Donie runs his tongue around the inside of his lip, where the pillow mashed it into his teeth, and examines Cal with those flat pale eyes. “You want me to convince you some more?” Cal asks. “We got at least an hour. I can be real convincing in an hour.”
“Why d’you wanta know about Brendan?”
“Lemme get you started,” Cal says. “Brendan was setting up as a meth cook for your buddies from Dublin. Take it from there.”
“Little prick thought he was outa Breaking Bad,” Donie says. “‘All ye have is the shake-n-bake shite, I can make ye the pure stuff . . . ’ Fuckin’ tosser.” Cal watches his eyes in case he has a weapon stashed somewhere, but his focus is on his fingers. He examines them at various angles, experiments with flexing them and grimaces.
“You weren’t a fan, huh?”
“I told them all along. Useless little prick, thinks he’s the dog’s bollox. He’ll let you down.”
“They shoulda listened to you,” Cal agrees. “Woulda made all our lives a lot simpler.”
Donie goes for the littered bedside table. Cal shoves him backwards onto the bed. “Nope,” he says.
“I need a smoke, man.”
“You can wait. I don’t wanna breathe that shit; this room stinks bad enough already. You do anything useful for these Dublin boys, or they just keep you around for decoration?”
Donie picks himself up, carefully keeping his sore hand uninvolved. “They need me. You can’t run the game without local lads.”
“And I’m sure they appreciate you the way you deserve. You have anything to do with Brendan?”
“Hadta help the little prick clear out the aul’ house where he was setting up. Get him what he needed.” Donie bares his too-small teeth like he wants to bite. “Sending me out with a shopping list, like a fuckin’ servant.”
“Like what?”
“Sudafed. Batteries. Propane tanks. Generator. Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.”
“Anhydrous?”
“Nah. Little prick said he’d do that himself, I’d only fuck it up.” Donie sniggers. “He was the one that fucked it up.”
“How?”
Donie shrugs. “How would I know? Took too much, maybe. Anyhow P.J. Fallon spotted it and called the Guards. Little prick musta talked him into sending them home again, but—”
“How’d he do that?”
“P.J.’s soft in the head. Anything’d do it.” Donie puts on an unpleasant whine: “‘My poor aul’ mammy, if I get sent down she’ll be all alone . . . ’ Only the little prick musta let slip to P.J. where he’d put the anhydrous.”
“Which was where? His lab?”
“‘Lab,’” Donie says, and sniggers. “Aul’ tip of a house up the mountains. Little prick swore no one else knew about it. P.J. and a few of his mates went in and cleared it out. Not just the anhydrous. Generator, batteries, anything worth anything. Five, six hundred quid’s worth, easy.”
Cal doesn’t need to ask who P.J.’s mates included. Mart, that know-it-all fuck: he really did know it all, or most of it anyway. All the time Cal was babbling on about big cats, and all the time he was wandering around asking innocent questions about wiring, Mart knew exactly who each of them was looking for, and why.
“The Dublin guys find out?” he asks.
Donie grins. “Ah, yeah.”
“How?”
“I dunno, man. Maybe they had a lookout on the place, check for themselves was it really as safe as the little prick said.” Donie’s grin widens. He seems surprisingly at ease with this conversation, now that he’s got accustomed to the idea of it. Cal has met people like Donie before: people who barely registered even pain or fear, let alone anything else, like their emotions never grew in right. None of them improved anyone’s life in any way. “Little prick was shitting himself. I’d say he’d been hoping to keep it on the QT that he’d been snared. Try and get hold of the cash to replace all the gear before they found out.”
“What’d they do?”
“Had me set up a meeting. Them and him.”
“Where?”
“That aul’ house.”
“To do what?”
“Give him a few slaps, probably. For being a thick cunt and drawing attention. Only the little prick didn’t show. He done a runner.”
Donie’s eye is wandering to the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table again. Cal snaps his fingers in his face. “Focus, Donie. That all they woulda done to him? A few slaps?”
“Long as he paid it back, yeah. They wanted him to do the work for them.”
“He know that?”
Donie shrugs. “Fuckin’ eejit didn’t know his arse from his elbow. He was in over his head, know what I mean? You wanta work with these lads, you haveta be smart. Not fuckin’ chemistry shite. Street smart.”
“Were you at the meeting?”
“Nah. Other stuff to do.”
Meaning he wasn’t invited, and meaning he doesn’t know whether or not the Dublin boys were telling him the truth about Brendan not showing up. Brendan was an optimistic guy; he could have gone bouncing out the door figuring he was about to put everything happily back on track, and only found out different when it was too late. Cal says, “Did the Dublin boys ask you where he could’ve gone?”
“How would I know? I wasn’t his fuckin’ babysitter.”
“They go after him? Catch him?”
Donie shakes his head. “I’m not thick, man. I didn’t ask.”
“Come on, Donie. How pissed off were they?”
“What d’you fuckin’ think?”
“Right. You figure they’d just let Brendan ride off into the sunset?”
“Don’t wanta know. All I know is they told me to put the frighteners on those aul’ fellas. Make sure they knew to keep their mouths shut, stay out of our business from now on.”
“The sheep,” Cal says.
Donie grins again, an involuntary grin like a spasm.
“Well, that musta been rewarding,” Cal says. “Finally, something that made the most of your God-given talents.”
“Just getting the job done, man.”
Cal looks at Donie, sitting on the edge of his bed with his pudgy bare knees wide apart, poking at his broken finger, sneaking the odd speculative glance at Cal. Donie is keeping something back.
He didn’t like Brendan one bit, which is understandable. Donie had been doing the donkey work for this gang for God knows how long, and all of a sudden Brendan came riding in, just an uppity kid talking big, and Donie was stuck being his errand boy. He wanted the little smartass gone, and Cal gets the distinct feeling that he took steps to make that happen. Maybe he told Brendan that that meeting would involve a lot more than a few slaps, scared the shit out of him, nudged him into skipping town. Or maybe he just accompanied Brendan along the way, and picked a lonely stretch of mountainside.
Cal considers getting the full story out of Donie, who is now removing fluff from his belly button. He decides against it, on the grounds that right at this moment he doesn’t actually give a shit what happened to Brendan Reddy. He needs as much of this story as it takes to find out who made Sheila beat Trey, and why. The rest of it can wait.
“And once you got the job done,” he says, “everything went back to normal.”
“Yeah. Until you came sticking your nose in. I want a fucking smoke, man.”
“Speaking of people sticking their noses in,” Cal says. “Trey Reddy.”
Donie’s lip lifts. “What about her?”
“She came to see you the other day, asking about Brendan. And then someone beat her up pretty bad.”
That makes Donie snigger. “No harm done there. The bitch was ugly to begin with.”
Cal punches him in the stomach so fast Donie never sees it coming. He doubles up and collapses sideways onto the bed, wheezing and then retching.
Cal waits. He doesn’t want to have to hit Donie again; every time he touches the guy, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop. “Start over,” he says, when Donie eventually drags himself back up to sitting, wiping a trickle of spit off his chin. “Get it right this time. Trey Reddy.”