Subject: Lies?
Helen, this e-mail you’ve sent me? Is it real? Did any of it actually happen?
She replied immediately.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Not lies!
True as God. All of it.
Okay, I thought—still not entirely convinced—and carried on reading.
Sat in front of car beside Bozo Number One. Bozo Number Two had to go in back with shame of Austrian blinds.
Me: Bozo Number One, do you have a name?
Bozo Number One: Colin.
Me: Does Bozo Number Two have a name?
Him: No. Bozo will do.
Me: Whose idea was the Austrian blinds?
Him: Mrs. Big.
Me: There’s a Mrs. Big?
Him (hesitating): There mightn’t be anymore. That’s why the boss wants to see you.
And I’m thinking, Ah bollocks. Thought this might be start of whole new career, instead just looked like sitting in more wet hedges. Only difference is that wet hedges will belong to drug runners and pimps, and that doesn’t make it any more exciting. Wet hedge is wet hedge.
Pulled up outside dingy pool hall with war-crime orange lighting. Colin led me down the back to booth with orange stuffing coming out of seat. Why can’t crime lords hang out in nice places, like Ice Bar in Four Seasons?
Small neat man sitting in booth, pulling at foam seat stuffing—last thing he was was big. Neatly trimmed bristly mustache.
He looked up, said: Helen Walsh? Sit down. Would you like a drink?
Me: What are you drinking?
Him: Milk.
Me: Cack. I’ll have a grasshopper.
Don’t even like grasshoppers, hate crème de menthe, as bad as drinking toothpaste, just wanted to be awkward.
Him: Kenneth, get my friend here a grasshopper.
Kenneth (the barman): A glass of what?
Mr. Big: A glass of nothing. A GRASShopper. Right, Miss Walsh, down to business. Anything that’s said here goes no further, I’m telling you this in total confidence. Right?
Me: Mmmm.
Because minute I got home was going to tell Mum and now telling you.
Me (indicating Colin): What about him?
Mr. Big: Colin’s all right. Me and Colin have no secrets. Right, the thing is…
Next thing, he dipped his head, put hand in front of eyes, like he was going to cry. I flashed excited look at Colin, who looked concerned.
Colin: Boss, are you okay…would you prefer to do this another time?
Mr. Big (sniffing loudly, “pulling himself together”): No, no, I’m all right. Miss Walsh, I want you to know that I’m fond of my wife, Detta. But lately she’s being very—how can I put it?—distant, and a little vulture whispered in my ear that she might be spending a bit too much time with Racey O’Grady.
I was finding it hard to concentrate because over my shoulder could hear bar staff in panic…a grasshopper…what the fuck’s that?…maybe it’s one of those new beers…look down in the cellars, will you Jason…?
Me (calling): Lookit, it’s fine, I’ll just have a Diet Coke.
Me (turning back to Mr. Big): Sorry, you were saying. Speedy McGreevy.
Him (frowning): Speedy McGreevy? Speedy McGreevy has nothing to do with this. Or does he? (Narrows eyes.) What do you know? Who’s been talking?
Me: No one. You said it.
Him: I didn’t say Speedy McGreevy, I said Racey O’Grady. Speedy McGreevy’s on the run in Argentina.
Me: My mistake. Carry on.
Him: Racey and meself have jogged along nicely together for the last few years. He has his department and I have mine. One of my lines of work is offering protection.
For moment thought he meant bodyguarding, then realized he meant extortion. Strangely, felt a little puky.
Him: Just so you know the kind of man you’re dealing with here, Miss Walsh, let me tell you, I’m not some doozy who arrives at the gate of a site, with a couple of lads with iron bars, looking to talk to the foreman. I’m a sophisticated businessman. I have contacts in the planning department, with property lawyers, with banks. I’m connected. I know well in advance what’s happening, so the deal is all tied up before the first brick is laid. But twice in the last six weeks, I’ve met with contractors to conclude our usual business and they say they’re already covered. Now this is very interesting to me, Miss Walsh, because very few people even know these schemes are going ahead. Most of them haven’t even got planning approval yet.
Me: How do you know it’s not a leak in the planning office? Or at the contractors?
Him: Because it would need to be several leaks from several sources. Anyway, all the individuals involved have been…(meaningful hesitation)…interviewed. They came back clean.
Me: And you think Racey is the one muscling in on your…er…patch? Why him?
Him: Because they effing told me it was.
Me: So what do you think is going on?
Him: A less paranoid man than me might think Detta is picking my brains, taking her findings to Racey, and the pair of them are creaming me.
Me: And if she is?
Him: None of your concern. All I want you to do is bring me proof of her and Racey together. I can’t tail her and she knows all the lads and the cars. That’s why I’m going against a lot of advice and bringing in an outsider.
Me: How did you hear of me?
Thinking I must be legend in Dublin private investigating.
Him: Yellow pages.
Me (disappointed): Oh, right.
Him: Now the thing about Detta is, she has class.
Thought of Austrian blinds in car. Don’t think so.
Him: Detta comes from Dublin crime aristocracy. Her father, Chinner Skinner?
Said it like I should have heard of him.
Him: Chinner was the man who opened Ireland’s doors to heroin. We all owe him a debt of gratitude. What I’m saying is, Detta’s no fool. Have you a gun?
Surprised he said it out like that. Aren’t they meant to say, “You carryin’?” And call it shooter, not gun.
Me: No gun.
Him: We’ll get you one.
I’m thinking, don’t know about this…
Him (insistent): My treat.
Me (thinking better to just play along for while): Okay.
Anna, as you know, I don’t believe in fear, just an invention by men so they get all the money and good jobs, but if did believe in fear, this is time when would have felt it.