The Murk Beneath: A Cork Crime Novel (Mickey Bosco Series Book 1)

by L. D. Cunningham

  She pulled her lips inside her mouth, an expression that suggested to me her resignation to life's vagaries. Even when pulling such a face I could see her beauty, even more so a kind of inner beauty. She had a gentle manner that I was unaccustomed to. I realized that mine was a harsh upbringing surrounded by harsh people. Her father, despite unforgivable brutality to others, had obviously done right by his daughter, had seen to it that she was shielded from it. He didn't deserve credit for that, though. There was no balancing out when it came to murder, however far removed he was from the vile act itself.

  There was another knock on the door. The dinner, surely. I checked the peep hole. It was the same guy who had brought the menu. I opened the door and he took the tray to the little round table by the window that had a premium view overlooking the car park. I gave him a fiver for his trouble and he left without so much as an acknowledgement of my generosity.

  “You can see everything here,” she said, looking out the window. “All the comings and goings.”

  She was sharp. I couldn't imagine much getting past her.

  “Can't be too careful,” I said. “Can't be too sure who's tipped them off, ratted you out.”

  I wasn't specific about who them was. I was beginning to lose count, if I was to be honest. Grace said nothing for a moment. I hoped she hadn't taken my comment as some kind of warning.

  “Jesus, here I am,” I said, “bleating on like an old sheep and the dinner's going cold.”

  We tucked in. I'd not eaten a thing since the doc's fry-up for fear of being spotted by some blabber mouth, so it was everything I could do not to use my hands to eat with – to shovel everything into my mouth like a mole burrowing in the earth.

  I let Grace take the first bite, then I took the next one, and the next two or three after that before Grace had daintily cut the second piece of her pork steak, dipped it in her red wine gravy, and carefully placed it in her mouth – it was like a feat of precision engineering.

  “Geary doesn't know what he's missing,” I said, barely perceptible through my vociferous chewing. “Treat em mean, keep em mean, I suppose.” I laughed and some gravy dribbled down the side of my mouth.

  “You know,” she said, a puzzled expression on her face, “I don't believe I've ever seen him eat. Maybe he's an automaton.”

  Automaton. A fancy word when robot would have done just fine. Maybe she had to find that word that was a cut above just to rise above her beginnings in life. Or maybe she was just better educated than I was.

  “We all are, I suppose, until something slaps us in the face to wake us up.”

  She nodded sagely. Maybe the drugs had heightened my consciousness, made me reach a new level of philosophical contemplation. Or maybe I was just blowing out of my hole. Whatever it was seemed to impress her.

  We finished our meals. Neither of us left anything worth talking of in terms of scraps.

  “Nothing to trouble our consciences there,” I said. “You know – with the starving in Africa.”

  It was something my mother always carped on about, as if the scraps on my plate could somehow be airlifted all the way to the dark continent.

  “You haven't heard about the foundation, have you?”

  I shot her a sceptical look. “The foundation of what?”

  “Daddy's charitable foundation for the orphanages in Botswana.”

  Jesus Christ, I thought, is there no end to the man's barefaced attempts at redemption. He might as well hang a sign around his neck saying: “Forgive me for I have sinned, but here's my credit card number.”

  She burst out laughing. “I had you there. You should see the look on your face.”

  I'd just seen a new side to her, the wind-up side I never knew existed. I liked it.

  “I'll talk to the management of the hotel for you,” I said. “See if maybe we can book a function room for your comedy tour.”

  She snorted. It was the first time I'd seen anything undignified from her. She put a hand to her mouth, then turned it around in apology. Christ, she'd only gone and left her guard down. Wasn't that what happened when people became comfortable with each other?

  I was still feeling a bit more forward than usual. The half-life of the drugs was longer than I had anticipated.

  “Is there some reason other than just being your bodyguard that your father sent Geary with you?”

  That puzzled look was back.

  “What I mean is,” I continued, “perhaps your father doesn't like you in the company of other men, particularly one such as myself, a bit of a rough diamond.”

