Angels in the Moonlight

by Caimh McDonnell

  He bent down and put his hand out to prevent the kid from running any further. “Woah, easy there, tiger.”

  The face of a little boy displayed grumpy consternation from under the hood.

  He heard the whoosh of the lorry passing and a snatch of radio pumping out something energetic.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Bunny looked up to see the mother racing towards him. “Get away from my child, ye paedo!”

  “Relax, love, I was just stopping him in case he ran out in front of the lorry there. I’m a guard.”

  “That’s worse than a paedo!” She snatched the child’s hand and pushed by Bunny, a waft of overly sweet, cloying perfume hitting him as she passed.

  Bunny sighed and got back into the car, closing the door behind him. “Worse than paedos now, apparently.”

  “The end is nigh, amigo, the end is nigh.”

  “Honest to Christ, you have to get a licence for a dog but we’ll let anyone have a kid.”

  “Funnily enough,” said Gringo, “that’s what I wrote in my last Mother’s Day card.”

  Bunny shifted in his seat. “How’s your ma getting on?”

  Gringo looked out the window. “Ah, good days and bad.”

  “I suppose that’s to be expected, with the getting confused and all.”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s not like she was a fun gal before the Alzheimer’s. I can tell when I go in to see her that the staff at the home hate her. She always spoke to everyone like they were staff – imagine how she treats people who actually are staff.”

  “I guess.”

  Gringo didn’t speak much about his family, such as it was, and Bunny didn’t like to ask. Until the age of thirteen, he’d been brought up on the posh side of the street, packed off to boarding school as soon as they’d take him. Mummy didn’t like having him cluttering up the place. Diana Spain was quite the piece of work. The one time he’d met her, Bunny had seen how she must’ve been quite a looker in her day, but that was before the wind changed and her face got locked into that permanent haughty scowl of disapproval. Daddy Spain, for his part, had been a successful financial advisor and accountant. Celebs, sportsmen, horse trainers; he’d managed the books for some of the biggest stars in the Irish firmament in the 1970s. Then, all of a sudden, the allegations of embezzlement had come. Daddy Spain had reassured the world that it was all a big misunderstanding before going into the garage and giving a hunting rifle the long kiss goodbye. Drunk, Gringo had once spilled forth the details to Bunny, who now knew more than he wanted to. Like the fact that, due to the length of the gun, Gringo’s father had pulled the trigger with his big toe. Or that his only son had been back from boarding school for the Christmas holidays and ran in when he heard the shot. As Gringo told it, he didn’t remember the blood or anything else, except for the incongruous sight of one highly polished shoe and one naked foot.

  Gringo’s mother had insisted that her husband had been the victim of a tragic accident while cleaning a gun. Then there had been the quiet conversations. They’d moved out of the large Georgian Village house to a damp two-bedroom flat off Parnell Square that her brother had reluctantly coughed up the rent for. She’d not been able to find what she deemed “appropriate work” and so Mrs Spain had stayed home, marinating in gin and bitterness towards all the friends who had “betrayed her in her hour of need”, as she saw it. Little Timothy was taken out of his fancy school, despite the Franciscans being willing to forego the fees if he became a day student. She did not need charity. Instead, he’d been sent to an inner city Christian Brothers school, which his uncle had assured him would be “character building”. With his posh accent and ability to conjugate Latin verbs, it had not been a happy experience. It was here that “Gringo” had been born, with the adoption of the Spanish phrases and jovial demeanour to win people over. It was rebranding as a means of survival, and it had eventually become second nature. “Gringo” was one of the lads; “Timothy” was the one the lads picked on. That boy became the man who now spoke without any discernible accent and went out of his way to get on well with everybody.

  Oblivious to what was going on in her son’s life, Diana Spain had wanted her only son to go into the law. He would then be able to sue everyone and get their money back. Signing up for the guards had been his ultimate “fuck you” to her. Not exactly the area of the law that she had envisioned. Still, when she’d developed the early-onset dementia, he’d taken her in. It had cost him his marriage – or at least hastened its end – but he was her only child and that had been that. Now he had her in an expensive home out in Malahide and went to visit her every week. He gritted his teeth beneath that expansive smile as she told the nurses he was a barrister.

