marble tiles like a small explosion.
My head felt like it was made of lead; I lifted it slowly, in case it tore itself from my neck. Engulfed in cigar smoke and sunlight, George Halligan’s face had contracted into a series of furrows and clefts; with no lips or eyes, it looked like a grinning fist. He leaned into me. I could smell cigar smoke sour on his breath, and I felt the pit of my stomach churn. George Halligan laughed, then slapped me once, very hard, across the face, knocking me from the chair.
He said something, but all I caught were the words “orange juice”; I could sense the rhythm, though, vindictive but exuberant, like a boxer in triumph. I could hear him laughing, a grinding sound, like a small engine that wouldn’t catch. I thought I could see people approaching; they looked too burly to be George’s wives. The marble deck was cool on my cheek, the other cheek from the one George Halligan slapped. Turn the other cheek, I thought. I would have said it if I could have spoken. I think I laughed, though. The last laugh. Not the last thought, though. There was a taste of cheap perfume in my mouth. The last thought was, Whatever he slipped me, they must have cut it with talc.
I woke to the sound of male voices raised in laughter. The laughter broke apart in a flurry of obscenities, and subsided to a low rumble. I could smell creosote, and paraffin, and the stale musk of tobacco smoke laced with the sweet tang of burning hashish. I was lying on some kind of sofa or daybed, and my hands and feet weren’t tied. I opened my eyes, or at least, my right eye; there was something wrong with my left. Above me there was a vaulted wooden roof. Weathered garden implements hung from hooks on the raw timber walls: rakes, scythes, shears. The voices were coming from the other end of the room. I looked to my right: there was a workbench with toolboxes and cartons of nails and screws and drill bits and so on stacked above and beneath it. A long-handled sledgehammer and a disused green motor mower leaned against a door by the bench; the door’s bolts had been painted shut with several coats of creosote and resin. I hoped there was another door, then cursed the stupidity of the thought, then welcomed it: at least it meant whatever I’d been drugged with had worn off. I lifted my head off the sofa to see further into the room and a searing pain shot through my sinuses. My nose was running, and when I wiped it, a smear of fresh blood came away on the back of my hand; crusts of dried blood clung to my nose and chin. I was having trouble opening my left eye, and a soft opening from my left temple to below my left ear smarted on contact. My tongue traced torn flesh and shattered root remnants still embedded in the gum on the lower left side of my mouth: the gap felt like two teeth at least were gone. My hair had felt dry when I came to; now it was soaked; I ran my fingers through it, but it was sweat, not blood. The rest of me felt bruised but not broken; I figured I could move when I needed to.
I attempted to move my head again, but this time keeping it on the sofa; twisting it to my right and bringing it around in a slow arc, I got a fish-eye view of the room: long and narrow, an old garden shed, with machinery, paints and brushes. The floor was stone; there were what looked like cupboards or cubicles on the right-hand wall. At the other end, swathed in a fug of smoke, three men were playing cards around a white garden table. I watched them for a while, training my right eye to focus, trying to ignore the throb of pain in my head, until I was satisfied I recognized them: Blue Cap, Nose Ring and Dessie Delaney. At least my head was still attached to my neck. I lay back and looked at the rafters. The light was soft through long, narrow windows above head height: early evening, maybe, of the same day, I hoped.
Someone got up from the table. I heard a door opening, then the sound of a man pissing.
“Ah, that’s it.”
“Check on your man, will you?”
“He’s goin’ nowhere.”
“Check on him anyway. Podge wants to know as soon as he comes round.”
“Podge wants, Podge wants.”
“And don’t forget to wash your hands.”
“Fuck off.”
The sound of laughter again, then steps coming toward me. No sense in delaying the inevitable. I looked up at a tall, skinny man with a shaved head, a ring in his nose and green and yellow bruising around his throat.
“Cunt’s awake,” said Nose Ring, grinning down at me. “Maybe we should get a mirror, let him see his new face.”
Blue Cap appeared. He had lost his bandages, but his nose was a blue and purple mess. He grinned too. My face was first-rate entertainment today.
“This looks like a job for Podge Halligan,” he said, in a bad American accent. “Give him a shout there, Dessie.”
Nose Ring and Blue Cap both laughed again. Their laughter was getting on my nerves. I sat up and swung my legs onto the ground, gripping my knees for balance. Nose Ring and Blue Cap both stepped back when I moved; Blue Cap fell on top of the disused motor mower. I nearly blacked out as the blood left my head; I nearly threw up as my stomach lurched with the unaccustomed motion. My head felt like someone was hitting it at regular, metronomic intervals with a rock. Nose Ring had gone to help Blue Cap up; Blue Cap was pushing him away. I sat where I was and worked on lifting my head up. Blood was flowing freely from my nose now; I pinched it hard below the bridge.
