The going rate imm-9

by John Brady

  Wall lowered his head a little and looked at his colleague before turning to Minogue.

  “Wouldn’t last long on remand up on Mountjoy,” he said. “Would they?”

  Minogue looked in the next cupboard for hidden biscuits.

  “That might be of some concern to the pair of them,” he said.

  “Jesus,” said Duggan quietly. “Ah sorry, Stoney. Sorry about that.”

  “Jesus what,” Minogue said, suddenly exasperated with the enforced piety. “We have two fellas stonewalling us.”

  He tried not to read any reproach into the pause that followed. Still, he felt a silent reproach from Wall for his use of the Holy Name.

  “What about consent?” Duggan asked then. “These young ones are fierce… you know? These days?”

  “A bit wild maybe,” Minogue agreed. “But I don’t see a thirteen-year-old girl consenting to sex, do you? I doubt her father would either.”

  Neither detective said anything.

  “Will you doctor your own tea lads?” said Minogue. “There’s only that lousy whitener stuff apparently.”

  “Thanking you,” said Wall.

  Minogue saw that Duggan was still thinking about it.

  “They might be able to laugh off a trafficking charge,” he said to Duggan. “But if either one of them has a titter of wit about them, they’ll know it’s time to deliver.”

  Duggan’s face took on a fixed expression.

  “I like it,” he murmured. “Yes I do. I like it.”

  Chapter 32

  “I don’t see him” said Fanning. “He didn’t come out of the house.” Cully was looking through the menus on his mobile.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “He’ll show.”

  Fanning was sure that Cully sensed that he was on the edge of panic. He tried to breathe through his mouth calmly. The rubber tang from the stick-ons was making him nauseous.

  “He’s late,” Fanning said. “Call it off.”

  Cully looked over.

  “You need to be patient,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”

  “This makeup stuff is the worst, I feel like puking from the smell.”

  “Ain’t you been around that stuff though? Your books thing, films?”

  Fanning ran his fingers around his cheekbones and his forehead again. The stuff felt like scabs.

  “I wouldn’t know you now,” said Cully. “I swear.”

  “That’s ironic.”

  “Ironic?”

  “Coming from you, I mean. I don’t know you, do I?”

  “That’s funny,” said Cully. “I like that, yes. Funny.”

  There was that English accent slipping in again, Fanning noted. He pulled the mirror open at the back of the visor. The interior light of the car was yellow.

  “See?” said Cully. “You’re a natural. It’s aged you ten, twenty years.”

  Fanning tilted his head to see if the grey had streaked or gathered in one spot. Cully reached between the seats and pulled a jean jacket from the floor.

  “Look, enough,” Fanning said. “This is not working out.”

  “No worries I said. He’ll be there.”

  “Is he watching us? Does he know we’re parked here on his road?”

  “No he doesn’t,” said Cully. “You have to change into these boots — and you’re using a hat, right?”

  “And if he doesn’t show up?”

  “He’ll show up. He does what he’s told.”

  “Who’s telling him?”

  “We’ll talk about that later. Use this.”

  He dropped a watchman’s hat on the console.

  “Do the boots outside, then we’ll go into the shop. Wear the glasses.”

  “I don’t want to wear glasses.”

  “These glasses have a tint to them. It shifts your eye colour a bit.”

  “‘Shifts?’”

  “I don’t know. Just wear them. Every little bit helps.”

  Fanning closed the mirror and pushed the visor back. He watched the headlights on the cars passing up the road. When the roads were dry, the reflection of their lights flooded the surface of the tarmac with a dull shine.

  “Is this a setup?” he asked Cully after a while.

  “What?”

  “I said, is this a setup.”

  He couldn’t tell if Cully was angry or amused.

  “A setup?”

  “Right. Are you a Guard? Like some undercover type?”

  Cully shook his head.

  “And I’m some kind of bait?”

  Cully eyed him.

  “You want to call it off then,” he said in a flat voice. “Right?”

