Eightball Boogie Page 3

  She waited. I drank my coffee, built another smoke.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s the dirt?”

  “Who said it was dirty? You took for granted it was crooked. All it proves is, Tony’s a hypocrite.”

  “He’s a hypocrite. Big fucking deal.”

  “It used to be.”

  “Come down off the cross Harry, you’ll get dizzy. Just tell me if you have anything on Sheridan. Is he dirty? Whoring around? Anything at all that might drive his wife to cut her own throat? Otherwise, you’re wasting my time.”

  I thought it over.

  “Nope, I’m just wasting your time.”

  She put the notebook down.

  “I’m not going blow you, Harry, no matter how much you wave your dick around. So get over it and do it fast. I made some calls. This hasn’t broken yet but once it gets out we’re buried, it’ll roll all over us.” She checked her watch. “Jesus, look at the time.”

  “A date?”

  She flicked her fringe, blew me a smacker that dripped acid.

  “Split ends, Harry. A girl should always look her best.”

  “In case the cameras arrive?”

  “Exactly.” She packed her bag again, stood up. “Cheers for the coffee.”

  “Huzzah.”

  I watched her go, sipping the coffee, mulling over the newspaper clipping, wondering why she had left it behind. Then I climbed the three flights of stairs to the office, hoping that somebody’s dog had gone missing.

  3

  The hum of Thai takeaway dumped in an ashtray let me know the office door was already open. Which meant B&E, not that breaking in would have taken a mastermind, the toughest part would have been not shaking the door off its hinges in the process. A fat kid could have broken in just by leaning on the frosted glass.

  He’d have to be a pretty bored fat kid. The office contained a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet that boasted three files, two of them containing bills, paid and unpaid, and no prizes for guessing which was the thinner. The third file, the case file, was anorexic.

  The fat kid was touching forty and not liking the grain, a Turkish wrestler sucked into a rust-coloured Armani. He had bulbous lips, a thick nose. The sallow skin looked like it needed a shave once a week. He had piggy eyes, small, black and dead, and his hair was heavily gelled, slicked down.

  He nodded sociably as I walked in.

  “Nice place,” he rasped. The words came short, fast and from the side of his mouth, like they were cheaper that way. I nodded back, friendly as a folk mass.

  “Cheers. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Relax, Jesus.”

  “This is as relaxed as it gets. Too much coffee, a peptic ulcer, and the speed habit in my impressionable youth doesn’t help. I’d ring the Doc but he’s in drying out, second time this year, the smack complicates things and there’s a lot of it about recently. So – who the fuck are you?”

  I knew who he was. Frank Conway, a real estate auctioneer who flogged second-hand motors on the side. A lot of people knew Frank Conway. He’d only been around town for eighteen months but he drove an ’84 silver-grey convertible, a Merc SL, practically mint, the kind of motor gets you noticed. Still, we hadn’t been formally introduced and the last thing I needed, the butt of the .38 digging into my spine and Gonzo due home, was more trouble. And Frank Conway was trouble. Rumour had it, Frank’s cars came across the border all pilled up and ready to party.

  “Only reason I ask,” I added, “is Monday’s bin day and I’d hate for someone to mistake you for trash.”

  He fed me a faint smile. He nodded at the sign, stencilled on the frosted glass: Harry J. Rigby, Independent Research Bureau.

  “What’s the J stand for?”

  “It stands for get the fuck out of my seat.”

  He stood up and stretched, letting me know he was as big as he thought he was. Moved slowly around the desk, settled in the other chair. I slid in behind the desk, set my fresh coffee down, rolled a loose one. He said: “Ever get lost in here?”

  “Sorry, I don’t do sarcasm before breakfast. Now – is this an interior design kick or is there something I can actually do for you?”

  Usually I let the dick stuff go, but I didn’t like Conway. He was too smooth, too slick and oiled, like a lazy cat’s coat, and I hate cats, especially the lazy ones. He sat back, laid an ankle on a knee.