“Lucky he didn’t break it, so you are,” said Blue Cap peevishly.
“Maybe we should finish the job,” said Nose Ring. He looked toward Blue Cap, who shrugged, picked up a heavy wooden-handled spade and tossed it to Nose Ring. Nose Ring fumbled the catch, and it clattered to the ground.
“On you go,” said Blue Cap.
Dessie Delaney appeared behind Blue Cap. His right arm was in plaster.
“Podge said nothing happens until he gets here,” he said.
Dessie looked authoritative, presidential, almost, when contrasted with Blue Cap and Nose Ring.
“I owe this fucker,” said Nose Ring, leaning down to get the spade.
“You think I don’t?” said Dessie Delaney. “Let’s wait for Podge. I’m pretty sure Podge has a plan.”
“He’s lucky Podge didn’t break his nose, so he is,” said Blue Cap.
“He’s lucky Podge didn’t do a lot of things,” said Dessie Delaney, grinning.
Blue Cap and Nose Ring laughed.
“Yeah, must be the first fucker Podge slipped roofies to didn’t wake up with an ache in his hole,” said Blue Cap.
“Don’t speak too soon, lads. The night is young. Anything can happen,” said a reedy whine of a voice.
Podge Halligan had arrived.
Podge dressed like a loyalist paramilitary: muscle shirts, low-slung jeans, a white baseball cap. He greeted each of his men with a backslapping embrace, kissed Nose Ring on the mouth, then twirled around and smashed me in the face with his left fist, getting his shoulder behind the blow. I was flung back on the couch and my head thumped off the wall behind me. My nose spurted a jet of blood over Podge’s white top. He immediately whipped it off and used it to wipe my blood from his tattoo-laced, steroid-swollen torso.
“Little bit more work on that nose and I’ll be able to fuck the hole!” Podge Halligan shouted. He laughed, but it took a while for the others to join in; Dessie Delaney pursed his lips, Blue Cap looked uneasy, Nose Ring simply looked scared.
Podge wasn’t bothered; he twisted himself around and strode off down toward the other end of the room, head bobbing and fingers snapping to a tune only he could hear.
I felt my nose: miraculously, although it was a mess of cartilage and bloody flesh, it wasn’t broken. I pinched below the bridge again to stanch the flow of blood. I clocked the spade on the ground where Blue Cap had thrown it; I checked the positions of the implements hanging from the walls; I looked at the anxious faces of
Podge’s gang. If I was going down here, I was going to take Podge with me, at the very least.
He returned with a can of lager and a cigarette; he drank half the can of lager, belched at Blue Cap, then came toward me and waved the lit cigarette in front of my face.
“Not finished with this fucker yet. Not by a long shot,” he said, his bloated face contorting itself into a succession of leering fright masks. He took a long drag on the cigarette, then brought the red tip close to my closed left eye, then to my open right one. The heat and smoke made it water and smart; I tried not to flinch, got ready to dive for the spade.
“Podge. Podge, George said—”
Podge Halligan flashed the cigarette away and turned on Dessie Delaney, who had spoken.
“George said what?”
Delaney tried to draw Podge close to him so he could talk in his ear. Podge shook Delaney’s hand off like he was a bothersome fly.
“Fuck away off out of that, telling me secrets, whisperin’ like a girl. What did my brother say?”
“That we shouldn’t take things too much further. Find out what he knows, then…just a scare thrown into him, that’s all he wanted,” said Dessie Delaney.
Podge moved close to Delaney then, forehead to forehead.
“I think he’s scared, Dessie. Are you scared? Are you?”
Dessie Delaney shook his head.
“No, Podge,” he said.
Podge took a step back.
“Good man,” Podge said, and head-butted Dessie Delaney. Delaney shouted out in pain and dropped to his knees, blood dripping out between the fingers he held to his face.
“You should be. My brother. My brother,” Podge said, nodding violently to the beats inside his head. “The fuck does it matter what this little prick knows? Comin’ back here from the States, thinks he’s fuckin’ it, pokin’ around like a fuckin’…I mean, if he knew anything—if he knew where Tommy Owens was, or what happened that night with MacLiam and Peter Dawson, if he knew anything—and even if he did—and even if he does—he can disappear, can’t he? Not too fuckin’ difficult. People vanish all the time, don’t they? No one misses them. ’Cept the cunts that do, and they don’t matter. Strictly day-to-day. No big deal.”
The Wrong Kind of Blood (Ed Loy PI) Page 19