  Fanning imagined himself stepping out into the damp night air, walking by the houses, their windows flaring and glowing with the televisions, and crossing the road to the shop.

  “What does this guy look like?” he asked Cully.

  “No idea,” said Cully. The abrupt shift to an almost pensive tone caught Fanning offguard.

  “Young bloke I imagine. His dad’s in the business, or was.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s doing time somewhere. Why do you need to know? Oh, right. ‘Background?’”

  “You’ve never seen this guy?”

  “The dad?”

  “No, the one who’s supposed to be at the shop.”

  “No. Why would I. None of my business really, is it. I just made the call. Got told where to go. That’s how things work.”

  “All to show me how I can get ahold of a gun in Dublin.”

  “Right. How easy it is.”

  Cully opened the door and left it slightly ajar. Fanning waited for him to look over.

  “I’d feel a lot better about this,” he said to Cully, “or at least, I could get it straight in my head, if I knew what was in it for you.”

  “What, for me?”

  “Yes, for you.”

  Cully seemed ready to smile.

  “Well you’re going to pay me right? Like Murph. Whatever the going rate for him is.”

  Shadows cast on Cully’s face, but the overhead light hit off his eyes.

  “Something tells me that you mightn’t be in it just for the money.”

  Cully leaned back against the door. Fanning was surprised to see a smile broke out on his face.

  “Well I have to say this film business thing interests me a little.”

  “I’m only doing research.”

  “Have to start somewhere, right? But what I’m saying is, I was always interested in films.”

  “Who isn’t,” said Fanning. “Pirates of the Caribbean, right?”

  “War films actually.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why ‘of course’? Are they not good enough? Ever see The Thin Red Line?”

  “Okay, so you want to be Colin Farrell. Fine.”

  Cully let the quiet last.

  “You’ve got stagefright,” he said at last.

  “That’s what. Blathering away there. Trust me, you’re safe as a house. He’s not going to make you. And you don’t even have to say a word, do you. Just buy those fags, and let him hear you. Pay for them — we’re not doing robberies, remember. Then you meet him outside, you take the bag — and then it’s pip-pip, over and out.”

  “If he wants to talk, or ask me questions?”

  “He won’t.”

  “Or asks me for money now?”

  “Won’t happen.”

  The draft of night air flowing into the car carried a faint smell of coal smoke.

  “And yes,” said Cully. “I’ll be parked here. Where we said. Promise.”

  “Well at least you’re enjoying yourself. Easy for you to sit here.”

  Cully spoke in a quiet voice.

  “Look. It’s no big thing. Just relax.”

  “That’s Murph’s script too: just relax.”

  “Really. Well let me tell you something. If Murph said ‘relax,’ then that’s when you should worry. Now when I say it, I mean it. You’re in good hands.�
��

  “How do I know?”

  “Murph would have dragged you into a lot of situations. I’m telling you.”

  Fanning elected for silence. He tried to ignore the pungent scent of the glue working its way into his nostrils again for another assault on his patience.

  “And the thing is,” Cully murmured, “you wouldn’t have known, would you. Until it was too late.”

  Chapter 33

  Ali Rogers had the regulation tight clothes and half-on blouse over a tank top, and the too-small jeans. She sat hunched over; spoke only in whispers; never looked up; continued to pick at her hair. The kewpie-doll hank of hair tied up on the right side of her head disturbed Minogue. Child or vamp, was the message he was receiving from it.

  Her father had a glazed look in his eye, and was breathing hard right from the start. He was often given to staring at her, sometimes breaking his stare to look up at the ceiling and then allowing his gaze to settle back on to the bloated, blotchy face of his daughter.

  Mrs. Rogers, Margaret, was intense, and held herself away from the chair back. She was half her husband’s size. She wore the same type of leather jacket as he did. Minogue tried to remember if she were thirty-five or thirty-six. He didn’t know if it was makeup or a sun-bed tan she had.

