Part 23 (1/2)
She thought about it, maybe, while she was waddling away from the desk. I ran my finger down the day's entries, found nothing under the name of Frank Conway, which didn't mean a thing, even Frank Conway wasn't dumb enough to register in the Connaught Arms under his own name. There was only one entry for Christmas Eve though, and that had been booked in early.
I picked up the newspaper lying on the desk, retreated to the three-piece suite. I smoked and held the paper in front of my face, watching the front door, the double doors of the bar. The dragon came back, stood behind the desk and didn't look in my direction. I repaid the favour.
He arrived twenty minutes later, red-faced and puffing. He was wearing the same heavy tweed overcoat and flat checked cap, which he took off as he came through the door, smoothing down his wiry grey hair. Underneath the overcoat he wore a sky-blue V-necked pullover. He had a banana-yellow cravat tied loosely around his neck.
The dragon's face lit up when she recognised him but he just nodded, brusque, as he made for the bar. The dragon watched him go, crest-fallen. I sympathised. If you can't get a politician to say h.e.l.lo to you, then it's time to fold the tent. Tony Sheridan obviously had more on his mind than votes. I gave him a minute or two to get settled before I followed.
They were in the far corner of the bar, in wicker armchairs around a low table beside the artificial Christmas tree. Sheridan was holding forth, jabbing a stubby finger at Frank Conway. Frank was sitting forward, head bent towards Sheridan, nodding. Helen Conway was sitting upright with her back to the wall. She watched me the whole way across the bar without alerting the other two, treating me to a sardonic smile that was almost worth all the grief.
”The resourceful Mr Delaney,” she said. Sheridan turned, stared like a gutted fish. Frank Conway's eyes blazed. The Ice Queen's just twinkled merrily, as was their wont. ”Or should I call you Mr Rigby?”
”Call me whatever you want, Mrs Conway, but do call.”
”Ah yes, ever the gentleman. First you're an insurance salesman, then you're a private detective. Now you're a gentleman extortionist. You're a man of many talents, Mr Rigby.”
”Tell it to my agent. No brown envelope, Frank?”
Conway's expression didn't change. Tony Sheridan picked a mobile phone off the table, dialled a number.
”Put the phone away, Tone.”
He ignored me. I leaned forward, plucked the phone from his hand and dunked it in the G&T at his elbow. It fizzed slightly, and then nothing happened at all. He looked at the gla.s.s, then at me, and if one were more important than the other you'd have needed callipers to measure it. He got to his feet, looked at the Conways, blank as a sleepwalker.
”If you'll just excuse me...”
”If you're going to the bar, get me a coffee. If you're not, sit the f.u.c.k down.”
He stayed standing, bushy eyebrows twitching. His jowls also twitched. I had the feeling that, if I squeezed them hard enough, a double G&T would leak out, ice and slice too. He said, cold, to Frank Conway: ”Who the h.e.l.l is he?”
”Two f.u.c.king guesses, Tone. Now sit the f.u.c.k down.”
He wasn't used to people talking to him like that; the concept seemed to intrigue him. An acrid smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he sat down. I pulled up a wicker armchair, smiled around at them all.
”Pray continue, Tone,” I said. ”Whatever you were saying before I arrived, it looked like fascinating stuff.”
”I'm more interested in hearing what you have to say.”
”Fine. I could pretty much guess the gist of yours anyway. Probably how best to give the boys in baseball caps their P-45s. Shoddy job last night eh, Tone? Not that I'm complaining, mind. But it's just as well they missed, for all our sakes. You especially.”
His expression didn't change. He rubbed the back of his fingers against the faint stubble on his jaw.
”If you want me to spell it out let's go back to ABC.” I nodded at Conway. ”f.u.c.kwit yonder is known to the Dibble, from years back, for dealing E. They haven't been able to keep tabs on him lately, and things got so quiet they were starting to think he might even have gone legit. That, as we all know, is horses.h.i.+t.”
