The going rate imm-9

by John Brady

  “Thanks,” he said to Malone.

  “I haven’t given you anything yet.”

  “Am I interrupting anything?”

  He held open the door of the restaurant for Malone. The smell of ground coffee that met him livened Minogue considerably.

  Malone’s eyes wandered the restaurant. Minogue ordered an au lait, and Malone’s usual black. The man who took the order sounded Spanish. He would bring them over. They were to relax, he said.

  A teenager with very black hair, and her boyfriend, were the only others here. They looked far beyond even glum. The girl stared at the street while the boy played with a twisted-up sugar packet. A difficult age.

  Minogue settled himself ceremoniously at a table.

  “You’ve got that look about you,” said Malone. “On the mooch.”

  “You’re a victim of your own success. Legendary.”

  “Success,” said Malone and scratched at his stubble. “You think, huh.”

  Minogue waited a moment.

  “Your film career,” he said. “Any day now?”

  Malone wrinkled his nose.

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Fanning,” said Malone. “But he’s a complete iijit.”

  “Not working out for you?”

  Malone flicked his head.

  “Just what we need,” he said. “Some wannabe like him glamorizing the whole thing.”

  “Has he given up phoning you then?”

  “I wish,” said Malone, his voice rising. “He keeps on trying to get a foot in.”

  “What exactly did he want, again?”

  Malone sighed.

  “What didn’t he want, you should be asking. I don’t know anymore. First, it’s can we talk. I give him the brush-off, but nice enough, right? You know me.”

  Minogue almost smiled.

  “Maybe he’s deaf, I thought,” Malone continued. “When he gets a ‘no’ for the chat thing, bejases if he doesn’t ask for something more instead! Sit-down interviews, he wanted next, big long Q and A sessions. Listen, says I, write what you like, but stay away from me. Not in so many words, now.”

  “Any of the words start with an F?”

  Malone ignored the jibe.

  “He got bolshie on me then, like, ‘I want to give the Guards the opportunity to tell things from their side,’ says he. Like, make me an offer or I’ll make the Guards look like iijits in this.”

  “Ah. He must have known you like a bit of extortion.”

  Malone’s glare seemed cool enough, but a slight pursing of his lips told Minogue enough.

  “What was your response to that one?” Minogue asked.

  “The exact words?”

  “The gist, if you please.”

  “‘There is only one side. Get on it. But leave me alone.’”

  “Loud and clear, I’d have thought, Tommy.”

  “Oh. I called him an interfering bollocks. Forgot that.”

  “How did he take to that?”

  “Got on his high horse. Something about art and life? Gave me a headache thinking about it. Put down the phone on him.”

  “End of story, then?”

  “Uh-uh. He tries to get to me though one of my… guess who?”

  “No idea.”

  “Sure you do. Or you will, when you meet him. Murph.”

  “Big city, small town, Dublin,” said Minogue.

  “Fanning’s decided that Murph, my fella, is the man, and he’s getting toured around by him. You know, sights and sounds of the Dublin crime scene.”

  “He’ll wake up in hospital if he’s not careful,” said Minogue.

  “Do you see me worrying about it?”

  “You coulda been a contenda, Tommy. Movie stah.”

  Malone shifted in his seat.

  “Yeah yeah yeah. But you know what really got under my skin about this whole thing? There’s this guy, Fanning, and he’s the first one to slag the Guards. Kind of fella with plenty of edumacation and, I don’t know, can tell you lots about all the fine wines of France or somewhere. Never went a day without his cappuccino kind of guy. Now he thinks all the scumbags of Dublin are worth making a film about. Okay, I says to him the first time he phoned, if you can guarantee me that the good guys are the heroes in this thing, maybe we’ll talk.”

  “Your fame will have to wait then.”

  “Watch me care. There, did you see that? But this guy’s persistent. He gets Murph to annoy me about it some more. Keeps on asking me. ‘Your man’ — Fanning, like — ‘wants to show you a plot, see if you like it.’”

