"Can I come in?" said the voice behind the door.
"Just a minute," responded Paul, looking around the room for something – anything – he could use to move the poo from point A to point anywhere that wasn't in the office. "I'm just finishing up a phone call."
"Yes," said the voice, "with the woman who ate your socks."
"Ehm… yeah." Paul's eyes fell onto the only book in the room. It was an omnibus collection of the stories of Philip Marlowe, Raymond Chandler's famous detective. Brigit had bought it for him as a present. She had called it his training manual in the art of being a private eye. Paul hadn't finished it, but he was pretty sure that at no point had Philip Marlowe had to get a poo out of his office. No, Marlowe had stuff happen like leggy blondes sashaying in to ask him to clear their name of murder. Paul picked the book up and then put it down again. He couldn't face using it as a pooper-scooper. Instead, he went to the waste paper basket and fished out the lad's mag he had bought himself in a moment of weakness. Using an Oriental Palace menu, he was then able to slide the turd onto the magazine. He was relieved to see it had a firm enough texture to all come in one piece. Clearly Maggie had enough fibre in her diet; she'd possibly obtained it from his socks.
"Are you still on the phone?" asked the voice.
"Yep," said Paul, as he made his way across the room with the slow deliberation normally only seen from members of the bomb disposal unit.
"Only you don't appear to be talking any more."
"I'm listening. She has a lot to say."
"About why she ate your socks?"
"Yeah, I mean… obviously, that was a metaphor."
"Obviously."
Paul had reached the open window. He looked down at the small car park behind the Oriental Palace where their delivery bikes sat. Two of the delivery guys were enjoying a cheeky fag before starting work. Dropping his payload there would be asking for trouble.
"Will this be much longer?"
"No."
Paul pulled back and gave the magazine his best forehand return of service. He watched in satisfaction as the doggie doodie sailed off into the distance, over the wall and into the alleyway full of storage garages beyond.
"What fucking spanner is throwing shite about?!"
Paul quickly ducked back inside and dropped the magazine and menu into the wastepaper basket. He surveyed the office. It looked like crap but at least it no longer contained any.
"Just a second."
He moved across to the door and opened it with a flourish. At least, he would have done but for those sagging hinges. Instead, it opened in a three-stage process, the third stage of which involved him walloping himself in the face with it. He rubbed his forehead and looked around the door. Standing on the far side was a leggy blonde. A smirk that sat somewhere between bemused and amused played across her full red lips.
"Don't mind if I do," she said, as she walked past him into the office.
Paul was a thoroughly modern man with thoroughly modern sensibilities. However, it was also a small office with only so many places to look. He couldn't help but notice some pertinent facts as she walked by. The red dress she wore was figure-hugging in a way that could be described as 'leaving little to the imagination', and yet Paul was pretty sure it was designed to dominate the imagination of any heterosexual male who came into contact with it for weeks after. He admonished himself on that outdated thought. It would, of course, do the same to lesbians. In fact, it might even push a few women who'd always been curious into signing up for full-time membership of that particular club. It was the kind of dress that could dramatically change lifestyles.
Paul tried to pull himself together as he struggled to close the door. "Please take a seat," he said, as he shoulder-charged it into submission. He turned to see that she already had. She was sitting behind the desk opposite his, and impatiently brushing non-existent dust off her perfectly-formed knee. Paul looked nervously around the office.
"Please forgive the mess; our cleaning lady is late."
She looked around her. "In the permanent sense?"
Paul smiled in lieu of an answer and sat down behind his desk. He tried to ignore the soft, warning growl that issued from beneath it. He'd forgotten that Maggie was there. He casually leaned back in his chair in an attempt to put as much air as possible between her and his nether region.
"So, Miss…" He left a gap that she did not fill. "What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to hire you."
"Really?" It dawned on Paul, as soon as he'd said it, that he probably shouldn't have sounded so utterly shocked by the concept. They did, after all, need to have some clients for the long-term viability of the business.
"Yes. You are the Rapunzel people, are you not?"
Indeed they were. That had been the case that had brought Brigit, Bunny and Paul together to work as an unlikely team. They had solved it, as far as Paul was concerned, almost as an accidental by-product of him trying to stay alive.
"That's us alright."
She leaned forward and lowered her voice slightly. "Can I ask, did your partner really throw his boss out of a window?"
Paul smiled nervously. "The press made an awful lot of stuff up about that case." They had, but not that bit. Bunny had indeed thrown the second highest ranked Garda in the country off a balcony. In Bunny's defence, he had been corrupt. It was also one of the many reasons why the Gardaí had been so keen for Bunny to consider other career options. It may have got results, but it set a dangerous precedent in terms of industrial relations.