  Another Garda, Maeve Dwyer, had come in for the interview. She stayed in her civvies. The quiet in the room soon became oppressive.

  “Tell the man, Ali,” said her father.

  The mother glared at him.

  “Was it Aidan’s idea?” Minogue asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Justin’s?”

  Again she shook her head.

  “Yours? Tara’s?”

  This time she made no movement but stayed hunched in her chair.

  “Come on love,” said her mother.

  The girl’s voice was a little hoarse.

  “I said, already.”

  “You said nothing,” said the father. His jacket creaked as he re-crossed his legs.

  Garda Dwyer gave Minogue a glance. For a moment he wondered if Women’s Aid training courses for the likes of Garda Dwyer had included how she should be taking down very large, irate Dublin men like Rogers.

  “Ali,” said Minogue. “Can you see where we’re coming from? A man was beaten up, and now he’s dead. Why would he be beaten up and all his valuables just left there, the way you’re trying to tell us?”

  “He was,” she said.

  Her lips were almost sticking together now with a line of dried saliva.

  “He was…? He was dead, are you saying?”

  “I suppose, I don’t know.”

  “Why did you think he was dead?”

  “He wasn’t moving,” she whispered.

  “Was he breathing?”

  “I don’t know. There was blood.”

  She nodded and she opened up her hand to let out a balled-up tissue.

  “Because Aidan-”

  “No! Stop saying that!”

  The father leaned in suddenly with an ominous creak of leather.

  “Didn’t I tell you? Stop trying to protect those two fu-”

  Minogue raised his hand. The girl’s father stopped and looked down at his wife’s hand with an expression of disgust.

  “Leave her, Paddy. Just leave her.”

  “I’m not going to sit here and watch her digging her own grave, am I!”

  “She’s not,” said the mother, with her effort at patience clear in how she was holding her breath. “Just leave her. We’re here to do what’s right.”

  “This is only helping those bastards!”

  Minogue wasn’t sure who he had meant. He kept his eyes on the girl. Her eyes moved from side to side but her face remained slack. The red streak and the highlights in her hair kept reminding Minogue of some exotic bird.

  “This is a farce,” the father snapped. “A farce entirely.”

  “Would you shut up,” said the mother. “Excuse me, but would you just for once? What good are you doing with the carry on of yours?”

  “I know what I’d like to do,” he retorted. “That’s one thing I do know. And by Jesus, if it comes to that, no better man.”

  The mother rolled her eyes. Minogue saw her chin quiver.

  “Mr. Rogers.”

  Narrowed eyes turned to Minogue.

  “This can’t work if you carry on like that.”

  “Carry on? The pot calling the kettle black here, I’d say. I’m not the one dragged a little girl into a police station near midnight, to question her. Am I?”

  Minogue saw that Garda Dwyer had taken a step closer to Rogers.

  “Yous are the ones screwing things up,” said Rogers. “I know what I’d do with those two, those two… scumbags. They’d be telling me what I needed to know. Right quick they would too, oh yes.”

  “We’re obliged to protect everyone’s rights in this, Mr. Rogers.”

  Rogers opened his eyes wide, sat back, and gathered the ends of his jacket on his lap. Minogue had no difficulty recognizing the Dublinman’s sign of contempt.

  “Rights?” said Rogers. “Now there’s a good one. A funny thing, those ‘rights’ of yours. You ever notice that the only time you hear that word is for other people? It’s never for ordinary people like us. Always for the what-do-you-call-ems, the asylum types, and the refugees and all, always for foreigners. Oh yes — it’s all about their rights, the Muslim crowd and their school, or getting a house for someone from fecking I-don’t-know-where in Africa…”

  “This has nothing to do with why we’re here,” said Minogue.

  “Like hell it hasn’t. What’s he doing here, that fella who got us all into this mess? Have you thought about that, have you?”

  Minogue tried to absorb what he had heard. He saw a pained look spread across Rogers’ face, a man at the outer limits of reasoning, already sensing that he could not ever convince the people around him.