  “Get much business with that attitude, Bud?”

  “Tuesdays, my attitude makes me cry. Mondays I think I’m cute. Now start again and if you behave I’ll let you finish because I haven’t had a laugh in days.”

  I was half-hoping Conway would take the hint and leave but all he did was lean forward, flick his cigarette at the ashtray, although not like he was worried about getting the scholarship. He put his elbows on the desk, cleared his throat, said: “You’re Harry Rigby?”

  “Unless you’re from the Revenue, yeah.”

  “You’re a private investigator?”

  “I’m a research consultant.”

  “What’s that when it’s not at the zoo?”

  I took a deep breath and pitched the spiel.

  “I research information that isn’t readily available to private individuals. Running credit checks on prospective business partners, finding long lost lovers, that kind of thing. I provide covert observation for insurance companies in cases of suspected fraud. I document infidelity, or confirm that the husband’s suspicions are just that, and they’re usually the husband’s. I assist companies with security surveillance, and sometimes I hop along behind bouncing cheques. Missing dogs and family trees are steady earners. The perks include creative tax returns, fast food, late nights and the manners of a Protestant. The ulcer I had before I took the job. The coffee’s getting cold, by the way.”

  He nodded, sat back. Took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. I was guessing infidelity.

  “The name’s Conway. Frank Conway. And this is strictly confidential.”

  “Think of me as a priest, all the women do.”

  He laughed, a nasal bark.

  “You should meet my wife.”

  “She likes funny guys?”

  “They’re all hilarious, far as she’s concerned.”

  “Does she have a name, or is it relevant?”

  “Helen.”

  I dug a pad out of the top drawer, scribbled some notes.

  “And has she left or is she going to?”

  “Neither. I’m going to break her fucking neck.”

  “And you want me for what – an alibi?”

  He blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

  “Most husbands,” I prodded, “want to kill the bloke.”

  “Fuck him,” Conway rasped. “He doesn’t know any better. If he did he wouldn’t be screwing the bitch.”

  “You know for a fact that Mrs Conway is having an affair?”

  “She’s screwing around. I know.”

  “Worst thing you can do is jump to conclusions.” From where I was sitting, jumping to conclusions was all the exercise Conway got. “Maybe you should consider other possibilities.”

  “Like what?”

  I knew, from experience, that the rational approach was pointless. When a man is so convinced his wife is screwing someone else that he can tell another man, an act of God won’t change his mind. I tried anyway, needing the gig. I always needed the gig. Chasing missing dogs is no job for a grown man.

  “Most dick jobs are paranoia,” I explained. “Blokes who work so hard to compensate for the size of their dicks, they don’t get to use them. It’s only a matter of time before they start wondering why wifey is so happy with the situation. Sometimes the bloke is right, wifey’s playing away from home, but it doesn’t happen that often. And either way, a happy ending isn’t on the cards.”

  “What the fuck is this, The Samaritans?”

  Big Frank knew and nothing else mattered. I didn’t point out that maybe the fact that no
thing else mattered might be the reason Helen Conway was screwing around. I said: “She has the opportunity?”

  The unholy trinity – motive, opportunity and proof. Proof was up to me, and after ten minutes with Frank Conway even I wanted to have an affair.

  “I’m out of town for a night or two most weeks,” he growled. “On business.”

  “Where?”

  His voice ground out a warning, harsh.

  “Here and there, it changes.”

  He stared. I scribbled.

  “So, what? You want me to confirm she’s having an affair? Breaking her neck isn’t really an option until you know for sure.”

  He nodded, curt.

  “Alright, I’ll need details – where she works, shops, gets her hair done. A recent photograph, that kind of thing.”

  He dug into his inside pocket, handed me a driver’s licence that should have carried a government health warning. She was the right side of forty, dark hair curling to her shoulders, head tilted back, accentuating the aquiline nose. There was mischief in the dark, almond-shaped eyes. The tiny smile was sardonic, knowing, and if the lower lip was less provocative than Ian Paisley it wasn’t by more than a thumped lectern.

