The Going Rate (12 page)

“You get it. I've got to go.”

“Wait,” Murph grunted, grabbing Fanning's arm. “People are looking at you! Look, look – this is the finish. You've got to see this, you've got to.”

Fanning saw the Tinker shake his head once and look away. Tony glanced at the spectators, and at Delaney, and then he reached into his jacket.

Fanning had seen pistols on sets before, those replicas on the set for Terrible Beauty last year, the heavy Parabellums used back in the early 1900s.

Tony's pistol was small enough to cover with a spread hand. That was what he did at first and then he passed it to his other hand. In a second it was inches from the terrier-cross's head, and Tony's thumb was on the hammer. He seemed to search for a spot where the dog's neck met his skull. The dog made a feeble twist, and when it stopped, Tony pulled the trigger.

“Jesus Christ,” Fanning said.

There were starbursts in front of his eyes now. He turned, lunged, pushing away Murph's arm. Murphy grabbed at him again, but he had pulled away. He aimed for the doorway, tensed for another shot. The door was cool on his palms, and he shoved at it hard.

There was cigar smoke here. The door to the laneway was closed. Jacko turned to him.

“I need my mobile back, I'm going.”

“Hold your horses,” Jacko said.

He didn't want to look at Jacko's face.

“The Nokia one there, yes, that one.”

Jacko took his time sliding a bolt and pulling the door open a little. “Wait, I said,” Jacko told him. “Are you deaf or what?”

Fanning pulled the closing door and yanked on it, knocking Jacko off balance. He stepped into the yard and began a fast walk toward the cars. The door was closed hard behind him.

The damp air felt almost greasy, but Fanning took in deep, hungry breaths. He remembered the turns that Murph had taken, the bus stop, the passing traffic. He'd even phone a taxi.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

He didn't need to turn to know it was Murphy's running footsteps.

“Hey! Stop! Stop right there! You don't just do that!”

Murphy skipped in front of him and began walking sideways, his chest heaving.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I'm doing what I need to do. Right now I want to be on my own.”

“No, no, no! We're a team here, pal. Remember? You go with me, you get what you want, I bring you to the next gig.”

They passed the parked cars. A lorry drove by on the road outside.

“There is no next gig,” said Fanning.

Murphy got in front of him.

“What are you talking about?”

“What I said. There's no more gigs.”

He tried to get around Murph, but his feints were matched. He stopped.

“We have a week's worth of places to do yet!”

Murph began counting on his fingers.

“The pool club yesterday, Alfie's. There's the Big O in Clondalkin, you see them fencing stuff, remember? Then Mickser, the garage? The piranhas, the one-hour jobs?”

“We can talk later, I have to go.”

“Hop in the car, we'll talk on the way then.”

“I need to be on my own.”

“What ‘on my own'? Look, I worked on this thing here.”

“I know. I know.”

“You don't know, you know? Do you know how much I had to do to get us in there? You have no clue. No way you'd get near any of this if it wasn't for me.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Screw tomorrow. I have it set up, and we're going. We have to go.”

“Aren't you forgetting something? I'm the one decides. I'm the one paying.”

“Stop right here! Just stop!”

Fanning felt the ache in his shoulders stiffen toward a cramp. He looked up at an overcast, immobile sky, the classic Irish mass of grey and tan cloud that somehow managed to look soiled as well as glowing. The last thing he wanted to see was another episode of Murph working himself up, full of that indignation and what he thought was his charm or smarts, into another stupid soliloquy about real life in Dublin.

“No speech,” he said to Murph. “Okay? Just give me time.”

“Time?” said Murphy. “Time? Do you know how many looks you got back there? How many you got on me, and me trying to calm you down while you're having your spaz? The way they were looking when you done a bunk like that?”

“Okay. I admit it. It was too much for me. Shouldn't have gone.”

“A bit late to be telling me that! You done damage here, serious damage.” “What damage?”

“There's your problem right there! You don't know what you're doing. You don't even see what's going on. That's exactly why you haven't a clue, exactly why you'll go dead wrong in this film of yours.”

“It's a script.”

“Whatever! You want to get it dead-on, right? ‘The real thing,' says you. You wanted an entry, so here we are. But it's costing me, costing me big-time.”

“Like what? What's it costing you? Nothing – that's what.”

Murphy took a step back and he waved his finger like a windscreen wiper.

“Don't go there. Don't.”

“I'm the one paying,” Fanning said.

“Just 'cause you can't handle it. That's what it is. You want, what's it again, gritty? I gave it to you. The real thing. Now you don't like it?”

“I didn't expect someone to pull out a gun and kill a dog.”

“That's what you got to do sometimes. That's how these things work! Get real here, or you'll never get anywhere. Everyone has guns, everyone who's anyone. And another thing–”

Murphy stopped. His eyes were fixed on the warehouse behind, and the opening doorway. Fanning looked around.

“Shite,” Murph said. He shoved keys at Fanning. “In the car. I'll handle it.”

Fanning saw Murphy swallow hard, and then straighten up. Then, clearing his throat, he rolled his shoulders and he walked back toward the man in the leather jacket who had come out.

Chapter 12

M
RS
. K
LOS
– A
NYA
K
LOS
–
WAS VERY
,
VERY SHAKY
. Her hands trembled when she took out a pencil to place beside a pad of paper on the table. She was trying too hard to keep her head from trembling too. Minogue wrote the name of his section, a telephone number, and his email on the pad after the introductions.