  “Diamond?” She chuckled. “You've a very high opinion of yourself. The fact is, my father has no idea where I am. For all he knows, I've gone to the supermarket to buy milk.”

  “What about Geary? Won't he spill the beans?”

  “Not on your nelly. He knows better than to cross me. He fears me more than my father.”

  I could see, even from our limited time together, that she was easily underestimated. I guessed that many had to their cost.

  “I did talk to my father, though, about what to do next. He has another job for you.”

  I stopped chewing the morsel in my mouth. The conversation had detoured away from our dalliance to what, after all, was our primary business, date or no date. I was still in the employ of The Gentleman, no matter how many bullets I had dodged.

  “Go on.”

  I swallowed and held off on attacking the next forkful.

  “O'Brien had an associate that came to an unfortunate end. A man by the name of Fitzmaurice.”

  I couldn't believe Moolah had entered our discussion.

  “For some stupid reason,” she continued, “the Gardaí think it was my father who sanctioned it. I mean, can you believe they would think something like that?”

  I cleared my throat. “God, no.” I meant it, too, though it had been a very recent revelation.

  “Which brings me to Daddy's job. More of a favour, actually. You must have a friend or two left in the Gardaí, right?”

  Here we go. This just joins up the dots: me being assigned to Churchfield, getting the subsequent job offer.

  But the bang on my head, how that fuelled my subsequent quest for retribution under Jordan's pay – was that just a coincidence?

  “I might have, but I don't see what that –”

  “Daddy knows what O'Brien is into. What he doesn't know is how a two-penny bully boy, someone my father used to turn to in times of crisis, can carry off an operation the size of his.”

  So that was it – O'Brien was a former heavy of Jordan's, probably dished out some punishment beatings, maybe even worse than that. Now the apprentice had stepped in when his master had retired. Either the audacity of his unsanctioned enterprise just got up The Gentleman's nose, or the attention it was drawing on Jordan, what with O'Brien using his premises to ship drugs, was drawing The Gentleman once more into the gaze of the Criminal Assets Bureau.

  “And you want me to tap up my buddies in the Guards for the inside track, is that it?”

  “My father is willing to add a bonus to what you've already agreed. A substantial bonus.”

  “Like a reward.”

  “Exactly like a reward. If you get us the name or names, and it turns out to be sound information, the bonus is yours.”

  I didn't like the way our conversation had shifted. I had thought she was maybe one step removed from Jordan's dealings, but here she was as a broker, speaking the words of The Gentleman as if he were in the room himself. I sighed.

  “But that isn't the main reason I came here this evening,” she said.

  “No?”

  She put her hand on mine. For a moment I was uncomfortable. I wasn't sure if it was because it was a man's place to make the first move or if it had been so long since I'd experienced a woman's intimacy.

  “No,” she said and squeezed my fingers.

  I smiled and she smiled back.

  “It suits you … the smile,” she said. “I haven't seen eno
ugh of them from you.”

  We went on talking for about thirty minutes after we finished our meals. I told her about my family, about my father, my mother. I told her a couple of things I'd never told anyone – and that was after the effects of the drugs had worn off for sure. I told her about my childhood friend, Declan, and his suicide, for instance. She told me about her childhood, about her mother’s death at the hands of one of her father’s rivals when she was just twelve; about how she rejoiced when the rival’s body was fished out of Atlantic Pond near Páirc Uí Caoimh in several pieces. She spoke of her new love of horses, about how devastated she was when her favourite was put down after falling and becoming lame during a race.

  I could have gone on talking to her all night. I felt very much myself in her presence. There was a connection there that went beyond chemistry; it was something deeper, a more innate compatibility. But it was getting on for eight and I needed my gun, so I had to politely bring our little soiree to an end.

  “I'm glad we still had the chance,” I said, “you know, to have our …”

  “Date?”

  “Yeah, date. If room service in a grotty hotel can be called a date.”

