‘No, I mean, the cops are all over us.’
‘And, if we don’t go it’s as plain as a confession.’
‘But better than actually getting caught.’
Doc swallowed a huge drink. Didn’t knock a feather outa him, gave me the no shit stare, said, ‘Dave, I have to have this money, OK…’
‘We’re not hurting.’
He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand, said, ‘Will yah listen to him! I’m up to me arse with school fees, the memorial to Laura…’
‘The what?’
‘In marble. I promised Father Cleary the new Church wing would be Laura’s wish.’
I couldn’t believe it, said, ‘I can’t believe it. Well be in the wing – on friggin’ Parkhurst.’
‘Are you with me or not Dave.’
What could I do. He was the only person ever to fight my corner.
‘OK… but.’
‘Good man, now drink up – you’d think it was your funeral.’
I went back later to get the condolence card but it was gone. A bad feeling like talking death was all over me, whisperin’ – ‘soon’.
Father Cleary was early sixties – I’m not referring to his age. He had that aura of optimism and stupidity. You just knew he hummed the Beatles. Couple that with the air of the professional beggar and you’d a near-lethal cocktail. He approached me with gusto and I thought, ‘Watch yer wallet.’
His greeting, ‘Ah, Mr Collins I do declare.’
‘It’s Cooper.’
‘Really?’
He sounded as if he’d never quite reconciled himself to liars, then, ‘Are you sure. Ho ho, listen to me, course you’re sure. I wanted to thank you for the generosity of your donation from the firm.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Too modest Mr C. You’re not of our persuasion, I take it, which makes it even more magnificent.’
‘That’s one word for it.’
‘You’re not an atheist I trust.’
‘Presbyterian.’
‘Same thing.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Just joking, some ecclesiastical humour.’
‘Is that what it is. My father was a God-fearing man.’
‘And passed over has he – the poor creature.’
‘Took off actually.’
He gave a look round, time up for me but I figured I’d hold him a bit as he gave his exit line.
‘Laura had a grand send off.’
‘I thought you guys, the R.C.’s, frowned on suicide.’
He prepared his smile, more of the e-humour: ‘Naturally we don’t encourage it but an air of leniency exists nowadays. For example, we don’t insist on ceremony or titles so much. You needn’t call me Father, you can call me Pat.’
‘Why on earth would I wanna do that?’
And he hadn’t a reply. His smile dissolved, so I gave him a playful push, a forceful one, added, ‘Hey, lighten up Padre, that’s a little repo humour. Isn’t God after all, the ultimate repo man.’
And left him to it.
No doubt he could work it into a sermon. Very little got by him save the invention of dry cleaning. He’d had the shiniest black pants I’d ever seen, from pure wear. Made of Terylene, remember that. The sheen accessorised the spit in his soul.
GUNS
As I left the funeral, I near said festivities and maybe that was more accurate. Doc grabbed my arm, ‘You’re leggin’ it already.’
‘Yeah, I’m funned out.’
‘Oh, that’s rich Cooper.’
‘Was there something?’
‘Hardware. We’re gonna need some shooters right – the guy fell thru but I got another address. Here, you go arm us.’
‘But this is in Islington.’
‘What, you think they only sell guns in Kilburn?’
‘Bad fuck to this – I dunno this guy.’
‘He’s expecting you.’
‘Wonderful, thing is what’s he expecting from me?’
‘Cash, lotsa cash.’
‘How novel.’
But Doc had already turned away. Father Cleary was calling. I wanted to go to Islington about as much as I’d want an evening with Quinn. Traffic was light and I got over there in jig time. The day’s repo was the Renault Espace Turbo Diesel. A sort of double retake as the company was recalling them, to install a fuse in the engine’s diesel pre-heating system. Heat sometimes damaged the wiring harness. What I did was be careful. Enough heat going down already. Couldn’t find the house for ages. Saw a size nine and toyed with asking, ‘Know where the gun dealer hangs his shingle?’
Then bingo! Got outa the door and locked it by remote from the pavement. It gives that ‘ping’ so beloved by yuppies everywhere. Shit, all I needed was the cellular and I’d be the total asshole. Rang the doorbell – the door opened a crack.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you Joseph?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Look, I feel ridiculous saying this but Doc sent me. He forgot to give me a password, his secret service training ain’t what it used to be.’
‘Come in.’
Nice clean house, not a gun in sight. Nice clean gun dealer too. Joseph was in his mid-twenties, crew cut and Miami Vice casuals. Loose shirt, pants and, we hoped not loose-tongued. He had a corduroy face as if someone sat on it and it didn’t bounce back. Dark eyes with fire. Doc hadn’t mentioned the guy was a dance short on his card, light on the feet. Not yer screaming queen but it was there. He gave me the smile, puts lots of teeth in it, asked, ‘See something you like?’
The accent was Kensington muted. Let you know he had class but not pushing it. I said, ‘You’re a bit young.’
‘How many gun dealers have you met?’
‘Son… how many would I want to?’
He let it settle, then decided to take it lightly. Or else… shoot me?
‘And how is the good doctor?’
‘Keeping well. Keeping stum more like.’
‘Some refreshments?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Let us then to the penthouse.’
