The good life imm-5

by John Brady

  “You think I did it on purpose?” he muttered to the barman. The barman stared at him.

  “Well, do you?” His voice was louder than he’d expected.

  “Get off the premises, now. Or I’ll call the Guards.”

  He was moving toward the door, a bit dizzy but full of the strength his anger had brought. Out in the street with the door swinging behind him he stopped and stood. Two women with shopping bags gave him a wide berth. The sunlight hurt his eyes. He began walking but blundered into a teenager.

  “Hey,” said the teenager. He thought about turning back and giving him a rap in the snot.

  He spotted a phone box at the corner of the next street. Some pages of the Dublin phone book had been torn out but he found the Guards’ one. He took out his change and placed the coins on a ledge. He lit a cigarette, shoved in the coins and dialled.

  “Yeah?” he replied to the voice. “Which of yous does murders and stuff?”

  Malone was doubtful. He pulled at the hair sticking up over his forehead.

  “I’m not the expert,” he said.

  “You look the part,” said Minogue. Malone gave him a sidelong glance.

  “Thanks very much,” he said.

  “We can’t go together anyway. So go on in and get what you can.”

  Malone moved off reluctantly from the car. He pushed open the door and moved around the partitions to the deeper recesses of the pub. A tall man with thinning light-blond hair turned on his stool. On his own it looked, Malone thought, a pint of beer in front of him. Blondie gave him the once-over and nodded. Malone slid onto a stool and ordered a pint of lager.

  “Howiya,” said Blondie. “Was it you phoned?” Dub accent, but not the real thing, Malone decided. Late thirties. He looked like a clapped-out pop star.

  “Yeah. I was looking for, you know. Did you bring any?”

  “Any what?”

  It flashed through Malone’s mind that the one from the modelling agency might have tipped Blondie off. Why would he show up then?

  “You know yourself, like.” He shrugged and glanced down at the floor. No bag. Blondie took a slow drink from his glass. Malone paid the barman and started into his pint. He felt the eyes on him while he drank. Maybe he should act like a creep.

  “Well, what sort of stuff are you into?”

  Malone kept at the pint for several seconds.

  “Well, I’m kind of into sports a bit. You know?”

  “Sort of figured that,” said Blondie. His face stayed blank. He continued to stare at Malone. “You’re either a fucking cop or a fucking gangster.”

  “I could be a fucking priest too, couldn’t I?”

  Blondie’s stare was unblinking.

  “So who do you know?”

  Malone looked from the row of bottles back into the man’s stare.

  “Painless. Painless Balfe? Lollipop Lenehan. Them.”

  His gamble seemed to register in Blondie’s eyes. Was he going to smile? No.

  “That’ll cost you.”

  “What?”

  “Extra, that’s what.”

  “So?”

  “If you’re into the same stuff as those guys. It costs money to play rough, pal.”

  “Well, I’m not totally into that, man. I mean, there’s lots of stuff, right?”

  Blondie’s eyes glazed over. He looked around the pub.

  “I’m not a fucking shopping centre, pal.”

  “Well, all I want is to get an idea of what stuff I can get.”

  “You want rough trade. What else?”

  “Christ, I don’t know.”

  “You’re new, are you?” He swilled the beer around in his glass.

  “Well, I like the outdoors and stuff,” said Malone.

  “The outdoors.‘ Motorbikes? Farm shit? Girl-girl? Black and yellow? I don’t care what you’re into. Just make up your mind.”

  The anger rose up in Malone’s chest.

  “Well, I like them to look like, you know. Girls you’d meet. Next-door types, I suppose.”

  “Ugly, you mean.”

  “Well, I mean… I just broke up with someone. She wouldn’t, you know. Turned her off and stuff, like? If I could find ones that remind me or, well, look a bit like her.”

  He stopped. The blond-haired guy was eying him again.

  “So you’re going for a resemblance or something, is it?”

  Malone let go of his glass.

  “You looking to leave through that fucking window, pal, just keep talking like that. All I fucking said was-”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Relax. So you’re not the expert. Okay, okay.”

  Malone settled back in his stool. Blondie finished his glass and slid off his stool.