  “How long have we been at this?” asked Bunny.

  “Just over two hours.”

  “And how long do we think it’ll take?”

  “Weeks, if not months.”

  “I’m bored out of my mind already, I wish something would happen.”

  Just then Carter’s front door opened and he appeared.

  Gringo looked across at Bunny in mock amazement. “If I was you, I’d use your next wish on a prettier face.” He grabbed the radio. “Control, alpha twenty-nine here. Primary has exited home property and is proceeding on foot. Commencing follow.”

  “Roger.”

  “Not even a glance our way,” said Gringo. “Hurtful. I do so hate being ignored.”

  Bunny started up the car. “Let’s see where Tommy boy is off to this fine morning.”

  They drove behind him at walking pace. Tommy Carter never looked back, just waved at any onlookers as if out for a relaxing stroll. He looked the part: neatly pressed slacks, a trim tweed jacket, and his seemingly ever-present glasses with the slightest orange tint to the lenses. His hair was tightly coiffed, his sideburns trimmed perfectly into a stylised point. He looked more like the kind of bloke who’d run a trendy watering hole as opposed to a criminal organisation.

  And a pub was where he was indeed heading, The Leaping Trout, to be exact, two streets away. The only licensed establishment on the Clanavale Estate. Painted a tasteful, peeling purple, the car park beside it glittered with shards of broken glass and there were bars on the windows. Signs big enough to be seen from space assured anyone who cared that they had all the live football matches you could possibly want. To the left of the main door sat an incongruous patio table under a large umbrella. Tommy took a seat and, seconds later, a middle-aged man with a gut hanging over his belt appeared from inside, a small cup of coffee in one hand and a couple of broadsheet newspapers in the other.

  Bunny parked the car opposite and they watched him sip his coffee.

  “Would you look at that?” said Gringo. “How continental. The lord of the manor.”

  “He certainly doesn’t seem fazed by our presence, does he?”

  “He hasn’t looked directly at us all this time. Maybe he hasn’t noticed?”

  The tubby fella emerged again, a plate of pastries in his hand. He placed them on the table and then bent down as Tommy spoke a few words to him. He glanced in the direction of the car and then back to Tommy.

  “Maybe he has.”

  The man nodded one more time and started walking towards them.

  “Jaysus,” said Bunny. “Do you think they offer a drive-through service?”

  The man stopped beside Gringo’s window, which he duly opened.

  “Mr Carter requests your company for breakfast.”

  “Oh, does he?” said Gringo. “How delightful.”

  The man pointed at Bunny. “Just you, not him.”

  “Aww.”

  Bunny patted Gringo on the knee. “Never mind, sure you’ve got them sandwiches you made for yourself.”

  Bunny got out and started walking across the road.

  Gringo’s voice trailed behind him. “If he’s got any pain au chocolat, amigo, nab me one.”

  Tommy Carter looked up from his paper as Bunny stood over him. Despite havi
ng just requested his presence, he feigned mild shock at him being there. “Ah, Officer McGarry, nice to see you. Please take a seat.”

  “It’s detective, actually.”

  “Is it?”

  Bunny took the chair opposite. “Nice to see you again too, Tommy. My, how you’ve grown. I can remember when you were knee-high to a grasshopper, and now look at you, an armed robber and thieving scumbag.”

  Tommy placed his newspaper down neatly and clucked his tongue. “I see you’re as direct as ever. I can still remember you and my da getting drunk in our kitchen.”

  “And I remember pulling your bawling arse out of a burning building.”

  Tommy gave him an uncomfortably long look and then shook his head. “Ah now, Bunny, well done on getting your moment in the sun and all, but we both know you charged in when we were absolutely fine.”