Danute Juraksaitis' narrow black-framed glasses said something to him: economist, doctor, lawyer. Something serious, thoughtful, exact. She made only the briefest of smiles at the exchange of cards. Then she took a small notebook from another bag by her feet.

Mrs. Klos blinked a lot. She seemed to be holding her breath.

Hughes began with condolences. He spoke slowly, and with a simple eloquence that impressed Minogue. The real Ireland still existed, he began to believe again. Hughes looked from one woman to the other, pausing often, and nodding for emphases. Did they understand what he was saying? Would they like anything repeated? Did they know that they could interrupt him at any time?

Danute Juraksaitis spoke to Mrs. Klos in Polish. A look that Minogue read as ironic crossed her features briefly, and she glanced at Hughes.

“Mrs. Klos has some of words in English,” she said. “The rest is up to me.”

Hughes made a sympathetic smile. Then he began with the times, the log of events that had preceded the arrival of the squad car to the laneway where Tadeusz Klos lay. He paused at the end of each sentence and waited for the translation, and a nod from Mrs. Klos.

“Ambulance?” Danute Juraksaitis said.

“The one phone call does ambulance and Guards,” said Hughes.

“They think he was alive then?” she asked. “That is why the ambulance?”

“Well that wasn't clear,” Hughes replied. “That wasn't what the two Guards believed.”

As Hughes' reply was translated for her, Minogue studied the changing expression on Mrs. Klos' face

“But the ambulance?”

Mrs. Klos' face twisted up, and she quickly put her hands over her face. She shook her head and she turned away. Danute Juraksaitis put her notebook face-down on the table and stood up slowly, her hands clasped awkwardly. Then she placed a hand on Mrs. Klos' shoulder. Sharp intakes of breath brought Mrs. Klos' shoulders up, and they sagged again as the sobs seized her.

“Tea is needed here,” Minogue said. “Coffee. Something. Anything.”

He didn't wait for a comment, but got up and headed for the door.

He took his time getting to the canteen. He was aware he was trying to remember that perfume. Those glasses on that woman were actually severe, in a way. The thought of her brought a mild confusion to him, and a twinge of something unfamiliar.

The coffee he found waiting for him had been sitting in the pot since Adam was a boy. He opted instead for two teapots of boiling water and four bags of Lyons' Tea. The milk would be a problem, but it was a chance for a detour down to the cafeteria.

“I'll bring the jugs back so I will,” he said to the cashier.

“How do they know you won't rob them,” asked the sergeant in line beside him. Had he met him a few years back?

“The crime of the century,” he said to the sergeant, hiding his irritation. “All my plans ruined now.”

The Guard laughed as he counted out his own coins.

“I'll vouch for this fella,” he said to the cashier. “One of Kilmartin's crew.”

“And how is the bold Jim anyhow?” the sergeant whispered

“As ever.”

“Really? Well tell him I was asking for him, there's a good man. Tell him ‘The old dog for the long road,' will you?”

“‘The pup for the path'?”

“Exactly. Good man!”

Minogue trudged up the steps balancing the tray loosely. Was every Guard in Ireland going to be asking about Kilmartin? His thoughts returned to Tadeusz Klos, and his mother. She didn't look Polish, he thought. But what did Poles look like, then? A Slavic or Russian look?

He was careful opening the doors from the stairs. He stepped into the hallway, and he paused, listening to the cylinder at the top of the door hiss softer as the door came closer to rest. There were voices from the open area beyond the conference rooms. Someone had recently had an egg sandwich. But unless his mind was playing tricks on him, there was the faintest trace of that same perfume again. Hardly possible, his mind declared, but there it was.

Hughes had a map of Dublin spread out on the table. He was pointing out where the hostel was.

“The city centre here is very walkable,” he said, and waited. Minogue saw him wince and move his hand reflexively to his lower ribs.

Mrs. Klos did not seem much interested in the map. Minogue laid down the tray. Danute Juraksaitis had finished noting something. Her gaze turned to the teapots and then met Minogue's eyes for an instant.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Klos. Then she said something in Polish.

“You are so kind,” said Danute Juraksaitis. “Mrs. Klos said.”

Minogue looked at Mrs. Klos. Her eyes were red and there were blotches on her face from crying.

“Nothing stronger I'm sorry to say,” he said. Mrs. Klos waited for a translation. Hughes cleared his throat and continued while they waited for the tea to draw.

“The clubs serve drink,” he was saying. “Alcohol?”

He cleared his throat again, excusing himself as he did. A pallor had settled on his features, and Minogue thought he spotted beads of sweat near his hairline. He hadn't realized that Hughes had been that nervous.

“Pretty well every night of the week is party night now,” Hughes went on. “Dublin is very busy. Very modern.”

Minogue could not understand one word that Danute Juraksaitis translated of this. Mrs. Klos nodded.

“It is the same in Poland Mrs. Klos said,” said Danute Juraksaitis. “The young they want… life. Fun. This is freedom.”

A rough translation, Minogue decided.

Hughes turned to Danute Juraksaitis, and cleared his throat yet again.

“So, in the light of what has happened since,” he said, tentatively. “What's in the briefing here…”

Mrs. Klos leaned in slightly toward Danute Juraksaitis.

“Did Mrs. Klos need help understanding it maybe?” Hughes asked.

No, was Mrs. Klos' translated response.

“It was forwarded to her by our federal police,” said Danute Juraksaitis.

Then she said something to Mrs. Klos. It was answered with a nodding of the head. Minogue saw now that Mrs. Klos' head had begun to shake, and her face had taken on that slack, stricken look he had seen too often over the years. He looked to see where she might fall, if she was indeed to keel over in a faint.