“Oh, we kept after him but little else came of it. It was Tommy woke him up in earnest.”
“We’re still working that angle about, er, modelling, John. Did Lenehan spit up any more about this modelling thing?”
“No. He was talking about dirty pictures, he said.”
“Of Mary.”
“Right. That’s the same as he told us earlier on. He didn’t budge on it.”
Minogue heard the yawn.
“Book off, John. You’ve been on all night, man. Call after a snooze, will you?”
There was nothing in the paper. Where would he get hold of yesterday’s? He should get batteries for the Walkman and get some news. He looked around the restaurant. The lunchtime mob had gone and the shoppers and the unemployed and the chancers were sitting around. What was that long-haired bollicks looking at? He got up and stepped out onto the footpath. Probably trying to score a hit, thought he looked the part. Jesus. Did he look that obvious?
He moved along Capel Street close to the shops. The hamburger and milkshake were moving around like snakes somewhere in his guts. He stopped by the open door of a pub and squinted into the dim interior. A pint of something, anything.
He ordered a pint of lager and drank half of it in his first draught. The barman eyed him as he loaded the fridges. He could stay here all day just nursing pints, that’d be perfect. He’d be off the streets; he could think, figure out a plan. What was the bloody barman looking at? It felt like the cold lager had slushed around his brain. He looked around the pub at the handful of customers. There were two fellas with aprons from the Markets. A middle-aged guy with his tie loose and his face all rubbery from the drink was moving in on a woman with a tube skirt. She kept trying to laugh him off, crossing her legs and talking to the barman who was trying to ignore her. Maybe there was a reward. He saw himself talking into the phone, a cop at the other end. His eyes came back into focus: he was staring at his face in the mirror. He grabbed his glass but one finger jabbed it. It whirled before falling.
“Shit,” he hissed.
“Look here,” the barman said and stood up.
“You think I did it on purpose?” he muttered to the barman. The barman stared at him.
“Well, do you?” His voice was louder than he’d expected.
“Get off the premises, now. Or I’ll call the Guards.”
He was moving toward the door, a bit dizzy but full of the strength his anger had brought. Out in the street with the door swinging behind him he stopped and stood. Two women with shopping bags gave him a wide berth. The sunlight hurt his eyes. He began walking but blundered into a teenager.
“Hey,” said the teenager. He thought about turning back and giving him a rap in the snot.
He spotted a phone box at the corner of the next street. Some pages of the Dublin phone book had been torn out but he found the Guards’ one. He took out his change and placed the coins on a ledge. He lit a cigarette, shoved in the coins and dialled.
“Yeah?” he replied to the voice. “Which of yous does murders and stuff?”
Malone was doubtful. He pulled at the hair sticking up over his forehead.
“I’m not the expert,” he said.
“You look the part,” said Minogue. Malone gave him a sidelong glance.
“Thanks very much,” he said.
“We can’t go together anyway. So go on in and get what you can.”
Malone moved off reluctantly from the car. He pushed open the door and moved around the partitions to the deeper recesses of the pub. A tall man with thinning light-blond hair turned on his stool. On his own it looked, Malone thought, a pint of beer in front of him. Blondie gave him the once-over and nodded. Malone slid onto a stool and ordered a pint of lager.
“Howiya,” said Blondie. “Was it you phoned?” Dub accent, but not the real thing, Malone decided. Late thirties. He looked like a clapped-out pop star.
“Yeah. I was looking for, you know. Did you bring any?”
“Any what?”
It flashed through Malone’s mind that the one from the modelling agency might have tipped Blondie off. Why would he show up then?
“You know yourself, like.” He shrugged and glanced down at the floor. No bag. Blondie took a slow drink from his glass. Malone paid the barman and started into his pint. He felt the eyes on him while he drank. Maybe he should act like a creep.
“Well, what sort of stuff are you into?”
Malone kept at the pint for several seconds.
“Well, I’m kind of into sports a bit. You know?”
“Sort of figured that,” said Blondie. His face stayed blank. He continued to stare at Malone. “You’re either a fucking cop or a fucking gangster.”
“I could be a fucking priest too, couldn’t I?”
Blondie’s stare was unblinking.
“So who do you know?”
Malone looked from the row of bottles back into the man’s stare.
“Painless. Painless Balfe? Lollipop Lenehan. Them.”
His gamble seemed to register in Blondie’s eyes. Was he going to smile? No.
“That’ll cost you.”
“What?”
“Extra, that’s what.”
“So?”
“If you’re into the same stuff as those guys. It costs money to play rough, pal.”
“Well, I’m not totally into that, man. I mean, there’s lots of stuff, right?”
Blondie’s eyes glazed over. He looked around the pub.
“I’m not a fucking shopping centre, pal.”
“Well, all I want is to get an idea of what stuff I can get.”
“You want rough trade. What else?”
“Christ, I don’t know.”
“You’re new, are you?” He swilled the beer around in his glass.
“Well, I like the outdoors and stuff,” said Malone.
“The outdoors.‘ Motorbikes? Farm shit? Girl-girl? Black and yellow? I don’t care what you’re into. Just make up your mind.”
The anger rose up in Malone’s chest.
“Well, I like them to look like, you know. Girls you’d meet. Next-door types, I suppose.”
“Ugly, you mean.”
“Well, I mean… I just broke up with someone. She wouldn’t, you know. Turned her off and stuff, like? If I could find ones that remind me or, well, look a bit like her.”
He stopped. The blond-haired guy was eying him again.
“So you’re going for a resemblance or something, is it?”
Malone let go of his glass.
“You looking to leave through that fucking window, pal, just keep talking like that. All I fucking said was-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Relax. So you’re not the expert. Okay, okay.”
Malone settled back in his stool. Blondie finished his glass and slid off his stool.
“So how is Painless anyway?” he said.
“Same as ever. You know yourself.”
Blondie gave a half-hearted grin and dipped his chin to release a gassy belch.
“Come on then.”
Malone gulped more lager and followed him.
Minogue followed the two men’s progress with one eye open until they turned the corner. Then he started up the Citroen, reached for the phone and let it rest in his lap. A bus let him out. He made the turn down toward Mount Street and cruised by on the far side of the street. The blond-haired fella didn’t seem to be bothered. He moved quickly. Malone kept up with him. Minogue placed them in the side mirror as he passed. Minogue stopped at the end of the block and took a torn manila envelope from the back seat. With the phone in his pocket, he stepped out onto the curb and began looking up at the office windows and down at the envelope.
Blondie stopped by a Celica and squeezed a remote. The sidelights flashed on the car and Minogue saw him nod Malone over to the passenger side. Minogue put on his best pissed-off look and got back in the Citroen. He dithered with the phone. Was the blond guy going to take off or do the business there and then? He adjusted the mirror and deciphered the registration plate. He clicked the call button and stared at the Celica while he waited. It looked as if the sky had been pasted on the windscreen. Damned tinted glass or something: he couldn’t even see an outline through it..