Eight Ball Boogie Part 3

"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?"

"Sorry, I don't do sarcasm before breakfast. Now is this an interior design kick or is there something I can actually do for you?"

Usually I let the d.i.c.k stuff go, but I didn't like Conway. He was too smooth, too slick and oiled, like a lazy cat's coat, and I hate cats, especially the lazy ones. He sat back, laid an ankle on a knee.

"Get much business with that att.i.tude, Bud?"

"Tuesdays, my att.i.tude makes me cry. Mondays I think I'm cute. Now start again and if you behave I'll let you finish because I haven't had a laugh in days."

I was half-hoping Conway would take the hint and leave but all he did was lean forward, flick his cigarette at the ashtray, although not like he was worried about getting the scholars.h.i.+p. He put his elbows on the desk, cleared his throat, said: "You're Harry Rigby?"

"Unless you're from the Revenue, yeah."

"You're a private investigator?"

"I'm a research consultant."

"What's that when it's not at the zoo?"

I took a deep breath and pitched the spiel.

"I research information that isn't readily available to private individuals. Running credit checks on prospective business partners, finding long lost lovers, that kind of thing. I provide covert observation for insurance companies in cases of suspected fraud. I doc.u.ment infidelity, or confirm that the husband's suspicions are just that, and they're usually the husband's. I a.s.sist companies with security surveillance, and sometimes I hop along behind bouncing cheques. Missing dogs and family trees are steady earners. The perks include creative tax returns, fast food, late nights and the manners of a Protestant. The ulcer I had before I took the job. The coffee's getting cold, by the way."

He nodded, sat back. Took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. I was guessing infidelity.

"The name's Conway. Frank Conway. And this is strictly confidential."

"Think of me as a priest, all the women do."

He laughed, a nasal bark.

"You should meet my wife."

"She likes funny guys?"

"They're all hilarious, far as she's concerned."

"Does she have a name, or is it relevant?"

"Helen."

I dug a pad out of the top drawer, scribbled some notes.

"And has she left or is she going to?"

"Neither. I'm going to break her f.u.c.king neck."

"And you want me for what an alibi?"

He blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

"Most husbands," I prodded, "want to kill the bloke."

"f.u.c.k him," Conway rasped. "He doesn't know any better. If he did he wouldn't be s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the b.i.t.c.h."

"You know for a fact that Mrs Conway is having an affair?"

"She's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. I know."

"Worst thing you can do is jump to conclusions." From where I was sitting, jumping to conclusions was all the exercise Conway got. "Maybe you should consider other possibilities."

"Like what?"

I knew, from experience, that the rational approach was pointless. When a man is so convinced his wife is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g someone else that he can tell another man, an act of G.o.d won't change his mind. I tried anyway, needing the gig. I always needed the gig. Chasing missing dogs is no job for a grown man.

"Most d.i.c.k jobs are paranoia," I explained. "Blokes who work so hard to compensate for the size of their d.i.c.ks, they don't get to use them. It's only a matter of time before they start wondering why wifey is so happy with the situation. Sometimes the bloke is right, wifey's playing away from home, but it doesn't happen that often. And either way, a happy ending isn't on the cards."

"What the f.u.c.k is this, The Samaritans?"

Big Frank knew and nothing else mattered. I didn't point out that maybe the fact that nothing else mattered might be the reason Helen Conway was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. I said: "She has the opportunity?"

The unholy trinity motive, opportunity and proof. Proof was up to me, and after ten minutes with Frank Conway even I wanted to have an affair.

"I'm out of town for a night or two most weeks," he growled. "On business."

"Where?"

His voice ground out a warning, harsh.

"Here and there, it changes."

He stared. I scribbled.

"So, what? You want me to confirm she's having an affair? Breaking her neck isn't really an option until you know for sure."

He nodded, curt.

"Alright, I'll need details where she works, shops, gets her hair done. A recent photograph, that kind of thing."

He dug into his inside pocket, handed me a driver's licence that should have carried a government health warning. She was the right side of forty, dark hair curling to her shoulders, head tilted back, accentuating the aquiline nose. There was mischief in the dark, almond-shaped eyes. The tiny smile was sardonic, knowing, and if the lower lip was less provocative than Ian Paisley it wasn't by more than a thumped lectern.

I'd seen her type before, mostly through binoculars, so I could understand why Conway might turn desperate if he thought she was playing away. That kind of woman comes around once in a lifetime, if you're lucky, and that kind of luck doesn't come cheap. I made a note of the details, handed back the licence. Wondering if Conway was carrying it because he'd come prepared, or in a vain attempt to stop his wife driving when he wasn't around.

"She has a bank account in her own name?"