  “I mean to say,” he said, almost in a whisper, “what’s a fella from Poland doing down those streets that time of night?”

  Mrs. Rogers’ gaze had settled on the tabletop, but her chest was heaving. Minogue knew her peripheral vision was scanning the situation. He looked back at her daughter. Shoulders turned in, ragged parting in her hair revealing a white scalp. Fourteen; a hormone hurricane; cub of the Celtic Tiger.

  “Mr. Rogers,” he said. “I’m going to ask you to leave the room.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be leaving too,” said Minogue.

  “Do what you like. I’m her father.”

  Minogue gave it a few moments until he felt the tension was sufficient.

  “Her mother will stay, as will Garda Dwyer here. Garda Dwyer is-”

  “-the law is the law.”

  “Garda Dwyer is trained in working with youth, and women.”

  Rogers’ jacket made a squeak as he shot forward from the chair.

  “What? What’s this? What are you getting at?”

  “I’ll explain to you outside.”

  “You won’t.”

  “All right. I won’t.”

  “If it’s what I think it is, that’s why I’m here. I’m her father, I told yous.”

  “I do get it,” said Minogue.

  “This is my daughter we’re talking about! My daughter!”

  Minogue eyed the jabbing finger, the reddening face, and then he looked over to Rogers’ wife. She hadn’t budged. He took his cue from her and took his own turn examining the tabletop. He’d give it a count of five. While he waited, he replayed Rogers’ angry outburst. Daw-thar, muy, daw-thar. There was a sure sign of alarm, and panic, in Rogers’ outburst.

  The count was up. Minogue sat back and put his hands on the chair rest. He looked directly at Rogers.

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” said Rogers.

  “I’m trying to get you to have a cup of tea is what I’m trying to do.”

  “I’ll kill him,” said Rogers. “Them, predators they are.”


  The signals from Garda Dwyer were steady now. For a moment, he imagined her flooring Rogers with some super-specialized karate kick. Unlikely. “You’re under a lot of stress, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “But that remark you made is on tape.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t.”

  Minogue stood and stepped around to the back of his chair. Casting a wary glance at Rogers, he was almost surprised to see that Rogers’ eyes were brimming with tears. He was indifferent to it, however. He saw that fourteen-year-old Ali Rogers was now a lot less slumped, and that she was even looking through a fringe of hair out at her father.

  Rogers sobbed only once. He held his forefinger under his nose. He stumbled on the chair leg as he left the room. Neither mother nor daughter said a word.

  Minogue heard Garda Dwyer begin her talk just as he pulled the interview room door closed.

  Rogers leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

  “It’s tough,” Minogue said. “Very tough.”

  Rogers nodded. He wiped away tears with his forefinger and thumb.

  “We’ll do the best we can.”

  Rogers let out a deep breath and shook his head. Minogue imagined Rogers at work on that massive tunnel under Dublin Port. Some huge piece of equipment wielded effortlessly no doubt, hell-for-leather and proud of the new Ireland he was building too, probably. Had he been there at the face of the tunnel, Minogue wondered, and cheered as the last of the rocks and clay crumbled and the other crew’s faces appeared? He’d made good money on the job, a man of Rogers’ skills. A good provider, Minogue would bet. A little pity leaked into him now.

  “Donegal Rogers?” he asked.

  “What? I mean, pardon?”

  “It’s a Donegal name you have. The Rosses, Gweedore?”

  Rogers’ face eased a little.

  “No, no,” he murmured and he sniffed. “Sort of wish I was though. My da’s da was Donegal. Annagary. But that’s a long time ago.”

  “Donegal is still there,” said Minogue. “I checked last September in person. Sure enough, there it was.”

  “It was, was it.”

  “Bloody Foreand, Glenties. All that, and more. God’s country.”

  Rogers let out another long, deep breath and he settled his head more against the wall. He looked at the ceiling tiles.

  “I wish to Christ I was there, yes. I haven’t been in years.”