‘Who’s this prick?’ said Hickey. ‘He looks bent.’
Morgan leaned in to consider the photo. ‘With apartment developments in wealthy areas, our firm find it’s advantageous to include a representation of at least one member of the gay community. It’s a sector of the population with a high disposable income.’
‘Keep him so,’ Hickey decreed, ‘but no lezzers.’ He passed me the offending image. It was a man in a pair of calf-length shorts and a polo shirt. The man looked neither gay nor straight, he just looked preposterous. They all looked preposterous. Every last one of them was dressed for a Mediterranean summer. Sunglasses and shorts and sandals. This development promised another climate. Presiding over it all were these green glass towers, the sun glinting off their elevations in every shot. Despite their height, they cast no shadow at street level, as if they themselves were the source of the light, and very possibly of the heat too, a nuclear power station.
Hickey turned to me. ‘Whatcha reckon?’
‘Smashing,’ I told him. ‘You’ve really outdone yourself.’ I handed back the photos and the woman covered up a smile. I knew her. I knew that face from somewhere.
*
‘So who’s the girl?’ I asked Hickey when we were back out in the yard, having seen Morgan off in his little silver TT bullet. The red Merc was still parked next to Hickey’s truck. I was confused when she hadn’t stood up to join the architect as he took his leave but instead poured herself another glass of champagne. I had presumed that she was part of the design team.
‘What girl?’ said Hickey, and then, tilting his head at the prefab, ‘oh, you mean the wife?’
~ ~ ~
‘Do we understand you correctly, Mr St Lawrence: you are asserting that Mrs Hickey—’
~ ~ ~
Please don’t call her that.
~ ~ ~
‘That is her name. Are you claiming that Edel Hickey was involved in the Claremont development from the outset?’
~ ~ ~
No. She had no interest in construction, or in anything that Hickey did. Looking back, I suspect that she may have come down that afternoon to meet me. That may sound like colossal vanity on my part, but the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that Edel showed up on that occasion for the express purpose of seeing me again.
~ ~ ~
‘Mr St Lawrence, sticking to the particulars of the case: you are stating that Edel Hickey had no involvement in the Claremont development. Is that correct?’
~ ~ ~
Yes, Fergus, that is correct.
~ ~ ~
‘Thank you. Now, to get down to the financing of the construction of the Claremont development. Where did you get the money?’
~ ~ ~
Is that a trick question? I don’t understand this game. Where do you think we got the money? Where does anyone get money, after all? We got it from a bank. Not Castle Holdings — M. Deauville only financed the purchase of the site — but from an Irish bank. You remember, Fergus: they were throwing money at people at the time, forcing it down their throats. Hickey said I knew the very man and my heart sank. Here we go. Ray the bottom feeder. ‘No, no, no, you muppet,’ he said. ‘Not Lawless — another head. An you know him, not me.’
‘What other head?’
‘Another head who knows a third head, who knows a whole rack a heads, who between them know every head worth knowing in this country, an once we’re in, we’ll be laughing, so we will.’ And then he reeled off a list of names, Public Enemies numbers one through to six six six. Builders, bankers, financial regulators, county councillors, even the serving Taoiseach.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘them.’ It would have been difficult not to have rubbed up against at least a few of them in a country like this if you were from a family like mine — you know how it is yourself, Fergus. I sighed at Hickey. ‘What’s it going to cost?’ Everything cost. Everything was about money with the class of individual on his list. It was how they measured themselves.
Hickey shook his head. ‘That’s not how the Golden Circle works.’
The Golden Circle. I had to laugh at that. They had rebranded. In my day, they had called themselves the Bills, as in, the Billionaires. Long live the Bills! they shouted down in Suttonians after matches. They were the sons of wealthy men, but nowhere near as wealthy as they wanted to be. The Mills, technically. Their moniker betrayed the terrible hunger in them, the insatiable drive to acquire.
M. Deauville requested that I supply him in advance of the meeting with a list of the members of this so-called Golden Circle who, according to Hickey, were now running the shop. Tocka tocka as he fed their names into his database of base data. Murmurs of approval at the results. The Bills had finally blossomed into billionaires. Excellent, said M. Deauville. Ausgezeichnet, eccellente.
Hickey drove us to a district of the city that had not existed when I had fled. The towers were built of the same jade glass as Hickey’s crystalline power generator. He had beaten himself into a suit for the occasion, and I don’t wish to be unkind, but when I saw him got up in it I couldn’t help thinking of… ah no, I won’t.
The boardroom occupied the penthouse suite of one of the glass towers. A panorama of cranes spanning the horizon was engaged in a courtly dance. One step, two step, swing to your partner, and part. Ten men were seated around the boardroom table and the most senior man stood at the top. ‘Ah,’ he said upon our entrance. ‘Here they are. Do join us.’ He was a small man with a brown face and a fleece of white curls. I thought of a Roman senator.
‘Dessie,’ said Hickey, pumping the senator’s hand with both of his. McGee didn’t need to introduce himself. We both knew who he was. Hickey jerked a thumb at me. ‘This is Tristram St Lawrence,’ he told the table. ‘He’s the brains.’
The men laughed at that and Hickey laughed loudest of all. I lowered my head in admission. Yes, it’s true. The brains are stored in this receptacle, me. I provide them so that Hickey doesn’t have to.
Only it wasn’t true. I wasn’t the brains. I was just stupid enough to think that I was.
A man from the far end of the table was on his way over, his arms open in welcome as if I should recognise him. It took me a moment to register that this was O’Dee. He had lost his hair and turned into his old man, a golf-clubbing captain of industry.
O’Dee put his arms around me and clapped my back. ‘Welcome home, man,’ he said as sincerely as he was able, though no affection or camaraderie had ever existed between us. This display was strictly for the benefit of the others, to demonstrate that we went back, that there was history, that it was kosher. ‘Jesus, Trist, I heard you were dead.’
They all laughed again at that, eager to exhibit their approval.
‘Eh,’ said Hickey. ‘That was another Tristram St Lawrence.’
‘Marvellous!’ said McGee and took his seat to indicate that the topic was now closed. Everyone seemed perfectly satisfied with Hickey’s explanation. Nobody wanted to rock the boat. We were here to do business.