“At the rate you’re going through divorces, I hope it is a big success.”
Dr Wright opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of red wine and two plastic cups. “From your lips to God’s ears.” She held up the bottle and Brigit nodded. “So you and Paul own the private dick business together?” Brigit noted the emphasis on the word dick.
“Well, me, Paul and Bunny.”
“WTF is a Bunny?”
Brigit also hated people who talked in text speak. “Bunny McGarry. He’s our third partner. Not that he’s been around much. He came out of Skylark a physical wreck.” And a mental one, thought Brigit, although it felt too disloyal to say it out loud. She hadn’t known Bunny that well beforehand, but she still knew him enough to realise he’d come out of the whole thing more broken than he’d gone in. He’d spent ten days chained to a wall in utter darkness, all alone save for the daily savage beatings. Then he’d been shot in the foot for good measure. Most people wouldn’t have come back from half of that. Bunny wasn’t most people, but that didn’t mean he was invulnerable. These days, on the rare occasions she saw him, he seemed distant and different. He also didn’t have much interest in the day-to-day business of a private detective agency.
Dr Wright handed a plastic cup of wine to Brigit. “Earth to Conroy, you just stopped talking and started staring off into the distance there.”
“Sorry.”
Wright slipped her shoes off and curled up in her armchair, glass of wine in hand. “OK, so, hypothetically, do you actually want to get back together with this Paul guy?”
“I honestly don’t know. I mean…” Brigit picked nervously at the paint on her wine-holding hand. “I’ve not exactly had the best of luck with relationships. I almost married a man who it turned out was screwing everything that could move. I was then with a guy who not only wasn’t screwing around on me, when I thought he was, but who then went and saved my life.”
“Really?!”
“Well, yeah, but then I also saved his. Actually, I think it’s about two-all now. That’s not including how we first properly met.”
“What happened then?”
“I asked him to do me a favour and an old man stabbed him.”
Brigit drained her cup and Dr Wright leaned over to refill it. “Meh, I’ve had worse dates.”
“And, I mean, look what I do for a living now. I’m a private investigator. I thought it’d be all finding lost loved ones and bringing arseholes to justice, but it isn’t. It’s all dodgy insurance claims and people screwing around behind their partner’s back – no offence.”
“Taken.”
“It makes you despair about humanity, it really does.”
Dr Megan Wright blew a long and loud raspberry.
Brigit turned to look at her. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Dr Megan Wright blew another long and loud raspberry.
“I can’t believe people pay you for this.”
“For the love of God, listen to yourself. You sound like some soft-in-the-head giggly girl who just found out life isn’t fair. What age are you, thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-two!”
“Exactly, and you’re not getting any younger.” A little slosh of red wine splashed onto the doctor’s carpet as she gesticulated. “Let me tell you what love is – it’s the war on terror.”
“OK.”
“Shut up, I’m going somewhere with this. I knew this anti-terrorism guy in London.”
“...i.e. were banging.”
“Actually, no!” Dr Wright looked triumphant for a minute, then her facial expression changed. “Oh wait, come to think of it, just that one time.”
“Seriously?”
Dr Wright ignored her. “He told me that the problem is the security services have to get it right every time and the terrorists just have to get it right once.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Life is the security services, and we” – another slosh of wine hit the carpet – “are the terrorists. We just have to be right once! Then kaboom – happy ever after.”
“This feels like a particularly disturbing reworking of that whole ‘you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs’ idea.”
“Shut up! I’m a medical professional and I’m telling you. Fire him, fuck him, in whatever order you want, but that’s your solution right there.”
“I can’t fire him.”
“Sure you can. This third partner, Rabbit?”
“Bunny.”
“Yeah, get him to do it.”
Brigit shook her head. “I’m afraid, doc, that is a whole other world of crazy.”
Chapter Three
Paul made his way back from the toilets carefully. Phelan’s was not a pub where you wanted to accidentally collide with anyone’s drinking elbow. Most pubs prided themselves on having ambience or an atmosphere, but not Phelan’s. Phelan’s had an insinuation – if not an outright threat – of violence. It was where you drank if you’d been banned from a lot of other places, or if your dog had.
People sat scattered in ones, twos and threes around the bar. There was a low murmur of conversation over an old Johnny Cash record. Jacinta, the owner, would not countenance the playing of anything but Cash and Elvis. The complaints procedure about this policy was famously brief and painful.
They were in the corner booth, which had probably seen more crimes planned than anywhere else in Ireland, with the possible exception of the bar in Government Buildings. As he sat down, Paul glanced around; some of the twos and threes sat in huddled conversations, others in silence. At least one of the ones was holding an animated conversation with himself, which appeared to be getting heated. To the left of their booth, half the tattoos in Dublin were spread across a trio of big lads in too-tight vests, playing pool.
Paul softly banged his half-full pint glass on the table three times. “Right, I call this meeting of the MCM Investigations defence committee to order.”
Phil Nellis took a slurp of his pint of Guinness, belched and wiped the back of the hand holding his phone across his lips. “I’ve not joined any committee.”