"I should point out, we haven't technically got our private investigation licence yet so we can't technically take on any cases."
Why did he say that? The other problem with Bunny's disappearing act was that he was also supposed to stump up the money for the licence. Paul had eight days to find three grand or the PSA would automatically reject their licence application and MCM Investigations would be officially dead before it had even started. Paul looked across the desk. Could this be a sting operation by the PSA? He dismissed the notion. Their coffee had tasted recycled; they didn't have the kind of budget to run to that dress.
The woman in the red dress leaned back and smiled. "I'm not worried about technically. Lots of things are technically illegal in this country." It would dawn on Paul later that she didn't have a discernable accent. She spoke in a kind of purring, breathy voice that didn't exist in nature. It felt more like a crack team of female scientists had developed it to take advantage of the fact that all men are idiots.
"Where are your associates, by the way?"
"Mr McGarry is currently unavailable." It felt odd to refer to Bunny like that. He was only ever referred to as Bunny, DS McGarry or a vast array of other considerably less complimentary monikers. Never 'mister' though.
"And Miss… Conroy is it?"
"I cheated on her in a drunken one-night stand that has ruined my life and destroyed our relationship. Her position with regards to the agency is currently up in the air."
The room went silent after he said it. Paul had been dimly aware that he really wanted to talk about this with somebody. He had no idea how badly until he'd just blurted it out embarrassingly to a total stranger. Clearly his subconscious wasn't anywhere near done punishing him.
"Right," she said, hardly missing a beat. "Well, good luck with that. You should probably ask me about the case."
"What's the case?"
"I'd like you to follow a man called Jerome Hartigan."
Paul laughed. "That's the same name as that developer from the Skylark Three who are up in the High Court."
She looked back at him. She wasn't laughing.
"Is this a wind-up?"
The woman opened her handbag and casually dropped a wad of money onto the table. "I've got a thousand euros that says it isn't."
"But—"
"He's having an affair."
"Ah," said Paul, finally getting a grip on proceedings. "And you are the wronged woman?"
"
No. I'm the woman who is doing wrong. He is having the affair with me."
Paul opened his mouth and then closed it again.
"Current legal proceedings notwithstanding, Jerome is a very wealthy man. I have put a lot of time and… let's call it ‘effort’ – into making sure I am in a position to acquire some of that. There has been a hiccup in that plan. I am concerned that he has betrayed me and started sleeping with his wife."
Paul left his mouth open this time.
She picked up the Philip Marlowe book from where it sat on the desk in front of her, and held it up. "As Raymond Chandler understood all too well, Mr Mulchrone, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Speaking of which; it seems to be my allotted role in this exchange to ask – is that a dog between your legs, or…"
Paul looked down. Maggie had apparently got bored and stuck her head out. He moved back and she silently exited from under the table. She hopped up onto the free chair and sat calmly staring at their guest. The woman looked back at her, for the first time looking as if she wasn't in total control of the situation.
"Does your dog bite?"
"She's not my dog."
"That's reassuring."
"So…"
"I want you to follow Jerome Hartigan for a week and tell me if he meets his wife, or any other woman."
"Because you're having an affair with him?"
"Yes." She gave him a mirthless smile. "Feel free to judge me all you want, but remind me; where is Miss Conroy again?"
"Touché."
"I'm an intelligent woman, Mr Mulchrone. Maybe I saw which way the odds were stacked and decided that, rather than spending my early twenties studying chemical engineering, I could use a little biology to my advantage instead. It's a man's world – I'm just playing the cards I've been dealt." She spread her arms out and gestured at herself, acknowledging her strong suit. "I just want you to find out if my opponent has somehow got the upper hand."
She stood and picked up the roll of notes from the table.
"One thousand euros now, another four if you find any evidence."
"But what if he is not having an affair?"
"Then I've paid you one thousand euros for a week's work, not too bad. This way, I'll know you really are trying your best."
"You don't have much faith in people, do you?"
"No, I've met them. Now, do you want the job or not?"
Paul took a deep breath. Like he had choices. "Yes."
"Good. I'll see you here in one week, at 8 pm, for your report. Please put the dog on a lead."
She tossed him the money and began walking towards the door. She grabbed the handle, kicked the door and opened it in one fluid motion, in a way that Paul would spend the rest of the night unsuccessfully trying to replicate.
"Wait!" said Paul.
She looked back over her shoulder at him.
"You've not told me your name."
She smiled. "No. No I haven't."
Another Word From Caimh
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A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1) Page 34
