Collusion

19

‘Se easy,’ Pye said. ‘You just hold him for mwen, yes?’

‘Hold him for you?’ Fegan asked.

‘Wi, yes, what I say?’

‘All right,’ Fegan said.

Pye got out of the car. Fegan followed, closing the passenger door behind him. Its alarm system blipped and blinked as Pye thumbed the key fob. The pawnshop stood in darkness. The Doyles said Murphy lived above it. They said Murphy shafted them on some jewellery deal, that he’d put money in his pocket that should have gone in theirs. Now they wanted that money back. They said Pye would do the work. Fegan was just for show.

Pye hammered the shutters. ‘Hey, Murphy! You home?’

Fegan watched the windows above for lights. Nothing stirred.

Pye kicked the shutters. ‘Murphy! Mwen know you home!’ He kicked three more times, and the shutters rippled with the force of it.

A window across the street opened. ‘Shut the fuck up! You know what time it is?’

Fegan and Pye turned to it. A bald-headed man leaned out of a third-storey window.

‘Fuck you!’ Pye shouted. ‘Mwen fuck you up, motherfucker.’

‘What?’ the bald man asked.

‘Mwen say fuck you,’ Pye said. ‘Mwen show you mwen knife.’

‘The fuck you talking about?’ the bald man said. ‘You going to talk tough, do it in fucking English, you fucking French-talking son of a bitch!’

‘French?’ Pye turned to Fegan, waved a hand at the angry man across the street. ‘Li say French?’

‘What?’ Fegan said.

‘Li say French,’ Pye said. ‘Motherfucker.’ He kicked the shutters again. And again.

A light appeared above the shop. Fegan stepped back onto the road and peered up at it. The window opened, and a red-headed man appeared. ‘Whoever the fuck’s kicking my shutter better have a fucking good reason, I swear to God.’

‘Hey, Murphy!’ the bald man across the street called. ‘You tell your friends not to come round waking people up, you hear me?’

Aw, fuck off, Cabel!’ Murphy shouted. ‘Mind your business and go back to bed.’

‘When people be kicking the shit out of your shop and waking me up, it is my business, you Mick bastard.’

‘Fuck you, Cabel,’ Murphy said. ‘Go back to bed or I’ll come over and put you to bed, you hear me?’

‘Fuck you, Murphy!’ The bald man slammed his window closed.

Asshole,’ Murphy said. He looked down. ‘Now who the fuck is kicking my shutters?’

‘Open, Murphy,’ Pye said. ‘Mwen want talk with you.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Pye Preval. Come down.’

‘Pye?’ Murphy leaned out to see better. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you call me? Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me. Who’s that with you?’

‘This friend mwen, Gerry,’ Pye said. ‘Li cool. Come down. Open the fucking door.’

‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.

‘What?’ Pye said.

‘Don’t tell him my name.’

Pye shrugged. ‘Wi, sure, no name.’

They waited until they saw a light through the shutter. It rose with a mechanical groan to stop at eye level. The door beyond opened, and Pye ducked under the metal. Fegan followed.

‘Close it,’ Pye said.

Murphy obliged. He held the button until the shutter sealed them in.

Guitars lined the pawnshop’s walls. Fegan walked in a slow circle, remembering the Martin he’d had back in Belfast, the one Ronnie Lennox left to him. He’d meant to learn to play it, but that hadn’t worked out.

‘So what do you want at this time of night?’ Murphy asked. He wore an open dressing gown, revealing a stained undershirt and pyjama bottoms. His slippers didn’t match.

‘Upstairs,’ Pye said.

‘What for?’ Murphy asked.

‘Parle,’ Pye said. ‘Talk.’

‘We can talk down here.’

‘Non,’ Pye said. ‘Upstairs.’

There on the wall, Fegan saw it. The headstock said C.F. Martin. It looked like the guitar Ronnie had given him, the same shape, the same size. The lacquer hadn’t taken on the same deep gold of age, but it was still pretty. Fegan reached up and brushed the strings with his fingertips. He’d never got to hear what Ronnie’s guitar sounded like. It still sat propped in the corner of his old house on Calcutta Street for all he knew.

‘Hey, don’t touch that,’ Murphy said. ‘It’s expensive.’

‘Non, non, non,’ Pye said. ‘You don’t say shit to friend mwen Gerry, hear?’

Murphy held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry, Pye,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean nothing. It’s expensive, is all.’

‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.

Wi, sorry,’ Pye said.

‘I didn’t hear your name,’ Murphy said. ‘Touch the guitar if you want. Knock yourself out.’

‘Upstairs,’ Pye said.

‘All right,’ Murphy said. ‘Come on.’

He led them through a back room to a narrow staircase. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors,’ he said as he climbed ahead of them. ‘I would’ve cleaned the place up otherwise.’

The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a small apartment and a ripe odour. Old newspapers gathered in piles around the living room. Murphy toured the place, picking up pornographic magazines and empty beer cans. He ducked into the kitchenette and dumped an armful of detritus under the sink.

Fegan and Pye exchanged a glance and a grimace.

Murphy came back out. ‘So what’s this about?’ he asked.

‘Sit,’ Pye said.

‘Jesus, Pye, you’re making me nervous. Come on, tell me what this is about.’

Pye pointed at the one chair clear of litter. ‘Sit,’ he said.

Murphy did as he was told.

Pye looked at Fegan and nodded at the space behind the chair. Fegan moved to it. Murphy twisted to follow Fegan with his eyes.

‘You’re scaring me, boys,’ Murphy said. He kept his head turned to Fegan. ‘You don’t say much, do you? What does he want? Can you talk, Mr No Name? Or are you here just to look mean?’

‘Friend mwen Gerry Fegan,’ Pye said. ‘Li the meanest motherfucker you ever met. Li a lougawou. Li a boko, a bad witch. Li fuck you up big time.’

‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.

‘Sure,’ Pye said. ‘Non worry, Gerry.’

‘Pye, I don’t know what you’re saying to me.’ Murphy turned first to Fegan, then the Haitian. ‘And I don’t know who the fuck this guy is. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you if I can, all right? Just speak English, okay?’

Pye stepped carefully over his words. ‘You bought jewels from Doyles. You say jewels worth sa much. You sell jewels, you say jewels worth sa much.’ Pye held his palms up and open as he stepped closer to Murphy, raising and lowering his hands like scales. ‘Sa much, sa much. Big different lajan. You put lajan in pocket, wi?’

‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ Murphy said. He turned in the seat. ‘Gerry. Gerry, right?’