  I’d seen her type before, mostly through binoculars, so I could understand why Conway might turn desperate if he thought she was playing away. That kind of woman comes around once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky, and that kind of luck doesn’t come cheap. I made a note of the details, handed back the licence. Wondering if Conway was carrying it because he’d come prepared, or in a vain attempt to stop his wife driving when he wasn’t around.

  “She has a bank account in her own name?”

  “Accounts. I don’t have the details with me.”

  “One will do and I’ll need it today. Hobbies?”

  “Hobbies?”

  “Flower-arranging, ballroom dancing, deep sea diving. Anything she does on her own, when you’re not around.”

  His tone was sullen.

  “She plays golf.”

  “At The Bridge?”

  “Where else?”

  At The Bridge your handicap was measured by the number of seasons your wife’s little black number was out of date.

  “Is she any good?”

  “What’s good got to do with it?”

  I made more notes. Then, the biggie: “I’ll need to know about the other bloke too.”

  He coughed, quick and too dry.

  “Like what?”

  “Like, any idea who he might be?”

  He stared so long I began to suspect myself. Then, with a brief shake of his head: “No.”

  “Affairs rarely happen between strangers. They usually happen between acquaintances, social partners, workmates.”

  Again with the sharp, nasal bark. He sounded like a sick seal.

  “Helen doesn’t work.”

  “And you’ve no reason to suspect any of your own associates?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  “Alright, I’ll take it from here. The less you know, the better you’ll sleep. If nothing turns up inside a month, six weeks, chances are there’s nothing to turn up.”

  “That soon?”

  “Everybody’s so worried that everyone’s watching them, they don’t notice when it’s just anyone watching them. Strange but true. If anything does turn up, I’ll document it and turn the file over to you, negatives included.”

  “Photographs?”

  “Incontrovertible evidence in a court of law. Come in handy if you want to avoid one too.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’ll need a retainer.”

  “What for?”

  “Expenses. Soft drugs. Lunar real estate, maybe. Who knows?”

  Another long stare. He scribbled a cheque.

  “When do I hear from you?”

  “When I call. You’re away when?”

  “Thursday usually, most of Friday. Sometimes Friday night too.”

  “Next week, come back Saturday. And let Helen – Mrs Conway – know you’ll be away both nights. If you can do it two weeks running, better still.”

  He got up like he’d forgotten how to stand. Pawed at the creases in his trousers, turned for the door. He looked back.

  “So what’s the J stand for?” He seemed composed again, a man in control of his own destiny, and he looked all the more plaintive for believing it.

  “It’s a joke.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “You’re not paying for funny. Funny’s extra.”

  He banged the door so hard my ulcer started tingling. I slipped the .38 out of my belt, put it away in the bottom drawer of the desk. Then I slugged from the bottle of Malox I keep in the top drawer, washing down a Prothiaden, and rang downstairs for a coffee that might poison me slower.

  4

  I rang Herbie.

  “Any joy with Sheridan?”

  “Nothing yet, the server’s acting up again.”

  Herbie’s main gig was shutterbug, although the grass he grew in his attic was a tidy nixer when things got quiet. The deal, when we hooked up, was I did the walking, asking the questions, and he handled the research, digging on the web, scanning ports, cracking passwords, finding back doors.

  “So what’s up?” he asked.

  “Not much.” Herbie didn’t need to know about Frank Conway, that was a solo gig. “I was just wondering about Sheridan.”

  “What about him?”

  “Where is he? He wasn’t at the house this morning, right?”

  “Regan said he was in Dublin. Some business meeting.”

  “Nice alibi. You up for a giggle?”

  “Like what?”

  “Meet me here in half-an-hour. Wear an overcoat. And look dumb.”

  The brunette opened the door, stepped back into the narrow hallway, still groggy from sleep, winding her dressing gown tight.