  She smiled. “It was lovely. We must do it again some time. Maybe somewhere a bit nicer, though.”

  So it hadn't been a complete disaster. I was relieved. Guys like me weren't supposed to have a chance with the likes of Grace. I walked her the ten feet to the door.

  “Goodbye, Grace.”

  She kissed me lightly on the lips and I swear I could have fainted right there and then. Like I was a love-sick little girl.

  “Goodbye, Michael.”

  Sham hadn't taken kindly to waiting. He'd been waiting in his car since seven-thirty, he said, freezing his hole off. That was what he said on the phone. Now it was time to meet the man face-to-face, to pick up my gun. Eight-thirty we'd agreed and I didn't want to be one minute too late or too early. In and out, no hanging around.

  I could see a man standing in the doorway of Leahy's clothes shop on Oliver Plunkett Street. There was a glow by his face. Not a cigarette, though. A mobile phone display had lit him up like a ghost in the night. It was an eerie scene. I approached gingerly, taking care not to startle him. A guy with a gun to hand off probably had a gun of his own, maybe in his pocket, the safety off, trigger sensitive to any touch. I nodded at the man when he looked up at me. He couldn't have been more than twenty-one, twenty-two.

  “Howya,” he said.

  “Sham?”

  “I am meself. What can I do ya for, boy?”

  “Jimmy sent me. I was on the phone to you a few minutes ago.”

  A smile crossed his face. “Jimmy told me about you. Fecking Jet Li of Cork, he said.”

  “Bruce Lee.”

  A quizzical look. “Whatever. Follow me.”

  We walked for a bit and Sham was jumpy, looking all around him. He couldn't have been more conspicuous. He turned down a lane and we came to a building site and pulled back some loose chain-link fencing.

  “In here, boy. Just over there.”

  I looked around. I could see no one in the lane, no light from any window. If there was a place to wack someone in the city, this would have been it. I made sure to follow behind Sham, to not give him my back. He took me to a cement mixer and put his arm inside. He pulled out something wrapped in cloth.

  “Clean as a whistle, boy” he said. “You could eat your breakfast with it.”

  I'd seen a guy eat his gun once before. Seen him leave his brain matter on the walls and ceiling of his kitchen. Guns were for mugs. Until you needed one.

  I unwrapped some of the cloth and could see the piece inside. A Walther P99 nine-millimetre. I felt a strange awkwardness. I'd fired countless weapons, practised to improve my aim, but I'd never shot a living thing. It didn't give me the slightest thrill holding the dead weight of the pistol.

  “What about ammo?”

  “Only what's in the clip. It takes ten bullets.”

  “I'll only need one,” I said, trying to cover my nerves with cockiness.

  “That's what they all say, boy,” the youngster said as he began to walk away. “Still, a feen like yourself probably won't need one. What with you being the Jet Li … sorry, Bruce Lee of Cork, like.”

  The kid was right, though; I was much more comfortable using my bare hands. But if I encountered a certain brand of trouble, the kind that put little value on life, I wouldn't hesitate for a second. I'd pull that trigger, damn and be damned, and let others be guided by their own moral compasses when judging me.

  8

  You're On Your Own

  I stood in the side street for a while holding the gun in my hand, mesmerized by it, by the power I now yielded. What cretin was going to mess with me now? Who was going to take their chances with Michael fucking Jeremiah Bosco? Bruce Lee with a gun – that was a combination and a half!

  The bravado lasted all of two seconds. Some woman passed by the end of the side street with a child in a buggy and I quickly put the gun in the pocket of my anorak. Jesus Christ, what havoc was I about to unleash? Maybe I should have just waited for the damned ambulance with Mogs.

  It was time to call Cotter. I'd keep my cards close to my chest for now, not mention the gun or what shite I was going to stir with it. I'd taken to carrying the burner phone with the battery removed. I was no forensic tech, but I did know that they could track your movements once they knew what phone you were using. But only if it had the battery in it. I put the battery in the phone and dialled Barry's number. I didn't even get an opportunity to say hello.