  “So how is Painless anyway?” he said.

  “Same as ever. You know yourself.”

  Blondie gave a half-hearted grin and dipped his chin to release a gassy belch.

  “Come on then.”

  Malone gulped more lager and followed him.

  Minogue followed the two men’s progress with one eye open until they turned the corner. Then he started up the Citroen, reached for the phone and let it rest in his lap. A bus let him out. He made the turn down toward Mount Street and cruised by on the far side of the street. The blond-haired fella didn’t seem to be bothered. He moved quickly. Malone kept up with him. Minogue placed them in the side mirror as he passed. Minogue stopped at the end of the block and took a torn manila envelope from the back seat. With the phone in his pocket, he stepped out onto the curb and began looking up at the office windows and down at the envelope.

  Blondie stopped by a Celica and squeezed a remote. The sidelights flashed on the car and Minogue saw him nod Malone over to the passenger side. Minogue put on his best pissed-off look and got back in the Citroen. He dithered with the phone. Was the blond guy going to take off or do the business there and then? He adjusted the mirror and deciphered the registration plate. He clicked the call button and stared at the Celica while he waited. It looked as if the sky had been pasted on the windscreen. Damned tinted glass or something: he couldn’t even see an outline through it..

  “Ah, Eilis, a stor. Key in this car number, will you. I’m in a wicked hurry.”

  “Fire away then, can’t you.”

  He stared at the Celica, willing it not to move. Maybe this Ryan gazebo had a mobile office full of smut. How was Malone playing it? Eilis’s voice sounded from his lap.

  “Yes, sorry, Eilis. I’m just staking something out here.”

  “Like the real police do? That’s nice. Here it is.”

  He scribbled on the envelope.

  “And it’s straight?”

  “Yes, indeed, your honour. All paid up and properly belonging to same.”

  “I’ll get back to you. Thanks.”

  The Celica hadn’t budged. Dermot Ryan, Howth. No record. He looked back down at the address. The Moorings was swanky, wasn’t it? Way to hell out in Howth. Malone was out of the car. He walked slowly along the footpath back toward Baggot Street. The Celica pulled out abruptly and was driven hard in the opposite direction. Minogue drove after Malone, passed him and turned on to Baggot Street where he pulled in. Malone took his time crossing the street.

  “Enjoy yourself?”

  “Not much,” said Malone. “He showed me a few magazines. German or Danish or something, asked if I wanted to get some.”

  “Can we can him, Tommy?”

  Malone breathed out heavily, making a whistling sound against his teeth.

  “He was vetting me. He says he’ll be back here in an hour. Same pub.”

  “Careful, so he is.”

  “Yeah,” said Malone. “He has his little car phone and all. Not the grubby little bollicks in a raincoat you’d expect.”

  “Dermot Ryan, Howth. He’s not the only fella in Dublin with a phone in his car.”

  A double decker bus slid by within six inches of Minogue’s mirror and let off its passengers.

  “Get this,” said Ma
lone. “He wanted references, if you don’t mind. I fed him Balfe and Lenehan. He knew their idea of fun too.”

  Malone’s head swivelled around and he looked into the Inspector’s eyes.

  “Rough stuff with girls.”

  Minogue noted the clouded look in Malone’s eyes.

  “Well, now,” he murmured. “Isn’t that the curious piece of information to be sure.”

  “Maybe I should have put the heavy hand on him in the car,” Malone said. “Then tossed the gaff out in Howth, see what turned up.”

  Minogue leaned heavier into the armrest and looked about the street.

  “We’ll see. Don’t be worrying.”

  The policemen fell silent for several moments.

  “Let me ask you something, Tommy. Patricia Fahy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think she’s good looking?”

  Malone looked over his shoulder at the Inspector.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not asking if you want to marry her. Do you think she’s good looking?”

  “I suppose.”

  Malone frowned.

  “You put her in the game too?” he asked.

  “What if?”

  Malone stretched.

  “It could explain why she’s clammed up, I suppose.”

  Malone began stroking his chin harder. “Who paid the rent, like.”

