“Hard to say. Says she, ‘You have to be very careful these days.’ She’d heard that ‘organized crime’ had moved in and was dragging the profession into the dirt.“
“‘Profession,” said Minogue.
“She said she’d thought of getting out of the ‘profession’ but couldn’t do it to her clients.”
“Is she scared?”
“Hard to say. She’s happy enough to pass a fella on to someone who does a different kind of photography though.”
“What’s in it for her?”
“I reckon she’s in on it somewhere. Far enough out to be able to hold her nose and walk away from any poking we can do. But I bet she gets a backhander for passing someone on to the other end of the business.”
“Just a front?”
“No. I saw ads and clippings in the model’s port…what you call it. I suppose she’s legit.”
“Portfolios.”
“Well, I got a phone number that we didn’t have before.”
Minogue started the engine and the Citroen rose up smartly on its suspension.
“Lift-off,” said Malone. The Inspector worked the car down off the curb.
“What are we looking at, Tommy?”
“Pictures. ‘Models.’ Mary Mullen. Prostitution. I don’t know.”
“Who tossed her place?” asked the Inspector. “What did they want?”
Malone tapped the door panel.
“And was she already in the canal when the place was done?”
Minogue took the phone out of the glove box. Murtagh was back.
“Thanks, Eilis,” he said. He studied the crowds on South Great George’s Street.
“Johnner? Me and Tommy are out here baking away in the car. How’d it go with Lollipop?”
“Oh, we kept after him but little else came of it. It was Tommy woke him up in earnest.”
“We’re still working that angle about, er, modelling, John. Did Lenehan spit up any more about this modelling thing?”
“No. He was talking about dirty pictures, he said.”
“Of Mary.”
“Right. That’s the same as he told us earlier on. He didn’t budge on it.”
Minogue heard the yawn.
“Book off, John. You’ve been on all night, man. Call after a snooze, will you?”
There was nothing in the paper. Where would he get hold of yesterday’s? He should get batteries for the Walkman and get some news. He looked around the restaurant. The lunchtime mob had gone and the shoppers and the unemployed and the chancers were sitting around. What was that long-haired bollicks looking at? He got up and stepped out onto the footpath. Probably trying to score a hit, thought he looked the part. Jesus. Did he look that obvious?
He moved along Capel Street close to the shops. The hamburger and milkshake were moving around like snakes somewhere in his guts. He stopped by the open door of a pub and squinted into the dim interior. A pint of something, anything.
He ordered a pint of lager and drank half of it in his first draught. The barman eyed him as he loaded the fridges. He could stay here all day just nursing pints, that’d be perfect. He’d be off the streets; he could think, figure out a plan. What was the bloody barman looking at? It felt like the cold lager had slushed around his brain. He looked around the pub at the handful of customers. There were two fellas with aprons from the Markets. A middle- aged guy with his tie loose and his face all rubbery from the drink was moving in on a woman with a tube skirt. She kept trying to laugh him off, crossing her legs and talking to the barman who was trying to ignore her. Maybe there was a reward. He saw himself talking into the phone, a cop at the other end. His eyes came back into focus: he was staring at his face in the mirror. He grabbed his glass but one finger jabbed it. It whirled before falling.
“Shit,” he hissed.
“Look here,” the barman said and stood up.
“You think I did it on purpose?” he muttered to the barman. The barman stared at him.
“Well, do you?” His voice was louder than he’d expected.
“Get off the premises, now. Or I’ll call the Guards.”
He was moving toward the door, a bit dizzy but full of the strength his anger had brought. Out in the street with the door swinging behind him he stopped and stood. Two women with shopping bags gave him a wide berth. The sunlight hurt his eyes. He began walking but blundered into a teenager.
“Hey,” said the teenager. He thought about turning back and giving him a rap in the snot.
He spotted a phone box at the corner of the next street. Some pages of the Dublin phone book had been torn out but he found the Guards’ one. He took out his change and placed the coins on a ledge. He lit a cigarette, shoved in the coins and dialled.
“Yeah?” he replied to the voice. “Which of yous does murders and stuff?”
Malone was doubtful. He pulled at the hair sticking up over his forehead.
“I’m not the expert,” he said.
“You look the part,” said Minogue. Malone gave him a sidelong glance.
“Thanks very much,” he said.
“We can’t go together anyway. So go on in and get what you can.”
Malone moved off reluctantly from the car. He pushed open the door and moved around the partitions to the deeper recesses of the pub. A tall man with thinning light-blond hair turned on his stool. On his own it looked, Malone thought, a pint of beer in front of him. Blondie gave him the once-over and nodded. Malone slid onto a stool and ordered a pint of lager.
“Howiya,” said Blondie. “Was it you phoned?” Dub accent, but not the real thing, Malone decided. Late thirties. He looked like a clapped-out pop star.
“Yeah. I was looking for, you know. Did you bring any?”
“Any what?”
It flashed through Malone’s mind that the one from the modelling agency might have tipped Blondie off. Why would he show up then?
“You know yourself, like.” He shrugged and glanced down at the floor. No bag. Blondie took a slow drink from his glass. Malone paid the barman and started into his pint. He felt the eyes on him while he drank. Maybe he should act like a creep.
“Well, what sort of stuff are you into?”
Malone kept at the pint for several seconds.
“Well, I’m kind of into sports a bit. You know?”
“Sort of figured that,” said Blondie. His face stayed blank. He continued to stare at Malone. “You’re either a fucking cop or a fucking gangster.”
“I could be a fucking priest too, couldn’t I?”
Blondie’s stare was unblinking.
“So who do you know?”
Malone looked from the row of bottles back into the man’s stare.
“Painless. Painless Balfe? Lollipop Lenehan. Them.”
His gamble seemed to register in Blondie’s eyes. Was he going to smile? No.
“That’ll cost you.”
“What?”
“Extra, that’s what.”
“So?”
“If you’re into the same stuff as those guys. It costs money to play rough, pal.”
“Well, I’m not totally into that, man. I mean, there’s lots of stuff, right?”
Blondie’s eyes glazed over. He looked around the pub.
