Eight Ball Boogie Part 29

She didn't hear me. She too looked to be in shock, still trying to hold in the spaghetti of guts that overflowed her hands. I walked across, picked her gun up, slipped it deep into the pocket of the fleece. Then I went to the doorway. The Colt .45 must have weighed a ton but his arm didn't waver. He said, soft: "How you doing, son?"

"Fine, Joe. Now the cavalry is here."

His eyes were still wide, blue and wild but at least he'd made an attempt to comb his hair. He said: "What happens now?"

"What happens now is you go home. I'll look after it from here."

"There's more?"

"It's only getting started, Joe. But I'm getting the hang of it, fast."

"Don't kid yourself, son. You never get the hang of it." He gestured at Helen Conway and Tony Sheridan. "But whatever it is, you don't need these catching up with you at the wrong time."

"No thanks, Joe. It's bad enough, me getting you caught up in it. From now on it's my rap."

"You'll do what you're told, son. And I'm telling you to f.u.c.k off and do whatever you have to do. I'll just sit here and have a smoke, wait'll I hear the all clear."

"Your call, Joe."

"My call, son."

I helped Katie up, put an arm around her shoulders, which were shaking almost as hard as my own.

"We're going to get you to a hospital, Katie. Okay?"

She didn't respond. She didn't seem to be aware of my presence, still staring at Helen Conway. When I tried to move her towards the door she resisted, reached for the gun in my hand. I held it away, out of her reach. The Ice Queen was slipping fast, shaking hard, pain eating into the shock, blood ebbing out into the kind of pool that has a deep end. She glared, baleful. I looked away, more important things to do than be turned to stone.

I checked on Tony Sheridan. He was still panned out. I cracked him another one, in case he was playing possum. Then I led Katie out of the room, patted Joe on the shoulder in pa.s.sing. He didn't acknowledge me. Helen Conway watched us go, face ugly with loathing. I winked at her.

"Sorry about the hole. A good girl like you, Santa's bound to bring bandages."

She spat something, through bubbles of blood. I made a wish. It was my third new expletive in as many days.

24.

The bells of The Friary were ringing for midnight ma.s.s, the sound coming sharp in the clear night air. The cold air started me coughing, which brought up blood, but then that's a sixty-a-day hazard.

I helped Katie into the car and got in, tugged up the jacket, checked the wound. The bullet hitting the pro had opened the hole again; blood was leaking from under the bandage, weak and thin. I watched it ooze, not feeling any pain. It was just the way things were, something else to deal with it, to get past.

I eased the car down the street, leaving it in second gear, letting gravity do the work. The snow was slick with frost, thick enough to keep all but the most dedicated penitents from venturing out, which meant The Friary would have a higher ratio of drunks to G.o.d-fearing Catholics than usual. It was a good time to get Katie to emergency, before the winos started shuffling up the Mall, looking for a warm bed for the night that was in it. I met no traffic on the drive through town.

Katie stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Cradling her swollen fist, whimpering when her hand moved. Her complexion was cream cheese, the orange mop of hair in shocking contrast to the pale below. She seemed oblivious.

In the hospital car park, I leaned across and touched her cheek. She didn't flinch. I was tempted to touch the ugly welts on her throat but I got out the car, locked it, crunched through the snow to the hospital. I knew it was callous thing to do, leaving her alone. I knew that. I didn't feel it.

The antiseptic smell washed over me when the automatic doors slid back, the blast of heat giving me goose b.u.mps. The girl behind the reception desk was mid-twenties, homely, eyeing me over a pair of half-moon gla.s.ses as I made for the desk, begrudging the effort of sliding the window back. I didn't hold it against her. No one wants to be in hospital on Christmas Eve, least of all the staff.

"Hi," I breezed, digging deep. "I'd like to check on a friend of mine?"

"I'm sorry." Her tone that let me know that, whatever she was apologising for, it was my fault. "Visiting hours finished two hours ago."

"That's okay. I just want to know how he's doing. He came in this morning. Hit and run. His name is Herbie O'Malley."

"I'm sorry," she said, a mechanical tone, "but we could only release that information to a family member."

"I'm a family member."

She frowned.

"You just said you were his friend."

"He's a cousin, actually. But we're good mates too."

"I'm sorry, only immediate family members are privy to that kind of information."

"His family are away for Christmas. I'm the only one around. I'm going to be ringing them later, and I'd like to let them know how he is."

"You're not going to go away until you find out, are you?"

I smiled, apologetic.

"Alright," she sighed. "Wait a minute."

She pulled the window closed, so I couldn't hear what she was saying, made a couple of calls. Pulled the window open again, holding the phone against her none too impressive embonpoint.

"Herbie O'Malley?"

"That's right."

"And you are?"

"Frankie Byrne. His cousin."

"Hold on."

Back went the gla.s.s door. She finished the call. Again with the window.

"Herbie O'Malley wasn't involved in a hit and run."

"No? I heard he was, in the pub. The boys said he'd been mangled."

"Well, he's badly hurt alright. He's still in intensive care. He's going to need extensive surgery but the ECTs showed up positive. There's no serious tissue damage and he's in a stable condition."

