by John Brady
Fanning couldn’t tell how much was sarcasm now. Cully shifted to third but misjudged the clutch, and the car staggered.
“Shitbox,” he said with little feeling. “Give me Jap any day.”
“Nondescript,” said Fanning. “Is that a clue?”
“Non — de…?”
“Ordinary.”
“That sounds about right,” said Cully. “Nothing wrong with being ordinary, is there. I mean it’s okay to stand out, don’t get me wrong, but for a good cause, see? Princess Di, Bono — that sort of thing.”
“Princess Di? You actually believe that, what you just said?”
“No.”
Cully made the light at Milltown Road. Fanning took out his notebook.
“Notebook?” Cully asked. “Like a reporter?”
“It’s too easy to forget stuff.”
Cully nodded as if in appreciation of the idea.
“Keep it on you all the time, do you?”
“Pretty well.”
“Just one?”
“One at a time.”
“I should do that,” said Cully. “Don’t trust all the online stuff, I have to say. But does your stuff, your job, have a lot of detail? Appointments, all that?”
“Maybe not as much as yours,” said Fanning.
“Nice,” said Cully. “Nice way of asking.”
The excitement in Fanning’s chest had settled. He had expected Cully’s evasions. He wasn’t an iijit.
He began to jot down some notes, scribbling intentionally:
— no bling
— takes care (driving, appearance, etc.)
— not defensive.
He couldn’t imagine Cully sitting around a pub with a bunch of thugs. What could he have instead of Tony Soprano’s restaurant and bakery routine?
“What does a fella do for entertainment?” he asked Cully.
Cully turned to him with a half-amused expression. In the oncoming lights Fanning caught sight of a line of shiny skin that ran under Cully’s eyebrow.
“Not too shy about your questions tonight, are you.”
Fanning took this as praise.
“Part of the job,” he said to Cully. “If you want to tell me things, you will. If you don’t, well you won’t.”
“It’s a free country and all that, right?”
“So they say.”
“It’s free if you’ve got money,” said Cully. “I mean look at this place. Rathgar. One mill, two mill, for a house here? But not too free when you’re not on the winning side.”
“You mean poor?”
“You use that word, do you? I’ve only been hearing dictionary words myself, like, well — you probably know them better. Underprivileged?”
“Marginalized.”
“That’s one. First time I heard it I thought margarine. Is that what poor people have to eat? What’s so bad about that?”
Fanning scribbled the word “margarine” in his notebook.
“Are you going to use that? I don’t want to look stupid.”
“No. It’s just a remark, for atmosphere. Ambiance.”
“See, you left me right there, with words like that. That’s something I could never do, I could never remember all those words.”
“Was it hard-going for you at school, when you were a kid?”
“That’s a weird question. Did you ask Murph questions like that too?”
“Sure, I did.”
“And what did he come up with?”
“Not much, to be honest.”
“What a surprise there. Anything he did tell you was fantasy. Whatever he thought he could get away with. You know?”
“Possibly.”
“Oh, I guarantee it. Yes, I do.”
Cully geared down for a light in the middle of Rathgar. He looked around at the parked cars, the pubs, and the restaurants.
“Lambo,” he murmured, “over there. Lamborghini, a Diablo. AMG Mercedes a few down, see by that gate? Uh-oh a yellow Porsche. The killer one. Let me see if I can spot one ordinary car around here.”
“You know a lot about cars?”
“I like them, is all.”
“Are those ones easy to boost?”
Cully made a long blink and he looked over.
“‘To boost?’“
“To rob. To steal.”
“Well, listen to you,” said Cully. “Cheeky.”
“Well? Are they hard to steal?”
“How would I know that?”
Cully drove through the green light onto Terenure Road.
“Where are we going?” Fanning asked. “You said on the phone that you’d be stopping off at a few places.”
“Do you know Kimmage at all?”
“Not much. Do you?”
This time, Fanning sensed annoyance in Cully’s glance. Several seconds passed. It was long enough for Fanning’s glow of pride at surprising Cully to subside.
“Cashel Road,” said Cully then. “A road off that. I have to meet a man. Give him a message, collect something.”
“Is it anything like the message you gave those two this afternoon?”
“Those two drug dealers? The pair from Siberia?”
“Siberia?”
“Well how do I know?”
“Eastern Europe?”
“Something like that I suppose.”
“Were you paid to do what you did?”
“I do what I have to do,” he said.
To Fanning, it was as though Cully had expected the question sooner.
He seemed to know the area well enough, steering the BMW with ease by the bends and the parked cars.
“This is Murph’s playground here,” he said in an almost cheerful voice then. “Kimmage. Did you know that?”
“Well, he grew up here.”
“So he’d be wised up, you could say.”
“I suppose.”
“So he wised you up then. Not to shower people with questions.”
“He did mention to mind my manners. Words to that effect.”
“Too bad he doesn’t practise what he preaches himself.”
He drove on, each turn of the wheel and gearstick fluid and expert now, it seemed. His eyes went to all the mirrors often, expertly, easily. He coasted to the lights at Fortfield Road, and put on his indicator. It was a long traffic light.