  Minogue nodded. Malone stopped rubbing his chin.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “About fifty things,” said Minogue. A fireball had been trapped where the small of his back met the seat. “All at the same time. Number one is to keep this going with Ryan.”

  “If he shows up here, he’s moved from just having it to selling it, right?”

  Minogue paused before answering.

  “That’s right. See what he can give you here on the spot. Or in the car. Then he’s ours if we want him.”

  “And if I think he’s holding out?”

  “Well, then, in my judgment, Garda Malone, Mr. Ryan is asking for it.”

  “Curse-of-god device,” Minogue grumbled. “You get so’s you actually depend on the thing.”

  Malone sipped at his coffee and nodded at the phone.

  “Beats playing Relevio on the radio,” he said. Minogue shifted in his seat.

  “Okay,” he said. “We have a crew waiting behind the ESB place.”

  He had moved the Citroen around the block into the shade of the Bank of Ireland.

  “Ryan has the office out in Howth. Weddings, school pictures, etcetera. I wonder if he does the smut himself or is he just a middleman.”

  Malone cleared his throat and spat halfway out into the street. Caught between admiration and revulsion, Minogue looked away. Boxing habit, he wondered.

  “Hope to God he doesn’t check up on Balfe and the other head banger,” said Malone. He checked his watch. “Uch. I’d better go out and try this stunt.”

  Minogue tapped him on the arm as he yanked the door handle.

  “Are you okay, Tommy? Even the slightest inkling he might turn Turk…”

  “What’s he going to do to me? I’m a big boy now.”

  “He might go haywire if you have to lay the card on him.”

  “Like hell he will,” said Malone. “I’ve got his fit. Mr. Semi-detached. Fuckin-excuse me, sorry. Bloody hair-do on him. Bet you he was never in a barney in his life.”

  “I’ll be on the street with the car.”

  Malone moved off down the path. Minogue pulled away from the curb. He coasted by the parked cars and pulled in within sight of the pub. No sign of the white Celica. He turned off the engine. Five minutes passed. His mind began to wander again. Weddings, Iseult. He let his head back on the headrest. There was a warren of streets here, lanes plenty wide for a car. He rubbed his eyes. The canal was behind those buildings there. He stopped rubbing and looked down at the sweaty pads on his fingertips.

  The white car coming down the street had dark windows. Minogue stayed still and watched the Celica. Ryan stepped out of the passenger side and stood stooped in the open door talking to the driver. Then he slammed the door and strode empty-handed into the pub. Minogue saw the driver indistinctly behind a half-opened window: a man, sunglasses. The Celica drove off but came to an abrupt halt and was reversed into the curb. The driver got out and looked up and down the street. Mid-twenties, chunky and sunburned, liked his clothes. Film director gold-rimmed sunglasses. He strolled to the footpath, put a foot against the wall behind him and lit a cigarette.

  He eased away from the wall and began pacing slowly up and down the footpath. Occasionally he kicked at things he found in his study of the path. The head came up and the sunglasses swivelled with the head as he looked up the street. Minogue shoved his head back into the headrest, closed his eyes and let his jaw sag. He counted to six and allowed the eyelashes to part a little. The sunglasses were still facing his way. Bugger, he thought: sussed. He couldn’t look away. Sunglasses took out keys and opened the driver’s side. Minogue reached for the phone and glanced down to locate the memory button for Mobile Dispatch. He’d asked for the squad car to stay off the street. Sunglasses was winding up the window. He stepped back, slammed the door and set the alarm on the car. Minogue dithered and dumped the call. Sunglasses had sauntered into the pub. Minogue would go in after him himself.

  He eased the Citroen out onto the road, reversed and parked it across the front of the Celica. He walked around the back and stuck his face against the glass of the Celica’s hatchback. He shifted around and cupped his hands better against the reflections. He even tried standing back. All he could make out was his own disgruntled frown.

