Eightball Boogie (28 page)

I hadn’t bargained on Helen Conway carrying a gun. If I’d thought about it, maybe, I’d have considered it a possibility, but I hadn’t even thought about it, mainly because I need keyhole surgery to get ideas into my head. But she had a gun. Once she had a clear shot, a position where the danger to the pro was minimised, she’d let fly. Minimised, but not entirely neutralised. He’d taken the bullet. I’d taken everything it had left over, which was enough to save my life. The impact pitched us both across the room into the middle of the tea chests.

As soon as I hit the ground, the Ice Queen started snapping off shots. I scrabbled around, desperately trying to manoeuvre myself under the dead man. Splinters of wood, metal and celluloid flew as I tried to bury myself in the floor. The noise was deafening, so loud I couldn’t even hear myself scream. I was a dead man, as dead as the pro on my chest. I knew it – felt it – it was only a matter of time before a bullet finally found me.

Time comes in split seconds, infinitesimal moments. Somewhere, sometime, in a parallel universe, that split second arrived; the bullet found me and the cosmos ceased to be. Back on planet Rigby, another split second arrived. One of the tea chests toppled over, giving me a clear view of the Ice Queen along the barrel of the pro’s gun, her head suspended above the sight like a coconut at a shy. Never mind your Grand Canyons, your newborn babies or your tropical sunsets – the sight of the Ice Queen’s grim features resting on the barrel of the gun was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. I realised that I hadn’t flipped the safety catch off. Then I heard a twenty-one-gun salute and the Ice Queen buckled sideways, disappeared from sight.

I rolled to one side, aiming to get as far under the tea chests as possible. I had no idea where Helen Conway was or what she was doing, but I had a fair idea she wasn’t ringing out for wreaths. And then I heard, dimly, through the pealing bells, the voice of God.

“
Son? You alright, son?”

I peered over the tea chest. Baluba Joe was standing in the doorway, taller than I remembered him. Shoulders back, still wearing the grimy greatcoat, the soiled pants, the black beret. His right arm was extended, the old Colt .45 at the end of it pointed at the Ice Queen’s face. She didn’t seem offended, too busy trying to push her guts back into the hole in her side.

Katie was hunched in a corner, face to the wall, holding her crippled hand by the wrist. I pushed the tea chest away, staggered to my feet, legs shaking, breathing hard. My eyes were streaming from the stench of cordite, which was good, because it meant I couldn’t focus on the dead pro as I

stepped over him. Tony Sheridan had jammed himself between the projector and far wall, hands over his ears. I prodded him with the gun.

“
Get up, you bastard.”

He looked at me, fearful, not fully comprehending. Or maybe he didn’t hear me properly, my ears were ringing so badly I hardly heard myself. I jerked the gun at him. Still he didn’t move, so I cracked him one with the butt of the gun. I hit maybe harder than I had hit anything before in my life, the adrenaline coursing. He slumped, didn’t move. Blood ebbed from his temple. I cracked him another one, for luck.

Katie’s face was blank and white, all colour drained. She looked to be in shock. I hunkered down beside her.

“
Katie? You okay? Katie?”

She didn’t answer, gaze riveted on the Ice Queen. I stood up, wiggled the pro’s gun at her.

“
Kick it over here.”

She didn’t hear me. She too looked to be in shock, still trying to hold in the spaghetti of guts that overflowed her hands. I walked across, picked her gun up, slipped it deep into the pocket of the fleece. Then I went to the doorway. The Colt .45 must have weighed a ton but his arm didn’t waver. He said, soft: “How you doing, son?”

“
Fine, Joe. Now the cavalry is here.”

His eyes were still wide, blue and wild but at least he’d made an attempt to comb his hair. He said: “What happens now?”

“
What happens now is you go home. I’ll look after it from here.”

“
There’s more?”

“
It’s only getting started, Joe. But I’m getting the hang of it, fast.”

“
Don’t kid yourself, son. You never get the hang of it.” He gestured at Helen Conway and Tony Sheridan. “But whatever it is, you don’t need these catching up with you at the wrong time.”

“
No thanks, Joe. It’s bad enough, me getting you caught up in it. From now on it’s my rap.”

“
You’ll do what you’re told, son. And I’m telling you to fuck off and do whatever you have to do. I’ll just sit here and have a smoke, wait’ll I hear the all clear.”

“
Your call, Joe.”

“
My call, son.”

I helped Katie up, put an arm around her shoulders, which were shaking almost as hard as my own.

“
We’re going to get you to a hospital, Katie. Okay?”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t seem to be aware of my presence, still staring at Helen Conway. When I tried to move her towards the door she resisted, reached for the gun in my hand. I held it away, out of her reach. The Ice Queen was slipping fast, shaking hard, pain eating into the shock, blood ebbing out into the kind of pool that has a deep end. She glared, baleful. I looked away, more important things to do than be turned to stone.

I checked on Tony Sheridan. He was still panned out. I cracked him another one, in case he was playing possum. Then I led Katie out of the room, patted Joe on the shoulder in passing. He didn’t acknowledge me. Helen Conway watched us go, face ugly with loathing. I winked at her.

“
Sorry about the hole. A good girl like you, Santa’s bound to bring bandages.”

She spat something, through bubbles of blood. I made a wish. It was my third new expletive in as many days.

24

The bells of The Friary were ringing for midnight mass, the sound coming sharp in the clear night air. The cold air started me coughing, which brought up blood, but then that’s a sixty-a-day hazard.

I helped Katie into the car and got in, tugged up the jacket, checked the wound. The bullet hitting the pro had opened the hole again; blood was leaking from under the bandage, weak and thin. I watched it ooze, not feeling any pain. It was just the way things were, something else to deal with it, to get past.