“What did you mean about Murph?” Fanning said.
“‘Practise what you preach’ stuff? Or about him and his rubbish ideas?”
“Both. Either.”
Cully looked over.
“Bet you’re wondering about Murph, aren’t you.”
“Sort of.”
“You know he was a complete spoof, right?”
“I let him just run with it. Took some of what he said with a grain of salt.”
“Okay. I mean how could you check on anything he told you anyway, right?”
“That’s about it.”
“I mean can you see yourself sitting across the table from some cop?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I’m not saying you would. But it’s common sense, isn’t it? How would you know what Murphy said is true, any of it?”
“Well it’s fiction I’m aiming for.”
“Right, of course.”
Fanning wasn’t sure if Cully was baiting him again.
“Either way, you’ll get nothing good off of him,” Cully said. He accelerated quickly to get through the junction ahead of an oncoming van.
“Murph’s out of this line of work. My suggestion.” “But he loaned you his car.”
“Yes he did.”
“And his phone.”
“Yup.”
“Very generous of him. I didn’t think he loaned out his car.”
“Well he did the right thing. I mean, he’s not a complete prat. A person needs to make amends, you know.”
“Amends for…?”
“It’s a few things. Carelessness.”
“For talking to me as well?”
/> Cully paused between gear shifts.
“Was that frowned on, him talking to me?” Fanning asked.
“Could be.”
“Whatever that means. ‘Could be.’”
“Let’s just say certain people thought Murph was out of order. Okay, we’re coming up to this place.”
Chapter 30
Cully pulled in behind a parked van and he shut off the engine. He left the keys in the ignition and placed his hands on the rim of the steering wheel, his fingers stretched out. A bus passed, almost empty. Cully seemed to be concentrating on something.
“Okay,” he said and tapped his fingers on the wheel. “What were we talking about again? Murph?”
“Yes we were.”
“All right. Murph’s in Marbella. That’s the deal.”
“Marbella?”
“Ever been?”
“No.”
“Good for you. It’s full of crims and blackguards, and their fat, tarty wives lying around on the beach, like bloody whales.”
“‘Blackguards? My grandmother used to use that word.”
“Really. Well write it down. Blags, blackguards. Thieves and suchlike.”
“That’s English.”
“That’s what we’re speaking, isn’t it.”
“You’re telling me Murph’s in Spain.”
“Right. It’s a good enough place to do some thinking, some penance for his sins, clean up his act, get advice.”
“It wasn’t the visit from Mr. Black-and-Decker then?”
For several moments Fanning thought he had gone too far.
“Where did you hear that kind of talk?” Cully asked quietly. “Murphy?”
“He said-”
“-there’s an example of what I’m talking about. Hasn’t a clue.”
“Well he said they used nail guns to kneecap those two fellas before Christmas, in Skerries.”
Cully shook his head and sighed.
“Let’s change the subject. You’re doing research. So you want background.”
“Right.”
“And you want it real, you say. Gritty. Okay, tonight’s your night. I set something up for you.”
“I’m not getting involved in stuff. I’m just observing.”
“That’s right. Here’s how it goes. Ever wondered how easy it is to get ahold of a gun here in Dublin?”
“Sometimes. A lot of it goes on, they say. ‘Rent a gun’?”
“You’re on the ball, I see. So you think anyone can just do it?”
“I have no idea,” said Fanning.
“You have to be in the know. Obviously. Have someone vouch for you. Like ‘Johnny told me to get in touch.’ Johnny being known to the bloke.”
“Johnny who?”
“That’s not funny. Johnny is the comeback if anything goes sideways. Insurance, in a way.”
“Johnny knows everything then. The go-to.”
“A phone call has been made, a certain person phoned and said there’d be a visitor who wanted something. This is where it gets done. Do you get it?”
“I think so.”
“The goods have been sent out to an address, with a person who will actually do the business, arm’s length, they say, don’t they?”
Fanning nodded.
“Make sense?”
“I suppose,” said Fanning. “Is it an organized thing, or just people doing their own thing?”
“Bit of both.”
“Does it go wrong?”
“I haven’t heard of it. People know people. So unless your client’s going to run away and hide in a hole in the ground for the rest of his life, there’s no point in dirtying the deal.”
“So you’re going to pick up a gun here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The change in tone was slight enough that Fanning was immediately alert. Cully’s eyes lingered on Fanning before drifting back to the windscreen.
“Have you ever handled a gun before?” he asked.
“No. Props, I have. And a starter pistol once or twice.”
“It’s not the same. When you have a gun in your hand everything is different. Not just different, I mean you don’t forget it. You remember how it felt, the weight of it. Thinking what it can do.”
“Even if you never use it,” said Fanning after a pause.
“Even if you never use it,” said Cully. “If you have to actually use it, then you screwed up.”
“Even as a last resort?”
“Well you shouldn’t be in that situation, should you. Like I said to you, it’s not a film where fellas go about waving guns and shooting everything. Talk to a copper who never has to draw a pistol in his whole career — that’s a smart cop.”
