He finally appeared in the VIP den. ‘Gentlemen, did Svetlana take care of you?’ It was not a hospitable enquiry but a power display: there would be consequences for Svetlana if she did not take care of his friends. ‘She did, thank you,’ I told him.
Svetlana arrived with a tray and set down our drinks. A sparkling water for me, a Carlsberg for the Viking and a double brandy for Hickey. It was the most expensive drink he could think of. He should have asked for my advice. Svetlana’s nails were an inch long. Her palms were stained fake-tan orange, her lifelines and heart lines a tracery of tobacco brown. Your path in life will be a dirty one, a palmist would have told her. You will have a filthy, dirty little path.
‘Jaysus,’ said Hickey as he watched her arse depart, the belt of her apron tied in a smart bow at the small of her back. He swirled the contents of his brandy balloon and knocked back a mouthfuclass="underline" Ahhhhh. ‘This immigration business. It’s not all bad news.’
‘Svetlana? Yes. The Russian girls are beautiful. Doesn’t translate into the men though.’
‘No,’ Hickey agreed. ‘Now that you say it. I hadn’t looked at it that way.’
They nodded thoughtfully, two men of the world. ‘The Russian men don’t find Irish women attractive,’ the Viking added, ‘but the Russian women find Irish men extremely attractive. Did you know that?’
‘Get away,’ said Hickey. ‘You’re bullshitting me.’
‘I am not. They find rich Irish men practically irresistible, in fact. They’re all Roman hands and Russian fingers when you get them in a corner. Don’t tell me you haven’t tried one yet.’
I had never seen Hickey embarrassed before. He sniggered into his cognac glass. I glanced back at the bar to see what Svetlana was making of this. The girl stared fixedly out at the harbour lights.
The Viking signalled for another round. Svetlana collected the old drinks and replaced them with fresh ones. I looked at her tray as she removed it. The Viking’s old pint was two-thirds intact. Hickey’s brandy glass was empty.
The Viking nodded at me. ‘I heard this fella was dead,’ he said to Hickey.
‘That was another Tristram St Lawrence,’ Hickey told him.
I stared at them as they exploded into laughter, failing to understand the joke. ‘I am dead,’ I said to shut them up, but it only made them laugh harder. The Viking raised his hand for attention when Hickey had emptied his glass. Svetlana approached, exchanged Hickey’s empty glass for another double, and a fresh pint for the Viking’s partially consumed one. A third sparkling water was set in front of me.
Hickey didn’t notice that his new best friend was sending back barely touched pints. All he noticed was my sparkling water. ‘Are ya too good to drink with me?’ he wanted to know. ‘Is that it? Is that the problem?’
I recognised the space he was in. No drinker trusts a sober man. ‘We’ve been over this,’ I told him quietly.
The Viking looked from Hickey to me for an explanation. None was forthcoming. It was a private matter. Then my phone rang. Tocka tocka. Saved by the bell. I excused myself and left the table.
Hickey was red in the face by the time I returned, maybe as much as half an hour later. The call to M. Deauville had dragged out. I had raised objection after objection. ‘Hickey and I…’ I tried to explain to him, ‘we have a past. He used to be my—’ but M. Deauville felt that it was a necessary step in my recovery that I return to the VIP den immediately to face down my fears, so in the end I complied, having first admitted to him that I was powerless over alcohol and then accepted the things that I could not change, i.e. everything.
‘Here he is,’ said Hickey. ‘Told you he wasn’t dead.’
‘Sit down,’ said the Viking. ‘We ordered you a fresh fizzy water.’ They cracked up at that.
‘It’s on the house,’ Hickey added and they laughed harder still. The Viking wiped a crocodile tear from the corner of his eye. He was sober. The other clown was a different story. Brandy didn’t suit him. I sniffed the new glass of water. My nose detected nothing suspicious but I pushed it away to be on the safe side. That’s when I spotted the nickel tray. It was the tray for delivering the bill, except there was no bill on this tray but instead a ridge of white powder to which the Viking was adding more. Hickey shoved a rolled fifty into his hairy nostril and hoovered the powder up.
‘It’s getting late,’ I began, but the Viking cut me off.
‘What have we here?’ he wanted to know, looking over Hickey’s shoulder. Hickey turned around and the Viking pointed at the back of his head. Svetlana duly approached. ‘Show us your lovely dress, hon,’ he instructed her. ‘That’s it. Give us a twirl.’ She had by then slipped into something more uncomfortable. No more black and white. Just black, and not a whole lot of it. The Viking turned to Hickey. ‘Isn’t that a lovely dress?’
‘Gorgeous,’ said Hickey. ‘Knockout.’
The Viking put a hand on the builder’s shoulder. ‘This is my good friend, Dessie,’ he explained to Svetlana. ‘My very good friend,’ he added meaningfully. ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us, babe?’
Svelte Lana smiled at Hickey. ‘Hi Dessie,’ she said, and the way she pronounced his name lent it an almost sophisticated ring, as if there were an accent on the i. Desì. Hickey beamed up at her, his tusks of nasal hair frosted white. ‘Howaya love!’ She sat down and slid along the banquette until they were side by side. Her gold heels were five inches high and fastened around her ankles with little chains. The Viking threw me a knowing smirk. I couldn’t watch. And yet I did.
Svetlana whispered something into Hickey’s ear. ‘Ya are not!’ he exclaimed and she nodded, then leaned forward to whisper into his ear again. She sat back to see his reaction, then covered her mouth and giggled. I missed the signal whereby it was settled that he had pulled. Svetlana stood up, took Hickey’s hairy hand in hers and tugged it. ‘Ah no,’ he objected, leaping to his feet fairly lively all the same. With the additional height of her stilettos, the girl’s hips were level with Hickey’s belly. Her breasts jutted out at his chin. He gazed into them and told her that she had beautiful eyes.
I checked my watch. ‘That’s it. I’m done.’
The Viking’s hand shot out to detain me. ‘Stay. I want a word.’ Svetlana was leading Hickey away by the hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured me as we watched them depart, ‘she’s well looked after.’ I stared at him. He stroked his smig as he contemplated their mismatched silhouettes disappearing through a door marked Staff Only. ‘And he’ll be well looked after too,’ he added with the air of one who knew what lay in store for Hickey beyond that door. ‘Now,’ he said when Hickey was safely tucked into bed and it was just the adults, ‘let’s get down to business. I believe we have a mutual friend.’
‘That strikes me as highly unlikely.’
‘Mr Deauville?’ the Viking prompted me.
‘Monsieur Deauville is not your friend.’
The Viking frowned. ‘Hasn’t he briefed you about me yet?’ The shadow of the crane swung across my grave again, though it was night and there weren’t supposed to be shadows.
When I didn’t answer, the Viking sat back and laughed. ‘I’m running your bloody hotel. You’re looking at your new business partner. And Deauville’s too, and of course Hickey’s. We’ve formed a consortium.’