“As your employer, I’ve put you on the committee.”
“I’m not even a proper employee.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “We’ve been through this. Brigit said that because of your criminal record, we can’t officially get you licensed as a private investigator.”
Phil shook his head. “It’s a disgrace. I’m putting me life in order. I’m married with a baby on the way, for God’s sake. ‘The Man’ is preventing me from having full-time gainful employment because of one mistake.”
“Phil, you’ve got fourteen convictions.”
“Fourteen teeny-tiny mistakes.”
To be fair to Phil, it wasn’t a record to strike fear into anyone. He had been a strictly petty criminal and a tremendously inept one at that. He had once been caught trying to break into Pearse Street Garda Station after he’d left his bag behind while being interviewed and didn’t want the embarrassment of having to ask for it at reception. His retirement had been no great loss to the criminal world. Paul had to admit, however, that he was a remarkably good private detective. Paul, like almost everybody else, found surveillance mind-numbingly boring, but Phil could happily sit there and watch paint dry. He had a gift for doing absolutely nothing and had quickly become MCM Investigations’ secret weapon.
“Who else is on this committee?” asked Phil.
“It’s you and me.”
Phil pointed below the table at Maggie, who was methodically demolishing a large bone, having already enthusiastically slurped her way through two pints of Guinness. “Is Maggie on the committee?”
“No, Phil, we cannot have a German Shepherd on the committee.”
“No offence, but of the three of us, who would you back in a fight?”
“Fine. Maggie is on the committee.”
“Grand. How does it work with the voting?”
“We’re not having votes. I make all the decisions.�
��
“Very democratic.”
Beneath the table, Maggie farted loudly, adding her objection to proceedings.
“Jaysus,” said Phil, wafting his hand in front of his face, “she’s getting worse.”
Paul nodded. The flatulence issue was frankly getting out of hand, but despite all the best advice, trying to get Maggie to eat proper dog food was proving to be a nightmare. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, opening up his notepad. “Now, our company has been the victim of an unprovoked attack from the bastard Kellehers. This cannot be allowed to stand.”
“When you say unprovoked, we did attack them first.”
“Well, yes, but that was only retaliation for what they did before that.”
“But before that again, we attacked them.”
“Only because they’d attacked us. Let’s not forget how this started. We were on your stag do when they—”
“I know, but—”
“Those bastards ruined my life, Phil!”
Phil put his hands up in surrender. Neither of them liked reliving that occasion, not that Paul could actually recall most of it. Being spiked with enough Rohypnol to stagger an elephant will do that to a man. Phil felt guilty, because he’d stormed out and left Paul on his own in the first place.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong to be angry. Their actions were completely highness—”
“I think you mean heinous.”
“That’s what I said. Anyway, my point is, why don’t we use the element of surprise?”
Paul drummed his fingers on the table excitedly. “I like how you’re thinking. Go on.”
“The Kellehers expect us to respond, right?”
“Right.”
“So…” said Phil, spreading his hands out dramatically, “we don’t.”
Paul waited. Phil looked at him expectantly. At the nearby pool table, someone potted a ball.
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“Phil, how does us doing nothing help us win this war?”
“Because they’ll always be thinking, ‘When’s it going to happen? When’s it going to happen?’ And it never does. It’ll drive them mental.”
“That’s a terrible idea. You see, this is why we can’t have votes.”
“I’m sick of this, Paul. I want to go back to just doing work. We’ve a backlog of cases.”
“But we’re winning!”
“Are we?” said Phil, looking pointedly at the mobile phone in his left hand. It had been in his left hand for two days now. Paul’s plan for breaking into the offices of Kelleher Brothers Investigations had been a two-man job and, as always, Phil had been the second man. While in the midst of gluing everything to everything else, Phil’s overriding concern as a father-to-be with a wife ten days from her due date had surpassed all other concerns. He’d answered his ringing phone to a wrong number from a cab company and had it firmly glued to his hand ever since.
“Da Xin made me sleep in the spare room last night. She read somewhere that the radiation from phones can disturb the baby.”
“I told you,” said Paul, “it’ll wear off naturally in a couple of days. Or put it in hot water.”
“Yeah,” said Phil, “phones love hot water, well known for it.” He picked up his pint with his free hand and took another gulp. “Da Xin says I should, y’know, concentrate on working.”
“This is work. It’s for the company.”
“Da Xin says that the stuff Brigit tells me to do, that’s for the company. This is your own personal stuff, that’s what Da Xin says.”
“And does Da Xin tell you what to do?”
“Yes.”
“So… wait, what?”
“Course she tells me what to do. She’s a lot smarter than me.” Phil looked at Paul like he was mad. Paul had forgotten the golden rule: you had to talk to Phil in Nellisian logic. Normal rules did not apply.
“I’m your oldest friend.”
“I know that.”
“And I need help.”
“You’re dead right.”
“Not like that. I need your help. Who else am I going to ask?”
Phil considered this. “Bunny?”
Paul nearly choked on his pint. “Bunny? Are you mad? Do you want this thing to have an actual body count?”