  “Miss Hunter?”

  She nodded.

  “Miss Joan Hunter?”

  She nodded again, blinking.

  “French,” I said, flashing her the inside of my wallet. I hooked a thumb over my shoulder at Herbie. “Naughton. Can we come in?”

  I was moving forward before she had a chance to answer and she melted back into the hallway. We filed in. It was a penthouse, one wall all window, the room spacious and bright, the décor black and minimalist. The river trudged by below and I could see the bridge in the distance. It was too warm, the heat oppressive. Orchids, thick, white and ugly, grew out of an ornate vase against the far wall. She said, suppressing a half-cough, her knuckles touched to her lips: “Can I help you?”

  I figured her for forty and looking it in the morning light. Her face was pale and drawn, dark rings under her eyes, up late last night, taking care of business in the nightclub. Herbie started in, aggressive.

  “We know that every second girl in your place last night was underage,” he growled. “Give me six hours and I’ll have a statement from a minor claiming a bloke picked her up and didn’t put her down, a statch rape beef. You’ll beat the rap but we’ll get the place closed down for two weeks, Christmas and New Year, the rags’ll be all over it – kinky sex, they love it more than me. Do I have your attention?”

  Her eyes blossomed and her mouth dropped open. It was her worst-case scenario realised, as delivered by a B-movie cop.

  “I don’t –”

  “Do I have your attention?”

  “Yes, yes of course. But –”

  I stepped in, slipping her a break.

  “Naughton is upset, Miss Hunter. We all are. There’s been a particularly vicious murder and we’re hoping you might be able to shed some light on the circumstances.”

  “Me? But – Who? Who’s been murdered?”

  Herbie hurtled into the breach, harsh: “Imelda Sheridan. Butchered this morning. You’re going to need three alibis, all priests.”

  Her face drained out, eyes glazed. My instinct was that she had no prior knowledge, clean as a w
histle as far as Imelda Sheridan was concerned. But that wasn’t why we were there.

  “Miss Hunter – it’s a delicate situation but you can depend on our discretion. I give you my word you will not be named in the investigation unless it is unavoidable.” I took a deep breath, for show. “We need to ask about your relationship with Tony Sheridan.”

  “Tony?”

  Herbie rattled her again.

  “Big Tony, yeah. You’ve been dancing the fandango, his wife knew. Now she’s dead, stabbed to death. So – spill.”

  “Tony and I… that’s over, that’s not… stabbed?”

  I said: “What did Imelda Sheridan think of your affair?”

  “I don’t know, Tony didn’t say. It wasn’t unusual for Tony...” Her eyes started filling up. “She was… I don’t know, she was…”

  I pinched my nose, tipping Herbie the sign – back off.

  “Miss Hunter – can I call you Joan?”

  She nodded, staring at the carpet, choking back a sob.

  “Joan, from what you know of Imelda Sheridan, would she have been likely to threaten anyone on the basis of Tony’s indiscretions?”

  She shook her head, snuffled something.

  “I’m sorry – Joan? Could you repeat that?”

  Then it all tumbled out in gulping sobs. We waited. When she ran out of steam, she dabbed at her eyes and said, hiccupping gently: “She was the gentle type, placid… I don’t know, mousey. She didn’t seem too worried about Tony. I thought she was glad, it kept him out of her bed. She seemed… not interested.”

  “Not interested?”

  “Some people aren’t.”

  “And Tony?”

  “Tony?” A hysterical giggle that snapped halfway through. “Very interested.”

  Herbie: “Did he ever give you a dig?”

  Her voice was low, husky.

  “No.”

  Yes. I said: “Did he ever talk about leaving Imelda, Joan?”

  “Leaving?”

  “Divorce.”

  This time she was emphatic, shaking her head.

  “Imelda would never agree to – oh.”

  “She had a strong faith? She was religious?”

  “No – I don’t know, maybe. But she was happy with what she had. She didn’t need Tony to enjoy it.”