  “Be a consultant then. Keep your day job and all.”

  Malone gave Minogue a scathing look.

  “Don’t go there. Seriously. I made a promise, remember. After Terry…?”

  Minogue had underestimated how hot under the collar Malone had become. It was another sign of the stress he was under. The anniversary was around this time of year too. Malone’s twin brother was gone four years now. The post mortem could not reveal if Tommy Malone’s suspicions were true, that his brother had overdosed on heroin that was intentionally spiked.

  “Anyway,” said Malone after several moments. “There’s a gang war going on. Some gobshite wants to hang out with me on the job, so he can make a movie out of it. And now you want to poach on my sources.”

  “You couldn’t make this stuff up. Right?”

  Malone darted a glare his way: the goading was working too well.

  “Okay,” Minogue said. “You win.”

  “Win? Me bollicks. With you, a fella never wins. A sneaky fecker, is what you are.”

  “Am I still invited to the wedding?”

  “Don’t start, I’m telling you. That on top of all this? What else could there be?”

  “I could pass on Jimmy boy’s musings on Irish life and society, a bit about the funeral there.”

  Malone’s face turned sombre.

  “You know, I would have gone. Really I would have. After seeing what she did with those kids there in Ronanstown, and the art classes? But I tell you, I’m living in a car the past few days, waiting to see who gets it next. Trying to get a step ahead.”

  “And are you?”

  Malone’s face now took on the mask of the mordantly skeptical Dubliner.

  “Just between you and me,” he muttered. “N. O. www.wedon’tknow whatthehellishappening. ie. Or. com. Whatever. Ever been to that site?”

  “Well I won’t tell you how often, will I.”

  “Rumours, that’s the best we can do. And that’s from all the millions and millions thrown into the, er War on Drugs, bejases. Rumours. Hearsay. ‘A fella told me that a fella told him that…’”

  Malone rolled his eyes, and then rubbed hard at them. He opened his eyes abruptly and eyed Minogue.

  “The latest one is that someone brought in people from the outside, some hit men. ‘Pros.’ Paying them for results. ‘A clean sweep’ is the story. ‘Things was getting’ out of hand…’”

  “Things are always out of hand, Tommy.”

  Malone looked away, testing his vision.

  “Yeah, well it doesn’t take much, does it. The rats are all under the bed now. Can’t get any info at all. Phones not answered, stools empty in the pubs, nothing stirring.”

  He turned abruptly to Minogue then.

  “Jesus, but you’re getting me all depressed now, thinking about it. Sidetracking me there. Get back on track, I say.”

  “On the double.”

  “Well what’s the story with you here?”

  “Let me give you some names of places,” Minogue said. “For starters. North wall. Sherriff Street. Custom House Quay. Do they figure in your line of work?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  “Castleforbes Road?”

  “Plenty going on there too, all right. That’s where they found your man, I take it. The Polish fella?”

  Minogue nodded. Behind him, the barista began clearing the filter holder from the espresso machine. Malone ten
sed.

  “Headache, have you?”

  “Not yet. That banging your man is at there, it sounded like something else.”

  A man entered then, smiled broadly and called out in Spanish to the man making the coffee.

  Something had made Malone grin.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “Nothing,” said Malone. He shook his head, sat back, and chortled softly. Minogue couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him laugh.

  “I’d like to try some of that ‘nuttin’ of yours so,” Minogue said.

  “Okay. You ready? Has Hughes tried to figure out if there is a Polish Underworld here in Dublin, then?”

  “That’s funny, I suppose. Or maybe you’re overdue a holiday.”

  Malone sighed and sat up. “Why not,” he said. “Everyone else’s gangsters are here.”

  The coffee arrived.

  “It is good to be happy,” said the waiter, beaming. “Everyone must be happy, no?”

  Minogue looked up at him. “It’s true for you,” he said. He turned to Malone again.

  “What goes on in that area at night?”

