“It was just an office, a place with a phone. Up a few flights of stairs somewhere. Near Mercer’s hospital. Where the rag trade is.”
“That’s all you can do? Something about Ali shagging Baba?”
“A hundred nights…something like that.”
“What is it, a telephone job? Rent-a-girl?”
“‘Models.’ Yeah. Dates and stuff.”
“All the way?”
Lenehan shrugged.
“I suppose. What’s ‘all the way’ for you?”
Malone continued to stare at him. Lenehan kept stroking his bottom lip. Finally he looked up.
“What about a smoke or something,” he said.
“No, thanks,” said Malone. He strolled to the door. “I haven’t had a smoke since I was ten or eleven, Lolly.”
Minogue dropped the head-set and went into the hall.
“I’d prefer you didn’t pull that stunt again, Tommy. I thought he was going to go by on us.”
“Sorry.”
“We’d be nowhere if he’d clammed up.”
Malone’s frown, his downcast glance, suggested defiant contrition to Minogue. The detective’s head came up and he smiled.
“Feels good though,” he said. “Doesn’t it?”
Minogue grinned back.
“You’ve more in common with the Killer than either you or he would like to admit.”
“I want a word with him,” said Malone. “Lenehan. With the tape off though.”
“Can’t do that, Tommy.”
“I’m not going to put the heavy word on him or anything.”
Minogue eyed him.
“That’s right. You’re not, Tommy.”
“Just a bit of advice for him? A minute?”
Minogue continued to give Malone the eye.
“I’ll be listening in then. I’ll scrub the tape for one minute. Don’t mess with your good luck, Tommy. And get John Murtagh out of the room. He shouldn’t have to carry anything.”
The Inspector returned to the monitoring room. Murtagh gave a blank look at the glass as he left the room. Minogue put his hand over the recording button.
“Did you find the number then?” Lenehan asked.
Malone stared at him.
“What number? I came back to tell you something.”
Lenehan blinked and drew in his legs. Malone leaned over the table between them.
“Do you know why you’re in here, Lolly?”
“I got nailed, that’s why. Bad luck. Am I missing out on something deep here?”
“Why you’re in such a bleeding mess, is what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do as a matter of fact. I was set up by the cops. Is that news around here or something?”
“No, no, no. You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Tell me then, know-it-all.”
“It’s because you have no discipline, man-”
“Aw, fuck, is this school or something? What the hell are you on about? Discipline?”
“You had to slip up. That’s just how it is for iijits. You think you’re smart, that you get away with the odd trick. A lot of tricks even. All you gougers are the same. You’re going away for a long time, pal. And if I find out that you did for Mary-”
“I fucking didn’t! Who’s the iijit around here now, that’s what I’d like to know!”
“Or if you know who did, or if you are covering for someone who did…”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll be all over you, Lolly. You’re messing with me, I’ll fucking land on you.” Lenehan let his legs out again. He nodded as he drew on the cigarette.
“Oh, now I get it. This is personal, man. In that case, I hope Terry fucks you over, man. I really do.”
Minogue noticed that a line had appeared on Malone’s cheek.
“Well, seeing as you brought up the matter. You know Terry, right?”
A smile flickered around the corners of Lenehan’s lips. “Yeah, I heard of Terry.”
“This is a message for anyone visiting you. Leave my brother alone. You got that?”
Lenehan blew a very flawed smoke-ring. “It’s a free country,” he said. “What can I do?”
Malone stood.
“A bit late to be asking me, isn’t it?”
He was on his feet and moving before he was certain it wasn’t a dream. His heart raced and now the weakness which followed the moment’s terror was flooding up from his knees. It was his own breath he heard snorting out. The dog stood off with its nose jabbing the air left and right. He took a step toward the tree and eyed the owner. The man didn’t want to look him in the eye.
“Sea-musss! Sea-mus!”
He looked back at the dog. It was a mongrel, but mostly spaniel with those big eyes, a yapper.
“Fuck off now, dog,” he muttered. “Or else.”
And the dog trotted off. Smart dog. The rest of the morning began to arrive to him: steady traffic on the Main Road through the Park, the sun over the trees. He tried to swallow. It was like swallowing sand. He looked at his watch: half-eight! He’d actually slept? Right here, in the dark, out in a wood in Phoenix Park? It was the dog’s panting woke him before the calls of its owner.
His back was as stiff as a board. It felt like he’d been fighting with a thousand video Ninja madmen in his sleep. But he was alive, he was standing up. He had made it-whatever that meant. He found his cigarettes and lit one. Two left. He counted back. He must have been awake until three o’clock or even four. If he had fallen asleep with a fag in his hand and then woken up with that bloody dog lifting its leg on him! Get a laugh out of that someday.
The first pulls on the cigarette had him light-headed and hawking. His stuff lay crumpled on the ground. The extra shirt he’d tried to cover himself with, the other jeans. His head began to clear. He remembered walking out to the road just to be near the lights for a while. Fragments from his dreams came back to him. Dreams about animals: hippos, ostriches, lions escaping from the bleeding zoo.
He spotted two joggers running along next to the Main Road. He imagined himself there with them. He could still run. Maybe if he just changed his name-how did you go about that, anyway? Stupid idea. It’d cost a lot of money for starters, and then he’d lose his dole. If he could only slip out there into Cabra or somewhere, get a place, find a bit of work. Grow a beard. They’d never find him. He watched the joggers until they descended through the trees into a hollow.
He ground the butt into the clay. There was no Coke left. He bit into a biscuit but the taste on his lips turned him off before he even chewed. He tossed it into the trees. He’d left the chalk drawings all wrapped up in plastic bags at the back of a demolished building down the quays. Why the hell had he asked the Ma to bring those stupid drawings anyway? Rolling them out on some footpath next to Grafton Street, trying to get a few quid in his hat? Everyone in the bleeding city could see him there. What had he been thinking about?
The panic began to creep up on him. What the hell could he do, just sit here waiting for things to sort themselves out? He looked about at the empty Coke tins, the cigarette butts, the plastic bags of clothes. He’d often passed tinker camps by the side of the road and wondered how they could live like that, with clothes and rubbish thrown all over the place. He eased himself up slowly and began gathering the bags. He’d leave them hidden near here somewhere. It was about a twenty minute walk to the Gates. Once he got close to the gates, he’d make a quick dart out onto the quays. Down Stoneybatter toward the Markets, get a bit of something to eat there. A cup of tea at least, buy fags.