“No, fair point. It’s just… alright, I’ll help you—”
“Brilliant.”
“One last time,” continued Phil, “and then I’m out.”
“Of course.”
“I mean it this time.”
“Absolutely.” Paul opened his pad. “Right, we need a plan. I’ve got some ideas. Now, hear me out here, One-Eyed Barry says he can get hold of some… ehm, kinda like fireworks.”
“No, Paulie – hell no. Have you forgotten the reason he only has one eye?”
“Alright,” said Paul, crossing something off his list.
“In fact, let me save you some time here.” Phil pointed at Paul’s pad. “I’m doing nothing that involves the words explosives…”
Paul crossed off two more ideas.
“Kidnapping…”
Another three.
“Or any form of chemical warfare.”
Two more. Below the table, Maggie farted again.
“Jesus,” said Paul. “Speaking of chemical warfare. Alright, how’s about this… we put a badger into their office overnight. I mean, we’d have to get it in and then make sure when they turned up in the morning, it’d be angry. Like really angry.”
“Well,” said Phil, “seeing as you’ve taken a woodland creature out of its natural habitat and put it into an office on Leeson Street, I’d imagine that wouldn’t be a problem. Please remove any ideas that involve animals too.”
“Ah, for…” Paul crossed off four more ideas. “You’re giving me very little to work with here, Phil. Alright, how’s about we get their offices registered as an ISIS training camp?”
“Who’s Isis?”
“Do you not watch the news, Phil?”
“I’ve read nothing but baby books for six months.”
“Well—”
A large hand slammed down in the middle of their table, causing Paul to jump in shock. It was attached to the tattoo-covered arm of one of the pool players. He had a ring through his nose that, from this angle, made Paul think of a bull. A very angry bull.
“What the fuck is that smell?”
“Ehm,” said Paul.
“His dog has a bit of a flatulence problem.” A large part of what made Phil such an awful petty criminal was that he was unhelpfully honest.
“Well, get the smelly bitch out of here then.”
Paul smiled nervously. “She’s actually allowed to be here.”
“My hole.” Raging Bull leaned down so that his face was inches from Paul’s. It was noticeable that his zero-tolerance approach to unpleasant odours didn’t extend to his own breath. “Get her out of here, or I’ll chuck you both out the bleedin’ window.”
“I really wouldn’t do that,” said Phil. “She doesn’t like to be touched.”
Raging Bull looked at Phil and then noticed the phone in his hand. “Are you recording me?”
“No. It’s a long story.”
“Lads, this chancer is recording me on his phone.”
Raging Bull’s two pals now stood over the table. If anything, they were even bigger. What little light there was in Phelan’s was now being almost entirely blocked out, as though by a really angry eclipse.
A warning growl came from below the table.
“Alright, lads, relax,” said Paul. “We’re leaving.”
A voice came from behind Raging Bull. “Somebody is leaving, but it’s not you.”
Raging Bull turned around and looked down. Five-foot-nothing, Jacinta Phelan looked up at him with a face filled with defiance. She’d run this pub for forty years and three husbands. She was a legend, not to mention on at least three occasions, an alibi. She was especially known for her uncompromising attitude toward
s people “acting the maggot” – as was evidenced by the large machete she held in her hand, the tip of which currently hovered an inch away from Raging Bull’s prospects of reproduction.
“That dog is on the VIP list. None of you are.”
Jacinta had initially not been keen on Maggie at all, but an incident over the summer had dramatically changed her opinion. A junkie with more craving than sense had got hold of a gun and a truly terrible idea. Just before last orders, he’d come in and demanded the register. The Dubs had played earlier that day, so the takings were plentiful. Jacinta would have rather died than give it up – not that this was the likely outcome. Whatever happened, though, it would have been messy. Maggie had resolved the situation before anyone got hurt – at least, anyone who wasn’t the junkie. The junkie may not have known it, but Maggie had probably saved his life. After that, she had enjoyed pints for life. That had lasted all of two weeks, once Maggie had figured out how to pick up her bowl and bring it to the bar and Jacinta had realised how much this new policy was costing. Still, there was always a bone ready for her arrival and Jacinta showed her more affection than she had to the establishment’s entire clientele in the pub’s inglorious history.
“Are you threatening me?” asked Raging Bull, his tone of incredulousness showing how dangerously uninformed he was.
Jacinta gave him a winning smile. “Yes, I am.”
“There’s three of us.”
“Is there?” said Jacinta, in a casual way that would have set alarm bells ringing for a smarter man. “You lads aren’t from around here, are ye?”
“No,” said Raging Bull.
“I thought not, because ye see, everyone else is.”
As one, the rest of the pub stood up. About fifteen or so patrons had been watching this little drama unfold. Some of them were drawing a pension, but they were counterbalanced by those who had their hands on coats, pockets or bags, indicating they were willing to draw something else. This wasn’t a pub where you started trouble; this was a pub where trouble came for a quiet drink.
Last Orders (The Dublin Trilogy Book 4) Page 3