  Bunny raised his eyebrows. “Really?” He looked at the man and remembered the frightened young boy, cowering under a dressing table with his baby sister wrapped in his arms. Hunted eyes, red from crying, frozen in a blank stare of absolute terror. He’d had to pry his little hand from the wood and drag him out, kicking and screaming.

  “Absolutely,” said Tommy. “I’d have got my sister out of there fine. I was just calming her down when you came blundering in.”

  Bunny laughed and noted the irritation on the other man’s face. “Fair enough. Believe what you want to believe.”

  Tommy turned over the paper and ran his hand across it, removing creases only visible to him.

  “Your da seems to be having a rough time of it.”

  Tommy shrugged. “Indeed he is. I heard you paid him a visit. Are you trying to drag him into this?”

  It was Bunny’s turn to shrug. “Like you said, we’re old friends. It’s not his fault you turned out like you did.”

  “Yes,” said Tommy. “I’m a self-made man.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  Tommy leaned back in his chair. “Anyway, I wondered if we might lay out some rules of engagement?”

  Bunny raised his eyebrows. “Such as?”

  “My sister Eimear has nothing to do with any of this. I’d like her left out of it.”

  “Are you in a position to be making demands, Tommy?”

  Tommy paused for a moment and gave Bunny a long look. “Consider it a friendly request.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were friends.”

  “I’m more than prepared to put up with the harassment that DI O’Rourke has decided to visit upon me. It doesn’t bother me at all. However, I have always taken a very dim view of anyone upsetting our Eimear.”

  Bunny remembered the picture in their briefing notes of the boy who’d had both arms broken by an enraged fifteen-year-old Tommy Carter.

  Bunny leaned back in his chair. “If she isn’t involved, she isn’t involved.”

  Tommy nodded and then picked up a bagel and began slicing into it. “If you could pass on my sentiments regarding my sister to your colleagues . . .”

  “Deliver your own threats. I’m not your messenger.”

  He gave another shrug. “You know your presence is not welcome on this estate. The Gardaí are not required here.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Civis Romanus sum. Do you know what that means, Officer McGarry?”

  As it happened he did, but he wasn’t letting on. “It’s Detective, and why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “‘I am a citizen of Rome.’ It was the phrase that guaranteed that any Roman could walk the earth in total safety, because everyone knew that if any harm should befall them, vengeance would be swift and terrible. It’s the same here. The people know that they are protected, and not by the Gardaí. You boys only exist to protect the folks in the big houses down by the sea.”

  “I protect anyone who stays within the law.”

  Tommy gave a quick laugh. “And has it occurred to you why you’re following me around?”

  “Oh, we had quite a detailed briefing on your extracurricular activities, Tommy boy.”

  “Yes, but why me?” said Tommy, leaning forward suddenly. “I mean, there’s millions of pounds of drugs pouring into this city every month – millions. With all that going on, why are you so worried about me?”

  “We’re after the dealers too. It might take a while, but they’ll get theirs.”

  Tommy laughed. “Yeah, like the ones who set my house on fire. Tell me, have you got them?”

  “Well apparently, that fire wasn’t much. A ten-year-old boy could have dealt with it.”

  Bunny noted the annoyance briefly flash across Tommy’s face. The implacable façade temporarily slipping. “A ten-year-old boy can’t get his own justice – but a man can.”

  “Is that right?” said Bunny. “Pray tell, how’s he going to do that?”

  Tommy opened up the paper, signalling that their conversation had come to an end. “It was nice to see you.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure. You know where I’ll be if you fancy another chat.”

  “I do.”

  Bunny stood and began to walk away.

  “Oh, and Mr McGarry.”

  Bunny stared ahead to Gringo, who was watching them from the car.

  “Detective.”

  Bunny turned around.

  “Our history is nice and all but, just so as you know, it only goes so far.”

  They locked eyes for a long moment.

  “Likewise.”