  “What doesn’t. Do you mean a concert at The Point? You get the same people showing up here you get at any event. Push, pedal, pimp. Car thieves, pickpockets, junkies, pushers. Gobshites, gangs, gougers.”

  “There was nothing going on that night, at the Point.”

  “The Point? When’s the last time you were there?”

  “Years.”

  Minogue tested his coffee. Promising — but way too hot. He put it back on the saucer.

  “Kathleen does be there a bit, the job, she’s in apartments, that class of thing. Rentals and sales. It’s the coming area.”

  Malone nodded, as if that were something he wished to know before. Across from them the boy began talking to the girl, but she remained listless and indifferent. Bright light flooded the street, but the rain had still not stopped. Malone stopped stirring his coffee. Just as Minogue was concluding that he had been transfixed by the spoon, or by his own thumbnail, he looked up.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll check in what I was at here. We’ll head over in your car?”

  “I don’t want to take you away from your thing here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, tell you the truth, my fella’s not going to show. It’ll be a while before they’re back on their perches, this crowd. All the goings on has them hiding under their beds.”

  The barista and his newly arrived friend were having a great laugh. A middleaged woman with a sun-bed tan came in, smiled at the barista, took a table, and opened her phone. Minogue stole a quick look at her shoes. Malone winked and made a small nod in her direction. Minogue feigned disbelief. A knocking-shop here? Malone nodded again twice, a twitch of amusement playing about his mouth.

  The coffee was decent.

  Minogue asked Malone about the plans for the honeymoon. Sonya was too excited, Malone related. She couldn’t believe he had agreed to a week in Paris. Malone couldn’t either. Minogue asked him if he had heard of Kilmartin’s remark about a slow boat to China. Sooner China than frigging Mayo, was Malone’s take on that. He asked Minogue for some phrases in French: You’re the waiter, I’m the customer, so stop acting like a snobby bastard or I’ll knock your head off, you poof. Brief was best, Minogue tried to explain, and Con was the word to use, if you wanted a scap. Malone asked about hand signals then. The talk passed on to places to visit in Paris.

  The girl was crying as they left. The barista was talking to the tanned woman. The footpaths outside were greasy and shining.

  They stopped by the Octavia.

  “Leave it, Ger,” Malone said in the window to the driver. “They’re gone to ground for sure.”

  The driver looked annoyed, and relieved. Malone turned back to Minogue.

  “I’ll do what I can in the matter,” he said.

  Minogue was not sure if it was mock formality at all. He saw Malone dip his head, and look up under his eyebrows at him.

  “All that’s reasonably possible.”

  Chapter 17

  Fanning steered the car around the parked cars cluttering up the estate, and up toward Bird Avenue and the Goatstown Road beyond. He did not look back. If he did, he believed he’d have seen Brid at the window, watching him leave. She had tried to pretend she wasn’t annoyed, convincing herself perhaps. Certainly not him. He had to go see Murph, he told her; an opportunity he shouldn’t miss. He’d be home in an hour, an hour and a half.

  What he didn’t tell Brid was that he was more than glad of an excuse to get out for a pint. For some reason, he wanted more than a few pints this evening. Maybe it had something to do with wanting to wash away the confusion he had brought home with him after that dog fight.

  He stared into the red traffic light as the car came to a stop, and fell to speculating again when he’d ask Brid to go away with him for a night at least. It’d be a proper date: babysitter for Aisling, a dinner reservation, meet up with friends, if that’s what Brid wanted. It was too important to postpone.

  They could talk about anything and everything that way, no holds barred, and most importantly where they were headed — as a couple, as parents, in their work. He’d bring up the unthinkable, getting out of Dublin to try the continent again: Berlin, Copenhagen. Amsterdam. The South of France even. They needed to remember that they were not just another set of suburban clones, doing the family thing and the 9 to 5. Well, her 9 to 5, anyway.

