Since Casey, his bodyguard, was shot, he hadn’t been seen either. Now I learnt he was in Belfast, having his knee rebuilt. The experts in such injuries are there. If you want information and fast, pay for it,
I did.
Found lots of information, including a special piece of Bill’s family history that I knew I could use to manipulate him. I never expected to find this; it just turned up in my search.
Tracked down the barman who’d tended Sweeney’s. He was a bouncer at a club in Eglington Street. When I finally caught up with him, he was on his break, having a drink at the bar. I said,
“How you doing?”
“Fuck off.”
“You know me?”
He didn’t even look at me, said,
“I don’t care who you are, fuck off.”
“Want some money?”
Now he looked, said,
“Taylor... yeah, I remember you.”
“So, do you want the money or not?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Tell me where Bill Cassell is.”
I showed him the wad of money. He drained his glass, belched, then massaged his beer gut, said,
“Sure, I can tell you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Bill’s in the hospice. The cancer is in the last stages. Old Bill won’t be coming back.”
I handed over the money, said,
“You don’t sound too sorry.”
“For him? Good fucking riddance. His strong arm guy, he got shot in the knee.”
“Who shot him?”
“Some fuck with a bad aim.”
“Bad?”
“Yeah, he should have blown his head off.”
He stood up, said,
“I have to go back to work, crack some skulls.”
I went to the hospice early in the morning. Had rung first to confirm he was there and to establish visiting hours. You’d expect it to be a dark, depressing place.
It wasn’t.
Full of light, bright colours and warm, cheerful staff. When I asked at reception for Bill, the woman smiled, said,
“You’re here to visit?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
I was carrying flowers, chocolates, fruit and lucozade: all the ingredients of bad karma. We stopped at a bright blue door and she knocked. We heard,
“Come in.”
She said,
“I’ll leave you to surprise him.”
“I intend to.”
I opened the door. At first I couldn’t see him, then realised it was because he’d wasted away to such a degree. His head propped on the pillow was almost transparent. The eyes retained their ferocity.
Wilde said,
“Put a man in a mask, and he’ll tell you the truth.”
I was hoping a hospital bed might have the same effect. I crossed the room, moved the wastebasket with my foot, let the goodies crash into it, said,
“What, you thought that I brought them for you?”
Moved right up to him, caught the front of his pyjamas in my left hand. He weighed nothing. With my right fist, I punched him twice in the side of his head.
Hard solid blows.
The ferocity slipped from his eyes to be replaced by shock. I doubt if any one had ever touched him in his adult life. I let go and he fell back. I pulled up a chair, took out my cigs, said,
“Don’t suppose they like smoking?”
Lit up.
Gradually, his focus returned, and I said,
“Tell me about Rita Monroe.”
His breath came in laboured gasps as he began,
“She was the bitch from hell. Delighted in tormenting the Magdalen girls. Used to make my mother stand outside wrapped in wet sheets. Shaved their hair off, plus the daily beatings and starvation. Her favourite trick was to stand my mother in boiling water to burn the evil out!”
“Who killed her nephews?”
He gave a tight smile,
“How would I know? But if you wanted to torture somebody, really make them suffer, then take away what they love most. She’d no family, but I hear she adored those boys. I had hoped to meet her face to face, ask her how it felt.”
He indicated his situation, said,
“As you can see, I’m otherwise engaged.”
“You turned my room over?”
“Me?... though I hear you’re still at Bailey’s.”
“And the break-ins at her house?”
“Again, I wouldn’t know. I like the suggestion, get her nice and shaky for the main event.”
I pushed the chair back. He didn’t flinch, said,
“What? You’re going to beat me to death. You’d be doing me a favour. Another week, I’ll be dead anyway. You wonder why I employed you? You see, I needed a witness. I could have found that cunt any time. You see how easy it was to locate the nephews, but you had to be convinced it was a genuine search, otherwise what sort of witness would you have made? I wanted her to feel safe, secure, thinking the past was done. But once my own time was measured, it was get the game in motion. I used you to fuck with you. Your room was trashed as a little extra, as I know how precious those bloody books were to you. Did it piss you off, get your motor running? I always hated you, swaggering round as a guard, like you were something special. Getting you involved, how much of a swagger have you now?”
I looked at him, said,
“You hired me because you knew I’d find her, though?”
“Course. It made you an accomplice.”
“Well then, Bill, you won’t be surprised to know I found somebody else.”
He attempted to sit up, apprehension on his face. I said,
“I thought about our schooldays, what I knew about you, then I remembered: you had a sister.”
Spittle forming at the corners of his mouth, he rasped,
“You leave her out of this. It’s nothing to do with her.”
I had his full attention, said,
“Maggie. Quiet girl, never married and...”
I paused, as if I wanted to arrange the information in my head, then,
“Lives alone at 14 Salthill Avenue. No visible means of support. You take care of her, don’t you?”
“So what?”
“So, I’d like you to think over this for the next week.”
“You stay away from her, hear me.”
“Imagine, Bill, a delicate person like that, how they’d react to a campaign of harassment and intimidation. I don’t need to tell you how easy it is to frighten a woman alone.”
Rage tore at his wasted body He asked,
“What do you want?”
“Jeez, Bill, I don’t want anything. I don’t think Maggie’s going to do very well when you’re gone.”
“I’ll tell you who the shooter is.”
“OK.”
He closed his eyes, the struggle not to concede stretched across his forehead, then,
“Michael Neville. He has one of those flats beside the Spanish Arch. On the top floor. There’s something wrong with him, apart from the fact that he endlessly chews Juicy Fruit. He’s not really there; it’s like he’s imitating a person but not making much of an effort.”
I moved to go, and he asked,
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll leave her alone... Maggie... she’s not like us... she...”
“Well, Bill, I’ll think about it.”
I opened the door, and he shouted,
“Jesus, Jack, come back. Give me some guarantee.”
I closed the door, began to walk up the corridor. Met the receptionist, who asked,
“Did the visit go well?”
“It did.”
“He’ll be easier in himself then.”
I d say so.
“You were good to come.”
“He and I go back a long way.”
She digested that, searched for a cliche to fit, said,
“Old friends are the best ones.”