  “Mickey? Mickey? What the fuck are you up to now?”

  Barry's words were running into each other, such was the urgency in his voice.

  “I'm glad you're OK, too, Barry. I could be dog food right now, but you go ahead and be like that.”

  “Well, you're fucking talking anyway, that's something.” There was a sigh. “Where are you?”

  “Right now … right now I'm in town. Seeing a man about a dog.”

  “Ah Jesus Christ, Mick.” It was a strained voice, one that told a story in its own right; Barry was taking it from all directions and here I was taking a shite on his head some more. “Would that dog be a steel one? You know … one that doesn't go bark, but goes bang? Because if that's the direction you're going, I have to tell you –”

  “Easy, Barry. I'm not going in any direction. I'm just laying low, waiting for when it's safe to come up for air.”

  “I know you. I know when you're lying.”

  “Look, I've got to ask about Mogs. I mean Colin McCarthy. How's he doing? There's shag all on the radio about it other than he's still sucking in air.”

  There was an unexpected laugh from Barry. “You know, I didn't give him an ass’s roar of a chance, but the old git is going to make it. It was touch and go for a while – fifty-fifty I think one guy in the hospital said. But somehow the pellets missed every major organ in his gut. They yanked them out, sowed him up good and tight, pumped a few litres of blood into him and he's sleeping like a baby. They say he might even open his eyes tomorrow, but you can never be sure.”

  I was speechless. Things had been moving so fast that I'd hardly had time to think about Mogs. And yet subconsciously it must have been weighing heavily, because it was as if a sack of spuds had been lifted from my shoulders.

  “Mickey? You still there?”

  “Eh … yeah. Eh … thanks for the update. I'm glad he's going to pull through. Or likely to, anyway. You don't know how … em –”

  “Relieved you are? Fuck it, Mickey, were you even going to visit him in the hospital? Were you just going to bury your head in the sand and hope everything bad went away? That's not the Mickey I know. The Mickey I know would have stood his ground, given the two fingers to whatever was coming his way. I mean, is there some particular reason you've been underground until now?”

  “You fishing again, Barry? I've got feck all to hide. Some nut job shot at me and I got the fe
ck out of there. I wasn't going to hang around like a duck at the funfair waiting to get plugged.”

  Barry sighed again. “But why the wait until now before you call? You know how it looks, right? You were a decent enough Guard, maybe one of the best, so you know it makes you look dirty.”

  “And I didn't look dirty before?”

  “Point taken, Mick, point taken. But it's not too late. You meet up with me somewhere. I take you in for a statement. I'll be your buffer. I mean, you've nothing to hide, right?” He asked probably more in hope than expectation.

  I was standing there with a gun in my pocket, in the employ of a retired, or not retired, gang lord, with nothing but an inclination towards retribution; in Mogs's name, yes, but mostly in my own. I'd taken a lot of shit sitting down for too long. But I had no intention of hiding. It was time to stand up and fight.

  “Not just yet, Barry. I've got a few things to sort out first.”

  I pressed the call end button before Barry could reply.

  Back at the hotel I could only pace around the room. I didn't know where to even begin organizing my thoughts. I took the gun from my pocket, took out the clip, and cupped it in my hands, pointing it at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Do you feel lucky?” I half whispered, embarrassed at how predictable the utterance was.

  What was I? Some American high school kid with a gun fetish and a thirst for vengeance? Well, a thirst for vengeance for sure. I wasn't so certain about the fetish.

  Cotter wanted me to come in for a statement, to tie up the loose ends that would keep me on the Gardaí’s radar. But I had never been as straight laced as Cotter. Cotter's approach to street thugs was a stern lecture, mine a rabbit punch to the gut. Besides, we were too far down the road for Cotter’s niceties anyway – everything by the book, read them their rights, give them their day in court, innocent until proven guilty.

  No, I decided, the time for that shite has passed. I need to shake the streets. I need to shake them so that whatever falls out won’t have the time to play the law card.