Part 3 (1/2)
”Say I humour you what's the split?”
She wasted some time trying not to look shrewd.
”We take a joint credit. The money we cut fifty-fifty. You can share yours with moped boy.”
”Fair go. What do you want to know about Tony?”
”What do you know?”
I nodded at the clipping on the table.
”That hotel, it happened maybe five years ago. It was a total f.u.c.king mess.”
”Sheridan rushed the planning process through?”
”Not so fast. He turned up in the locals' corner, it's his ward and he lives up there. He made speeches about the environment, his grandchildren, endangered species. Couldn't have been greener if he was about to puke.”
”So?”
”So he got backing from the Greens up in Dublin, did a deal with some bog-trotting Independents who were looking for an abortion referendum. Went over the county manager's head, got an injunction. Happy days.”
”But the hotel was built.”
”Yeah, but two years later. Fianna Fail were back in power, holding a majority, they didn't need Tony's vote. No one's happy up at the lake, especially Tony, his place overlooks the site. But the deal's done.”
”You said the whole thing was a mess.”
”It was. Tony wasn't happy, but if the hotel was being built he wanted his cut. So he invested, same as a lot of people around here did. Other people, people who don't usually have a hundred large lying around, were cheesed off. Tony told them there'd be jobs going, gave them the spiel about tourism potential, locally generated revenue, the works. And when the big day arrives, Tony's out front cutting the ribbon. Three months later the first salmon goes belly-up, the hotel's pumping s.h.i.+t into the lake, quelle f.u.c.king surprise. The way it's going, you'll be able walk across the river in another year or two. Give it long enough and you'll have the foundations for another bridge, and they'll probably name it after Tony.”
She waited. I drank my coffee, built another smoke.
”That's it?”
”That's it.”
”That's the dirt?”
”Who said it was dirty? You took for granted it was crooked. All it proves is, Tony's a hypocrite.”
”He's a hypocrite. Big f.u.c.king deal.”
”It used to be.”
”Come down off the cross Harry, you'll get dizzy. Just tell me if you have anything on Sheridan. Is he dirty? Whoring around? Anything at all that might drive his wife to cut her own throat? Otherwise, you're wasting my time.”
I thought it over.
”Nope, I'm just wasting your time.”
She put the notebook down.
”I'm not going blow you, Harry, no matter how much you wave your d.i.c.k around. So get over it and do it fast. I made some calls. This hasn't broken yet but once it gets out we're buried, it'll roll all over us.” She checked her watch. ”Jesus, look at the time.”
”A date?”
She flicked her fringe, blew me a smacker that dripped acid.
”Split ends, Harry. A girl should always look her best.”
”In case the cameras arrive?”
”Exactly.” She packed her bag again, stood up. ”Cheers for the coffee.”
”Huzzah.”
I watched her go, sipping the coffee, mulling over the newspaper clipping, wondering why she had left it behind. Then I climbed the three flights of stairs to the office, hoping that somebody's dog had gone missing.
3.
The hum of Thai takeaway dumped in an ashtray let me know the office door was already open. Which meant B&E, not that breaking in would have taken a mastermind, the toughest part would have been not shaking the door off its hinges in the process. A fat kid could have broken in just by leaning on the frosted gla.s.s.
He'd have to be a pretty bored fat kid. The office contained a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet that boasted three files, two of them containing bills, paid and unpaid, and no prizes for guessing which was the thinner. The third file, the case file, was anorexic.
The fat kid was touching forty and not liking the grain, a Turkish wrestler sucked into a rust-coloured Armani. He had bulbous lips, a thick nose. The sallow skin looked like it needed a shave once a week. He had piggy eyes, small, black and dead, and his hair was heavily gelled, slicked down.
He nodded sociably as I walked in.
”Nice place,” he rasped. The words came short, fast and from the side of his mouth, like they were cheaper that way. I nodded back, friendly as a folk ma.s.s.
”Cheers. Who the f.u.c.k are you?”
”Relax, Jesus.”
”This is as relaxed as it gets. Too much coffee, a peptic ulcer, and the speed habit in my impressionable youth doesn't help. I'd ring the Doc but he's in drying out, second time this year, the smack complicates things and there's a lot of it about recently. So who the f.u.c.k are you?”
I knew who he was. Frank Conway, a real estate auctioneer who flogged second-hand motors on the side. A lot of people knew Frank Conway. He'd only been around town for eighteen months but he drove an '84 silver-grey convertible, a Merc SL, practically mint, the kind of motor gets you noticed. Still, we hadn't been formally introduced and the last thing I needed, the b.u.t.t of the .38 digging into my spine and Gonzo due home, was more trouble. And Frank Conway was trouble. Rumour had it, Frank's cars came across the border all pilled up and ready to party.
”Only reason I ask,” I added, ”is Monday's bin day and I'd hate for someone to mistake you for trash.”
He fed me a faint smile. He nodded at the sign, stencilled on the frosted gla.s.s: Harry J. Rigby, Independent Research Bureau.
”What's the J stand for?”
”It stands for get the f.u.c.k out of my seat.”
He stood up and stretched, letting me know he was as big as he thought he was. Moved slowly around the desk, settled in the other chair. I slid in behind the desk, set my fresh coffee down, rolled a loose one. He said: ”Ever get lost in here?”