“Sort of.”
“You know he was a complete spoof, right?”
“I let him just run with it. Took some of what he said with a grain of salt.”
“Okay. I mean how could you check on anything he told you anyway, right?”
“That’s about it.”
“I mean can you see yourself sitting across the table from some cop?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I’m not saying you would. But it’s common sense, isn’t it? How would you know what Murphy said is true, any of it?”
“Well it’s fiction I’m aiming for.”
“Right, of course.”
Fanning wasn’t sure if Cully was baiting him again.
“Either way, you’ll get nothing good off of him,” Cully said. He accelerated quickly to get through the junction ahead of an oncoming van.
“Murph’s out of this line of work. My suggestion.” “But he loaned you his car.”
“Yes he did.”
“And his phone.”
“Yup.”
“Very generous of him. I didn’t think he loaned out his car.”
“Well he did the right thing. I mean, he’s not a complete prat. A person needs to make amends, you know.”
“Amends for…?”
“It’s a few things. Carelessness.”
“For talking to me as well?”
Cully paused between gear shifts.
“Was that frowned on, him talking to me?” Fanning asked.
“Could be.”
“Whatever that means. ‘Could be.’”
“Let’s just say certain people thought Murph was out of order. Okay, we’re coming up to this place.”
Chapter 30
Cully pulled in behind a parked van and he shut off the engine. He left the keys in the ignition and placed his hands on the rim of the steering wheel, his fingers stretched out. A bus passed, almost empty. Cully seemed to be concentrating on something.
“Okay,” he said and tapped his fingers on the wheel. “What were we talking about again? Murph?”
“Yes we were.”
“All right. Murph’s in Marbella. That’s the deal.”
“Marbella?”
“Ever been?”
“No.”
“Good for you. It’s full of crims and blackguards, and their fat, tarty wives lying around on the beach, like bloody whales.”
“‘Blackguards? My grandmother used to use that word.”
“Really. Well write it down. Blags, blackguards. Thieves and suchlike.”
“That’s English.”
“That’s what we’re speaking, isn’t it.”
“You’re telling me Murph’s in Spain.”
“Right. It’s a good enough place to do some thinking, some penance for his sins, clean up his act, get advice.”
“It wasn’t the visit from Mr. Black-and-Decker then?”
For several moments Fanning thought he had gone too far.
“Where did you hear that kind of talk?” Cully asked quietly. “Murphy?”
“He said-”
“-there’s an example of what I’m talking about. Hasn’t a clue.”
“Well he said they used nail guns to kneecap those two fellas before Christmas, in Skerries.”
Cully shook his head and sighed.
“Let’s change the subject. You’re doing research. So you want background.”
“Right.”
“And you want it real, you say. Gritty. Okay, tonight’s your night. I set something up for you.”
“I’m not getting involved in stuff. I’m just observing.”
“That’s right. Here’s how it goes. Ever wondered how easy it is to get ahold of a gun here in Dublin?”
“Sometimes. A lot of it goes on, they say. ‘Rent a gun’?”
“You’re on the ball, I see. So you think anyone can just do it?”
“I have no idea,” said Fanning.
“You have to be in the know. Obviously. Have someone vouch for you. Like ‘Johnny told me to get in touch.’ Johnny being known to the bloke.”
“Johnny who?”
“That’s not funny. Johnny is the comeback if anything goes sideways. Insurance, in a way.”
“Johnny knows everything then. The go-to.”
“A phone call has been made, a certain person phoned and said there’d be a visitor who wanted something. This is where it gets done. Do you get it?”
“I think so.”
“The goods have been sent out to an address, with a person who will actually do the business, arm’s length, they say, don’t they?”
Fanning nodded.
“Make sense?”
“I suppose,” said Fanning. “Is it an organized thing, or just people doing their own thing?”
“Bit of both.”
“Does it go wrong?”
“I haven’t heard of it. People know people. So unless your client’s going to run away and hide in a hole in the ground for the rest of his life, there’s no point in dirtying the deal.”
“So you’re going to pick up a gun here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The change in tone was slight enough that Fanning was immediately alert. Cully’s eyes lingered on Fanning before drifting back to the windscreen.
“Have you ever handled a gun before?” he asked.
“No. Props, I have. And a starter pistol once or twice.”
“It’s not the same. When you have a gun in your hand everything is different. Not just different, I mean you don’t forget it. You remember how it felt, the weight of it. Thinking what it can do.”
“Even if you never use it,” said Fanning after a pause.
“Even if you never use it,” said Cully. “If you have to actually use it, then you screwed up.”
“Even as a last resort?”
“Well you shouldn’t be in that situation, should you. Like I said to you, it’s not a film where fellas go about waving guns and shooting everything. Talk to a copper who never has to draw a pistol in his whole career — that’s a smart cop.”
“Have they told you that?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. One told me that.”
“Here in Dublin?”
Cully turned on the ignition and he read the gauges and the clock.
“At least Murphy should have told you to pick your questions. Did he tell you how not to get people’s backs up?”
Fanning said nothing. Again he wondered how this confidence had come to him, how he could calmly carry on here in the car with this man. One part of him knew he was sitting beside a man who inspired fear in the likes of Murphy, but some other part of his mind was given over to some kind of calm audacity.
Cully switched off the ignition.
“Okay then,” he said. “I’m going to make a quick call.”
Fanning noticed that he dialled from memory. He wasn’t waiting long.
“Yep,” he said. “We’re here.”
He listened for a few moments.
“The shop?” he said then. “What kind again?”
Fanning made a smoking gesture. Cully nodded.
“Okay,” he said and hung up.
“Some kind of French cigarettes?” he said to Fanning. “He’ll be in the shop and he’ll hear you asking for the smokes. If they have them, go ahead and buy them. If not, go back outside anyway. He’ll follow you. That’s it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bloke, the goods,” said Cully and turned the ignition. “That’s how it’s done.”
“You said I was going to do it? Me?”
“What are we doing here? I don’t want the package, do I? It’s not me doing research, is it?”
“Who said anything about me doing stuff like this?”
Cully returned his stare calmy. Fanning caught himself then.
“It’s an exercise,” said Cully. “That’s all. So you know what you’re going to do in your story.”
“You’re not joking are you.”
“No I’m not. Look. I have stuff here for you will make it easier. A minute on, a minute off we call it.”
“I can’t go renting a gun, for Christ’s sake. End up in jail for ten years?”
Cully drew a plastic bag from under the seat.
“This is the real thing,” he said. “Film stuff, professional stuff. Moustache, the comb-in grey — look I even bought fake pimples.”
He dropped it in Fanning’s lap.
“Glasses in the glove compartment here,” he said. “Put on a scarf there from the back seat. Jean jacket there too.”
“What are you doing?” Fanning was able to say.
“Details,” said Cully briskly. “That’s all they are. People are stupid, what they remember. They don’t get height properly, or even a voice, but they end up holding on to stuff that’s useless. ‘He wears glasses.’ ‘He had bad skin.’ ‘He had a moustache.’ ‘He had a Chelsea scarf.’”