  Maybe that was it, he thought then: farmers versus cowboys. Simple enough really. Brid wanted a real home, and she wanted more kids before it was too late. She wanted a provider. She couldn’t admit these things to herself. Even if she could, she wouldn’t want to tell him that because she knew she would unsettle him. And on the other side of the equation, he wanted…?

  The lights changed.

  The interior of the car had warmed up, and Fanning became more aware of the flowery scent of baby powder that was always in the car, and how it blended with the stale rankness of milk spills that were already baked into the upholstery. Stains on the dashboard, dust. Soon he was in sight of Ranelagh village.

  Galloping Hogan’s was one of the newer pub makeovers here. He saw no sign of Murphy’s pimp-mobile white BMW. He let Murph’s words play back in his thoughts again: “He wants to meet you, he who can help with your project.”

  “Help you with your project.”

  Well that was scripted, for sure. Murphy didn’t talk like that. He probably didn’t even think like that. But Murph wouldn’t answer any of his questions during the phone call When Fanning had told him he was needed at home with his family, Murphy had pounced on him. He had to come, he just had to. The opportunity of a lifetime. Fanning let himself believe that the tension in Murph’s voice was from anticipation of some coup.

  A Range Rover was leaving, with two men in suits laughing about something. Fanning took their spot.

  Galloping Hogan’s was doing good business for this time of evening. The big screen was on Sky, but it wasn’t loud. Iraq again.

  Murphy was suddenly beside him.

  “Okay,” he said, “about time.”

  Fanning tried to settle on what was different about Murphy’s features. He looked older, tireder? Maybe it was the light.

  “So where’s this fella, this exciting pal of yours?”

  “He’s not actually a pal. He’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Is he someone I’d know?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Murph’s eyes moved around the room. Fanning saw he was biting his lip.

  “I’m not sitting around, waiting for anyone,” he said.

  “Just listen to what he has to say, okay?”

  “Get him to email me.”

  “Don’t try to be funny about it.”

  “You’re telling me what to say now?”

  “Shut up,” said Murph suddenly. “Just shut up, will you. For once?”

  A threshold crossed, Fanning knew. Murphy wou
ldn’t meet his stare.

  “Okay,” Murphy said then, and straightened up.

  Fanning followed his stare. The man wore the same leather jacket, and even the same expression that Fanning had seen at the dog fight. He was light on his feet, loping gently more than walking. As he came closer Fanning saw that there were bags under his eyes and the beginnings of five o’clock shadow.

  “Quit staring,” Murphy hissed.

  Fanning watched the expression on Murphy’s face turn into a manic smile. A waft of cologne came to him, and he almost sniggered. Hadn’t everyone gone through that when he was fifteen or something?

  “Cully, man” Murphy said, clearing his throat. “Great to see you.”

  The man seemed to look to both sides of them. He drew to a stop, gave Fanning a quick look and nodded.

  “Okay,” said Fanning. “Sure — yeah, thanks. Okay?”

  Cully said nothing, but waited for Murph to go. Then he turned to Fanning.

  “You’re Dermot Fanning? Michael Cullen. Cully, people say.”

  No handshake was offered. Fanning gave him a howiya.

  “Buy you a drink there, Dermot?”

  The lack of eye contact irked Fanning.

  “Well I don’t know,” he said. “I’m thinking of heading home.”

  Cully nodded several times “It’d help you in your work, you know.”

  Fanning couldn’t place the accent at all yet. Cully gave him a glance, but quickly returned to his study of the mirrors behind the lines of bottles.

  Maybe he was just painfully shy, Fanning thought. Shy more than crazy.

  “Better than what you have now,” Cully added.

  There was definitely a Dublin accent buried in there somewhere, Fanning decided.

  The barman placed beer mats in front of them. Cully ordered a brandy and soda. Fanning shrugged, asked for a pint of Budweiser. Cully leaned his forearm on the counter, and turned to him.

  “You’re working on a project I hear.”

  “It’s at the research stage, yes.”

  “Research stage,” said Cully, as if it pleased him. He scratched at his palm with his baby finger.