  Tommy looked down at his paper again. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Oh, you can count on that.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Simone wiped down the counter again. It occurred to her that she seemed to spend an awful lot of time doing that and it was almost entirely pointless; all it did was move the spillages around. Her shift had started at 7 pm and it was past eleven now, and she’d spent about half of that time pretending to be cleaning the counter. It was either that or standing there looking blank, she supposed. First rule of every waitress gig she ever had: look busy or you soon will be.

  They had exactly sixteen customers in. Five actors from a show up at the Gaiety, who seemed to prefer coming here to any of the watering holes nearer the theatre, mainly so they could bitch about their colleagues in peace. There was a couple canoodling in the corner, on just the right side of public acceptability. Then there were two women having a heart-to-heart over a couple of G and Ts; she reckoned they had hit “leave the bastard” territory about two drinks ago. In the other corner sat Joan and Jerry, the nice retired couple who came in every Thursday – possibly the only actual jazz fans in the place. They’d be off for their bus in moments. Then there was Nathan Ryan, the head chef and owner of the La Trattoria Italian restaurant a couple of streets over, and two of his acolytes. He was tall with sandy blond hair and a tan that nobody had ever got in Ireland. He was a friend of Noel’s, or at least Noel thought so. He’d been over glad-handing him as they’d come in, getting them a round of drinks on the house, same as always. Simone had also seen the sly remark and the poorly-muffled smirks as Noel had walked away.

  She felt protective of her boss. Noel put a lot of faith in people. It was a good quality, in theory, but she – more than anyone – knew it could come at a real cost. Still, when she’d turned up on his doorstep nine months ago, looking for cash-in-hand work, no questions asked, Noel had been cool with it. Sister Bernadette had mentioned him. Simone was still unclear as to how a nun had known the owner of a late-night bar and neither had been forthcoming with the details. Still, Noel had put faith in her, and she had tried to pay him back. Right now, this was all she wanted. A quiet life and to help keep the lights on in this dingy basement. Noel was in the back room right now, looking at the books, trying to figure out how to appease the bank manager. She’d been around here long enough to know that the more stressed her boss was, the more twitchy he became. Tonight was not a good night. He was a one-man argument back there. He’d not made it to the piano at all, so a Miles Davis LP on th
e old-school record player in the corner was currently providing the “ambience” that the sign outside promised.

  There was a big demand for a late-night jazz bar in Dublin, and all of it came from Noel. She knew enough to know that the little stage crammed in the corner was the centre of the sweet man’s world. He loved the music more than anything. She took it as the highest compliment that when she sang with him he seemed to relax, and his various tics and twitches faded away as he got lost in the song, just like she did. A black woman from New Orleans, half a world away, and a Tourette’s-afflicted white man in his sixties, who pumped every dime he had into a club nobody wanted, both united by the music. Ain’t that a beautiful thing?

  That was why after some sweet-talking, Noel had been willing to allow the final two occupants of the bar back in – the big policeman and his charming friend. The little guy had done most of the talking, while the big fella looked all bashful and apologetic. He’d been desperately keen to pay for the damages. Simone glanced over in their direction and caught the big fella looking back. She smiled and wiped the counter some more. They had been in several times since that night a few weeks ago.

  “Simone, my darling, looking radiant as always.” It was Nathan Ryan, his smile full of TV-white teeth. “When are you going to let me whisk you away from all this?”

  She gave him a smile she had lying around. “I told you, I can’t cook for shit, honey.”

  “That’s the beauty of my proposal – you don’t need to.” He lowered his voice. “It’s all very hush-hush, but we’re opening a second restaurant at a location in Ballsbridge and you can be our front-of-house maître d’. It’d be a step up from here.”

  She didn’t like the way he said it. “I like it here.”

  “I mean, sure it’s . . . charming, but think how good it would be. You’d get an allowance for clothes too.”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  Truth be told, the blouse she had on was sporting a stain from where she’d picked up a not-quite-empty glass earlier, but still. Besides, she’d not noticed Nathan’s eyes making it down past her breasts yet.