"Thanks a million. You've been a great help."

She said: "Don't you want to see him?"

"I thought visiting hours were finished."

"They are. But in your case..."

Some people are born spoofers. Other people die every time they lie. She knew it sounded wrong and looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. I scoped the foyer for a night porter or security guard but we were alone in the vast hall. I reckoned I had about five minutes, if that, before the Dibble arrived.

"That's decent, cheers. Where's intensive care?"

"Fourth floor. Take a right when you get out of the lift."

I turned away from the desk, hesitated, turned back. She had the window half-closed. I played the hunch.

"I don't suppose you could let me know how Robbie Callaghan is?"

"Who?"

"Robbie Callaghan." I figured that Galway would have booked Gonzo into the morgue under that name. "It's either Robbie Callaghan or Eddie Rigby."

"You don't know what his name is?"

"He uses a pseudonym. Does some writing for the paper."

"Oh, right. And is he family?"

I grinned and she smiled, co-conspirators.

"No, he's just a mate. He overdid it on the pints last night. They brought him in to have his stomach pumped."

"I really shouldn't tell you, but..."

"You're a star."

She checked through the list of in-patients on the desk, taking her time. Twice she looked down the hall to the double doors, looking up at me both times, and both times I smiled, counting the seconds. When she finally told me that there was no record of a Robbie Callaghan or an Eddie Rigby, I reckoned I had maybe two minutes grace.

"There's nothing?"

"Nothing for the emergency ward, and that's where they'd have taken him. I'd have known, it was my s.h.i.+ft."

"Maybe they wrote it up wrong. He was on E as well. A Detective-Inspector Galway brought him in."

She checked again.

"Nothing like that. There was no Detective-Inspector Galway here last night."

It didn't make sense but then there was no reason it should have made sense, if it made sense it'd have been the first time in three days I'd have understood what was going on.

"Cheers," I said, made for the exit.

"What about your cousin?"

She'd leaned forward, pulled the window all the way back.

"Thanks all the same, but I'll see him tomorrow."

From the bed beside him, probably, and the way things were going intensive care sounded like an attractive proposition. There's not an awful lot more they can do to you once they put you in intensive care.

I drove out of the car park to a lay-by, a quarter mile away. Katie was shaking hard.

"Katie? Can you hear me?"

It took her a couple of seconds to turn her head and when she did her eyes were dead. She needed a lorry-load of morphine and a good therapist, and I hoped she got them. What I needed were answers, which was why I took her good hand.

"Katie," I said, stroking it gently, "there's something I need to know. I think you know what I'm talking about."

She stayed blank.

"Last night, when I stayed at your place?"

Still no response. She was a million miles away, or maybe just half a mile, back in the projection room.

"It was comfortable, comfortable and easy. Call me cynical, but it was a little too easy."

Recognition finally flickered in her eyes. She edged away from me, as far as she could go, which brought her up against the pa.s.senger door. Her mouth opened slightly, and she mouthed a word. No.

"They used your neck for an ashtray tonight, Katie." It was probably the most superfluous thing I've ever said. "Why would they do that? Not for kicks, these people are pros, that kind of buzz they keep for Sat.u.r.day nights. They were burning you for a reason, they wanted to know something you know. And I want to know it too. Difference is, this time there's no cavalry on the way. No one knows you're here. So where is he?"

There was nothing in her eyes by then. No fear, no revulsion, no flicker of recognition. There was, if I looked hard enough, still a semblance of humanity, but it was fading fast. Her eyes were nothing more than opaque marbles, seeing nothing, inside or out.

"Where is he, Katie?" Harsher this time, squeezing her hand. I concentrated on the self-loathing, feeding off it. If I'd thought for a second about what Katie was enduring, I'd never had the strength to do what I was going to have to do. I reminded myself that, even though Dutchie had sold me out to Galway, the only person who knew Herbie had the pictures was Katie. I'd told her, she'd told Galway, and Galway had put the squeeze on Dutchie. I thought it only right that I should put the squeeze on Katie.

The pressure of my hand finally filtered through. She started to cry, quietly, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. I couldn't blame her, she'd had a rough day, but my day hadn't been what you might call a Sunday at Butlins and my day was far from over. She tried to pull her hand away. I tightened my grip.

"Where is he, Katie? That's all I want to know. Where's Galway?"

It took maybe ten minutes, and a few more broken fingers, but in the end she told me what I wanted to know. I dropped her at the driveway of the hospital. She could hardly stand up, fainting from pain, but I had other things on my mind. One was how to keep down the rising gorge of bile and self-disgust.

The other was also a nauseous sensation, this one driven by fear, a primal instinct I had never experienced before, even when the Ice Queen was churning the tea chests to splinters. This was a fear for someone else, a sleepy-eyed kid who wouldn't even know he was in danger until it was too late, for whom it was maybe already too late. I hit the road, put the boot to the floor, dug out the mobile and dialled. He didn't answer until the tenth or eleventh ring.

"Who's this?" Voice thick with sleep and one too many double Jameson's.