“Ah, Eilis, a stor. Key in this car number, will you. I’m in a wicked hurry.”
“Fire away then, can’t you.”
He stared at the Celica, willing it not to move. Maybe this Ryan gazebo had a mobile office full of smut. How was Malone playing it? Eilis’s voice sounded from his lap.
“Yes, sorry, Eilis. I’m just staking something out here.”
“Like the real police do? That’s nice. Here it is.”
He scribbled on the envelope.
“And it’s straight?”
“Yes, indeed, your honour. All paid up and properly belonging to same.”
“I’ll get back to you. Thanks.”
The Celica hadn’t budged. Dermot Ryan, Howth. No record. He looked back down at the address. The Moorings was swanky, wasn’t it? Way to hell out in Howth. Malone was out of the car. He walked slowly along the footpath back toward Baggot Street. The Celica pulled out abruptly and was driven hard in the opposite direction. Minogue drove after Malone, passed him and turned on to Baggot Street where he pulled in. Malone took his time crossing the street.
“Enjoy yourself?”
“Not much,” said Malone. “He showed me a few magazines. German or Danish or something, asked if I wanted to get some.”
“Can we can him, Tommy?”
Malone breathed out heavily, making a whistling sound against his teeth.
“He was vetting me. He says he’ll be back here in an hour. Same pub.”
“Careful, so he is.”
“Yeah,” said Malone. “He has his little car phone and all. Not the grubby little bollicks in a raincoat you’d expect.”
“Dermot Ryan, Howth. He’s not the only fella in Dublin with a phone in his car.”
A double decker bus slid by within six inches of Minogue’s mirror and let off its passengers.
“Get this,” said Malone. “He wanted references, if you don’t mind. I fed him Balfe and Lenehan. He knew their idea of fun too.”
Malone’s head swivelled around and he looked into the Inspector’s eyes.
“Rough stuff with girls.”
Minogue noted the clouded look in Malone’s eyes.
“Well, now,” he murmured. “Isn’t that the curious piece of information to be sure.”
“Maybe I should have put the heavy hand on him in the car,” Malone said. “Then tossed the gaff out in Howth, see what turned up.”
Minogue leaned heavier into the armrest and looked about the street.
“We’ll see. Don’t be worrying.”
The policemen fell silent for several moments.
“Let me ask you something, Tommy. Patricia Fahy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think she’s good looking?”
Malone looked over his shoulder at the Inspector.
“Why?”
“I’m not asking if you want to marry her. Do you think she’s good looking?”
“I suppose.”
Malone frowned.
“You put her in the game too?” he asked.
“What if?”
Malone stretched.
“It could explain why she’s clammed up, I suppose.”
Malone began stroking his chin harder. “Who paid the rent, like.”
Minogue nodded. Malone stopped rubbing his chin.
“What do you want to do?”
“About fifty things,” said Minogue. A fireball had been trapped where the small of his back met the seat. “All at the same time. Number one is to keep this going with Ryan.”
“If he shows up here, he’s moved from just having it to selling it, right?”
Minogue paused before answering.
“That’s right. See what he can give you here on the spot. Or in the car. Then he’s ours if we want him.”
“And if I think he’s holding out?”
“Well, then, in my judgment, Garda Malone, Mr. Ryan is asking for it.”
“Curse-of-god device,” Minogue grumbled. “You get so’s you actually depend on the thing.”
Malone sipped at his coffee and nodded at the phone.
“Beats playing Relevio on the radio,” he said. Minogue shifted in his seat.
“Okay,” he said. “We have a crew waiting behind the ESB place.”
He had moved the Citroen around the block into the shade of the Bank of Ireland.
“Ryan has the office out in Howth. Weddings, school pictures, etcetera. I wonder if he does the smut himself or is he just a middleman.”
Malone cleared his throat and spat halfway out into the street. Caught between admiration and revulsion, Minogue looked away. Boxing habit, he wondered.
“Hope to God he doesn’t check up on Balfe and the other head banger,” said Malone. He checked his watch. “Uch. I’d better go out and try this stunt.”
Minogue tapped him on the arm as he yanked the door handle.
“Are you okay, Tommy? Even the slightest inkling he might turn Turk…”
“What’s he going to do to me? I’m a big boy now.”
“He might go haywire if you have to lay the card on him.”
“Like hell he will,” said Malone. “I’ve got his fit. Mr. Semi-detached. Fuckin-excuse me, sorry. Bloody hair-do on him. Bet you he was never in a barney in his life.”
“I’ll be on the street with the car.”
Malone moved off down the path. Minogue pulled away from the curb. He coasted by the parked cars and pulled in within sight of the pub. No sign of the white Celica. He turned off the engine. Five minutes passed. His mind began to wander again. Weddings, Iseult. He let his head back on the headrest. There was a warren of streets here, lanes plenty wide for a car. He rubbed his eyes. The canal was behind those buildings there. He stopped rubbing and looked down at the sweaty pads on his fingertips.
The white car coming down the street had dark windows. Minogue stayed still and watched the Celica. Ryan stepped out of the passenger side and stood stooped in the open door talking to the driver. Then he slammed the door and strode empty-handed into the pub. Minogue saw the driver indistinctly behind a half-opened window: a man, sunglasses. The Celica drove off but came to an abrupt halt and was reversed into the curb. The driver got out and looked up and down the street. Mid-twenties, chunky and sunburned, liked his clothes. Film director gold-rimmed sunglasses. He strolled to the footpath, put a foot against the wall behind him and lit a cigarette.
He eased away from the wall and began pacing slowly up and down the footpath. Occasionally he kicked at things he found in his study of the path. The head came up and the sunglasses swivelled with the head as he looked up the street. Minogue shoved his head back into the headrest, closed his eyes and let his jaw sag. He counted to six and allowed the eyelashes to part a little. The sunglasses were still facing his way. Bugger, he thought: sussed. He couldn’t look away. Sunglasses took out keys and opened the driver’s side. Minogue reached for the phone and glanced down to locate the memory button for Mobile Dispatch. He’d asked for the squad car to stay off the street. Sunglasses was winding up the window. He stepped back, slammed the door and set the alarm on the car. Minogue dithered and dumped the call. Sunglasses had sauntered into the pub. Minogue would go in after him himself.
He eased the Citroen out onto the road, reversed and parked it across the front of the Celica. He walked around the back and stuck his face against the glass of the Celica’s hatchback. He shifted around and cupped his hands better against the reflections. He even tried standing back. All he could make out was his own disgruntled frown.
The pub was air-conditioned. He let the door swing shut behind him and tried to adjust his eyes. A barman wearing a dress shirt nodded at him. Minogue moved through the pub, trying to remember if there were other doors out. There was a dozen or so customers but no Malone. He rounded a partition wall and saw Ryan walking away from the bar. Behind him he saw the driver, his glasses dangling in one hand. His other hand, fingers spread, was almost touching Malone’s chest. Malone’s eyes went from Minogue to the driver and back. He took a step but the driver blocked him. Ryan slowed and his eyes searched Minogue’s face. Malone said something to the driver. Minogue saw the splayed hand push at Malone’s chest, the sunglasses being flicked away from the other.