“Have they told you that?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. One told me that.”
“Here in Dublin?”
Cully turned on the ignition and he read the gauges and the clock.
“At least Murphy should have told you to pick your questions. Did he tell you how not to get people’s backs up?”
Fanning said nothing. Again he wondered how this confidence had come to him, how he could calmly carry on here in the car with this man. One part of him knew he was sitting beside a man who inspired fear in the likes of Murphy, but some other part of his mind was given over to some kind of calm audacity.
Cully switched off the ignition.
“Okay then,” he said. “I’m going to make a quick call.”
Fanning noticed that he dialled from memory. He wasn’t waiting long.
“Yep,” he said. “We’re here.”
He listened for a few moments.
“The shop?” he said then. “What kind again?”
Fanning made a smoking gesture. Cully nodded.
“Okay,” he said and hung up.
“Some kind of French cigarettes?” he said to Fanning. “He’ll be in the shop and he’ll hear you asking for the smokes. If they have them, go ahead and buy them. If not, go back outside anyway. He’ll follow you. That’s it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bloke, the goods,” said Cully and turned the ignition. “That’s how it’s done.”
“You said I was going to do it? Me?”
“What are we doing here? I don’t want the package, do I? It’s not me doing research, is it?”
“Who said anything about me doing stuff like this?”
Cully returned his stare calmy. Fanning caught himself then.
“It’s an exercise,” said Cully. “That’s all. So you know what you’re going to do in your story.”
“You’re not joking are you.”
“No I’m not. Look. I have stuff here for you will make it easier. A minute on, a minute off we call it.”
“I can’t go renting a gun, for Christ’s sake. End up in jail for ten years?”
Cully drew a plastic bag from under the seat.
“This is the real thing,” he said. “Film stuff, professional stuff. Moustache, the comb-in grey — look I even bought fake pimples.”
He dropped it in Fanning’s lap.
“Glasses in the glove compartment here,” he said. “Put on a scarf there from the back seat. Jean jacket there too.”
“What are you doing?” Fanning was able to say.
“Details,” said Cully briskly. “That’s all they are. People are stupid, what they remember. They don’t get height properly, or even a voice, but they end up holding on to stuff that’s useless. ‘He wears glasses.’ ‘He had bad skin.’ ‘He had a moustache.’ ‘He had a Chelsea scarf.’”
“You really think I’m going in there, and doing this?”
Cully turned his head to look at the dashboard, then back to Fanning. He spoke in a quiet voice.
“You’re not up to it.”
“Up to what? Up to insane?”
Cully shrugged.
“How are you going to get it right if you haven’t been there?”
“This has nothing to do with it.�
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“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes I’m sure.”
“I don’t know,” said Cully. “I don’t know about that. I see a bloke who’s always on the lookout, who notices things. A bloke with a notebook. Someone who has an eye for detail. I mean look at you, taking notes all the time.”
“Maybe I’ve gone about this all the wrong way,” said Fanning. “Have you as a consultant when I want to get it right on the set. But not to get me involved, actually committing crimes here.”
“Interesting,” Cully said. He took his hand off the gearstick and slowly rubbed his chin. “Very interesting.”
“You’re surprised?”
“Well I’d have thought, I’d have assumed like, that because you got started with Murphy and his, quote, research, that you’d be the fella for this. Not having a hairy, like. That you’d have a bit of bottle. Like you’d have a go at things.”
“This is a different thing, totally different.”
“Too real maybe?”
“That’s not it.”
“How can you make up stuff, believable stuff, if you’ve never stepped across that line?”
“Oh come on. There’s a whole ton of stuff wrapped up in that remark.”
“Like what? And why?”
“It’d take forever, no. Like what’s experience, or authentic. Appropriation of voice — tons of stuff. A mess. I don’t want to get into it.”
“Me neither. But isn’t that what makes a story good? Like people reading it, or watching it will know it’s the real thing?”
“There’s real, and there’s real stupid.”
Cully tapped on the gearshift slowly.
“I thought you were just trying to show me a few things,” Fanning continued. “A few examples. Places. Stories.”
“Oh I don’t do that,” said Cully. “Just facts. That’s it.”
“If I knew more about how you get to where you are, and what you do, that’d be really helpful.”
“There’s nothing worth talking about.”
“How can that be? You just take it for granted, that’s all. Not to me, though.”
“It’s the past. Who cares about the past, I say.”
“But you know the big people here. The families? I saw you at that thing, that fight, the dogs. They seem to know you. Murphy sure does. Loans you his car, yes sir, no sir.”
“Let me say something to you now,” said Cully.
Fanning focused on keeping his breath steady and quiet. He had already felt out the door release.
“This is no big deal,” Cully began. “This business here. Think about it. What could be easier? This bloke in the shop doesn’t know or care who you are. He’s got his guarantees, his insurance. And you won’t even be yourself for this. Slap on the stuff I brought, and go to the shop, follow him out and that’s it. He hands you some skin magazines in a plastic bag, and that’s that.”