  The pub was air-conditioned. He let the door swing shut behind him and tried to adjust his eyes. A barman wearing a dress shirt nodded at him. Minogue moved through the pub, trying to remember if there were other doors out. There was a dozen or so customers but no Malone. He rounded a partition wall and saw Ryan walking away from the bar. Behind him he saw the driver, his glasses dangling in one hand. His other hand, fingers spread, was almost touching Malone’s chest. Malone’s eyes went from Minogue to the driver and back. He took a step but the driver blocked him. Ryan slowed and his eyes searched Minogue’s face. Malone said something to the driver. Minogue saw the splayed hand push at Malone’s chest, the sunglasses being flicked away from the other.

  Ryan’s mouth was open now. Minogue had his card up.

  “Ryan,” he said. “Hold your horses there, pal-”

  The driver’s hand flashed up but Malone was ready. His head darted across and down to one side and came up again. The sound of a grunt and breaking glass caused Ryan to look back. The driver’s legs were up and rolling across a low table.

  “You’re under arrest!” Malone called out. “I’m a Guard!”

  The driver wriggled off the table. Malone kicked him under the ribs as he came up. Ryan’s eyes bulged. Minogue pointed at a seat. Ryan said something but Minogue didn’t hear him.

  “Fucking stay there this time,” he heard Malone say.

  FOURTEEN

  Warrant for what?”Minogue asked. Ryan looked over at the squad car. The Guard standing by the open door, a red-haired recruit with pimples and a mobile jaw, looked to Minogue for guidance. Ryan’s sidekick-and Minogue recalled the tremendous kick that Malone had given him-sat next to another Guard in the back seat.

  “It’s my car,” said Ryan.

  “Of course, it’s your car, Mr. Ryan. That’s why I’m going to examine it.”

  “I haven’t done anything. Charge me.”

  “All right,” said Malone. “Assaulting a police officer in the course of his duties.”

  “I didn’t touch him! Matter of fact it was him did the-”

  “Resisting arrest,” said Minogue.

  “Obstruction of a Garda off-” Malone added.

  “Oh, come on,” Ryan gasped. “You must be fucking joking!”

  “Swearing,” Minogue went on.

  “Wha
t?”

  “Breach of the peace,” said Malone.

  “I’m going to fucking phone a solicitor!”

  “More cursing and swearing.”

  “It’s my right to call one!”

  “Fire away-but don’t use that car phone. We have to impound it too.”

  “I’ll go to another phone then.”

  “Phone from the station,” said Minogue. “But only after we have full confidence that the call you make won’t allow related criminal and indictable acts to be concealed or engaged in.”

  Ryan began to say something but stopped himself. Minogue studied the patterned shirt. Fifty quid, he guessed.

  “You can’t do this,” Ryan said. “It’s entrapment!”

  The Guard holding the door of the squad car shifted his feet.

  “Let us into the car, Mr. Ryan,” said Minogue. “The stuff you brought.”

  Ryan looked at the Garda by the open door, sighed and held his hand out. Minogue handed him the keys he had taken from the heavy. He nodded at the Garda. “Go ahead there. Hold him on assaulting a Garda in the course of. We’ll be in touch by tea-time.”

  The alarm beeped once and the door locks popped up.

  “Get in the back there,” said Malone, “and start handing us the goods.”

  The interior smelled of a soapy aftershave. Minogue took in the leather seats, the sound system, the phone from Star Trek. He sat behind the wheel. There were tapes of rock groups he’d never heard of.

  “Nice,” said Malone. He took a folder from Ryan. “How’d you pay for it?”

  Ryan folded his arms and looked out the window.

  Minogue began leafing through a photo album. He wondered but didn’t much care about whether Ryan or Malone would notice his reactions. He realized that he was holding his breath and he made the effort to breathe normally.

  “Christ,” said Malone to nobody. “Nothing they won’t do?”

  “It’s a private collection,” said Ryan. “That’s perfectly legal.”

  “A collection of privates, you mean,” said Minogue.

  The Inspector didn’t always look at the faces first. The fake smiles began to get to him. The phony ecstasy, the make-up, the lie of beckoning, of need, clouded his lust more and more. There were few who didn’t look painfully amateur. Some couldn’t hide their shame. In others he thought he saw a fear beyond the feigned helplessness. It was Malone who spotted Patricia Fahy first. There were two pictures of her. Her face was red, her eyes glistened. He exchanged glances with Malone.