I eased the car down the street, leaving it in second gear, letting gravity do the work. The snow was slick with frost, thick enough to keep all but the most dedicated penitents from venturing out, which meant The Friary would have a higher ratio of drunks to God-fearing Catholics than usual. It was a good time to get Katie to emergency, before the winos started shuffling up the Mall, looking for a warm bed for the night that was in it. I met no traffic on the drive through town.

Katie stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Cradling her swollen fist, whimpering when her hand moved. Her complexion was cream cheese, the orange mop of hair in shocking contrast to the pale below. She seemed oblivious.

In the hospital car park, I leaned across and touched her cheek. She didn’t flinch. I was tempted to touch the ugly welts on her throat but I got out the car, locked it, crunched through the snow to the hospital. I knew it was callous thing to do, leaving her alone. I knew that. I didn’t feel it.

The antiseptic smell washed over me when the automatic doors slid back, the blast of heat giving me goose bumps. The girl behind the reception desk was mid-twenties, homely, eyeing me over a pair of half-moon glasses as I made for the desk, begrudging the effort of sliding the window back. I didn’t hold it against her. No one wants to be in hospital on Christmas Eve, least of all the staff.

“
Hi,” I breezed, digging deep. “I’d like to check on a friend of mine?”

“
I’m sorry.” Her tone that let me know that, whatever she was apologising for, it was my fault. “Visiting hours finished two hours ago.”

“
That’s okay. I just want to know how he’s doing. He came in this morning. Hit and run. His name is Herbie O’Malley.”

“
I’m sorry,” she said, a mechanical tone, “but we could only release that information to a family member.”

“
I’m a family member.”

She frowned.

“
You just said you were his friend.”

“
He’s a cousin, actually. But we’re good mates too.”

“
I’m sorry, only immediate family members are privy to that kind of information.”

“
His family are away for Christmas. I’m the only one around. I’m going to be ringing them later, and I’d like to let them know how he is.”

“
You’re not going to go away until you find out, are you?”

I smiled, apologetic.

“
Alright,” she sighed. “Wait a minute.”

She pulled the window closed, so I couldn’t hear what she was saying, made a couple of calls. Pulled the window open again, holding the phone against her none too impressive embonpoint.

“
Herbie O’Malley?”

“
That’s right.”

“
And you are?”

“
Frankie Byrne. His cousin.”

“
Hold on.”

Back went the glass door. She finished the call. Again with the window.

“
Herbie O’Malley wasn’t involved in a hit and run.”

“
No? I heard he was, in the pub. The boys said he’d been mangled.”

“
Well, he’s badly hurt alright. He’s still in intensive care. He’s going to need extensive surgery but the ECTs showed up positive. There’s no serious tissue damage and he’s in a stable condition.”

“
Thanks a million. You’ve been a great help.”

She said: “Don’t you want to see him?”

“
I thought visiting hours were finished.”

“
They are. But in your case…”

Some people are born spoofers. Other people die every time they lie. She knew it sounded wrong and looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. I scoped the foyer for a night porter or security guard but we were alone in the vast hall. I reckoned I had about five minutes, if that, before the Dibble arrived.

“
That’s decent, cheers. Where’s intensive care?”

“
Fourth floor. Take a right when you get out of the lift.”

I turned away from the desk, hesitated, turned back. She had the window half-closed. I played the hunch.

“
I don’t suppose you could let me know how Robbie Callaghan is?”

“
Who?”

“
Robbie Callaghan.” I figured that Galway would have booked Gonzo into the morgue under that name. “It’s either Robbie Callaghan or Eddie Rigby.”

“
You don’t know what his name is?”

“
He uses a pseudonym. Does some writing for the paper.”

“
Oh, right. And is he family?”

I grinned and she smiled, co-conspirators.

“
No, he’s just a mate. He overdid it on the pints last night. They brought him in to have his stomach pumped.”

“
I really shouldn’t tell you, but…”

“
You’re a star.”

She checked through the list of in-patients on the desk, taking her time. Twice she looked down the hall to the double doors, looking up at me both times, and both times I smiled, counting the seconds. When she finally told me that there was no record of a Robbie Callaghan or an Eddie Rigby, I reckoned I had maybe two minutes grace.

“
There’s nothing?”

“
Nothing for the emergency ward, and that’s where they’d have taken him. I’d have known, it was my shift.”

“
Maybe they wrote it up wrong. He was on E as well. A Detective-Inspector Galway brought him in.”

She checked again.

“
Nothing like that. There was no Detective-Inspector Galway here last night.”

It didn’t make sense but then there was no reason it should have made sense, if it made sense it’d have been the first time in three days I’d have understood what was going on.

“
Cheers,” I said, made for the exit.

“
What about your cousin?”

She’d leaned forward, pulled the window all the way back.

“
Thanks all the same, but I’ll see him tomorrow.”

From the bed beside him, probably, and the way things were going intensive care sounded like an attractive proposition. There’s not an awful lot more they can do to you once they put you in intensive care.

I drove out of the car park to a lay-by, a quarter mile away. Katie was shaking hard.

“
Katie? Can you hear me?”

It took her a couple of seconds to turn her head and when she did her eyes were dead. She needed a lorry-load of morphine and a good therapist, and I hoped she got them. What I needed were answers, which was why I took her good hand.

“
Katie,” I said, stroking it gently, “there’s something I need to know. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

She stayed blank.

“
Last night, when I stayed at your place?”

Still no response. She was a million miles away, or maybe just half a mile, back in the projection room.

“
It was comfortable, comfortable and easy. Call me cynical, but it was a little too easy.”