I checked Conway out, to see how he was bearing up. He was looking peaky.
”We've been through all of this earlier, Frank and me, and Frank has kindly agreed to pay me to keep my trap shut about. Not that it'll ever cost him a penny, I wouldn't touch his money with a leper's d.i.c.k, but that's the only language Frank understands. It was enough to get him on the blower to you, though, and that was enough to get you flushed out the U-bend.”
Sheridan's eyes glittered.
”See,” I said, ”something bugged me about Big Frank, when he came to see me about his wife playing away.”
Helen Conway looked sideways at her husband, amused.
”Like I told him, it didn't ring true. So when I found out she takes lakeside strolls with prominent TDs, I was pleasantly surprised. The photographs turned out lovely, by the way. I'll get you a copy of the prints when they're ready to go. Your lackeys called around too early this morning.”
Conway swung around, stared at his wife, eyes wide. She gave him a withering glance, came back to me.
”Anyway, I was even more surprised when the Dibble told me that Frank was involved with my brother a couple of years back, that my brother did time for Frank. That made sense. That gave Frank Conway a reason for coming to see me. But it meant the Ice Queen and the TD stuck out like an arthritic thumb.”
”I'm presuming there's a point to all this.”
”Don't take the p.i.s.s, Tone. The fact that you're here, and that you got here so quick, tells me two things. One, you're in this up to your oxters. Two, it's about to go off quick smart. And right now the Dibble are waiting to nab Big Frank in the act, bringing his pills in from Belfast. Happy days, maybe Gonzo's life will have been worth something after all, because it'll give the Dibble what they need to put Conway away.”
Conway's knuckles were white where gripped the arms of the wicker armchair. It was all he could do to prevent himself from lunging across the low table. Sheridan stayed cool.
”Why are you telling me this?”
”Because Frank got me digging and what I dug up links you to his wife. Which hooks you to Frank, whose former drug courier is now dead from an overdose. None of which would make it through the door of any court in the country, but it's the kind of thing the redtops eat without salt, especially with photos to back it up. You know this already, which is why your stooges took a pop last night.”
He stared me down.
”You don't want money,” he said, deadpan. ”What do you want?”
”Nothing, Tone. Not a f.u.c.king thing. No ha.s.sle, no grief and no f.u.c.kers taking pot shots at me when I'm wandering home late at night. In return, the photos get a Christian burial and I forget where they're buried. Although I carve a tombstone, just to be on the safe side. Your tombstone.”
He mulled it over.
”It all sounds very tidy. What guarantee do I have that you won't renege?”
”I presume you won't take my word, and I'm not taking it personal, you're a politician. Your guarantee is my being alive. So long as I'm breathing you're in the clear, and I smoke sixty a day so you better start praying they find a cure for cancer.”
”I'll need some time to think about it, naturally.” He didn't even look at Conway. ”What about him?”
”He'll take his chances with the law, and the way the legal system is these days I give him a fifty-fifty chance. Besides, it'll be tough pinning Gonzo on him without me on the stand. Anyway, it sounds to me like it's time he repaid his debt to society. And I'm sure the lovely Helen will wait for him.”
She chuckled. I stood up, looked down at Tony Sheridan.
”Don't take too long thinking it over. I might grow a conscience, it's the right weather for it. And I hear the witness protection programme gets you a travel-pa.s.s on Bus Eireann.”
I turned to go, remembered something. Sheridan looked up, expectant. I balled my fist and popped him one, just under the ear, behind the chin. He pulled the wicker armchair with him going down, scattering drinks across the low table. I knelt beside him. He was too stunned to focus, not used to people punching him out, although that prospect didn't seem to intrigue him in the slightest.
”That's for the hammering the other night, I'm presuming it was you sent the pros around. If not, you deserve it for wearing a cravat.”
The barman, thin and nervy, came at me as I turned. I feinted a dig. He jumped back and I edged by him, jabbing a forefinger at his face, for show.
”I've thrown better than you out the way to get at a fight,” he sneered.