“I don’t know. Just wear them. Every little bit helps.”
Fanning closed the mirror and pushed the visor back. He watched the headlights on the cars passing up the road. When the roads were dry, the reflection of their lights flooded the surface of the tarmac with a dull shine.
“Is this a setup?” he asked Cully after a while.
“What?”
“I said, is this a setup.”
He couldn’t tell if Cully was angry or amused.
“A setup?”
“Right. Are you a Guard? Like some undercover type?”
Cully shook his head.
“And I’m some kind of bait?”
Cully eyed him.
“You want to call it off then,” he said in a flat voice. “Right?”
Fanning imagined himself stepping out into the damp night air, walking by the houses, their windows flaring and glowing with the televisions, and crossing the road to the shop.
“What does this guy look like?” he asked Cully.
“No idea,” said Cully. The abrupt shift to an almost pensive tone caught Fanning offguard.
“Young bloke I imagine. His dad’s in the business, or was.”
“Was?”
“He’s doing time somewhere. Why do you need to know? Oh, right. ‘Background?’”
“You’ve never seen this guy?”
“The dad?”
“No, the one who’s supposed to be at the shop.”
“No. Why would I. None of my business really, is it. I just made the call. Got told where to go. That’s how things work.”
“All to show me how I can get ahold of a gun in Dublin.”
“Right. How easy it is.”
Cully opened the door and left it slightly ajar. Fanning waited for him to look over.
“I’d feel a lot better about this,” he said to Cully, “or at least, I could get it straight in my head, if I knew what was in it for you.”
“What, for me?”
“Yes, for you.”
Cully seemed ready to smile.
“Well you’re going to pay me right? Like Murph. Whatever the going rate for him is.”
Shadows cast on Cully’s face, but the overhead light hit off his eyes.
“Something tells me that you mightn’t be in it just for the money.”
Cully leaned back against the door. Fanning was surprised to see a smile broke out on his face.
“Well I have to say this film business thing interests me a little.”
“I’m only doing research.”
“Have to start somewhere, right? But what I’m saying is, I was always interested in films.”
“Who isn’t,” said Fanning. “Pirates of the Caribbean, right?”
“War films actually.”
“Of course.”
“Why ‘of course’? Are they not good enough? Ever see The Thin Red Line?”
“Okay, so you want to be Colin Farrell. Fine.”
Cully let the quiet last.
“You’ve got stagefright,” he said at last.
“That’s what. Blathering away there. Trust me, you’re safe as a house. He’s not going to make you. And you don’t even have to say a word, do you. Just buy those fags, and let him hear you. Pay for them — we’re not doing robberies, remember. Then you meet him outside, you take the bag — and then it’s pip-pip, over and out.”
“If he wants to talk, or ask me questions?”
“He won’t.”
“Or asks me for money now?”
“Won’t happen.”
The draft of night air flowing into the car carried a faint smell of coal smoke.
“And yes,” said Cully. “I’ll be parked here. Where we said. Promise.”
“Well at least you’re enjoying yourself. Easy for you to sit here.”
Cully spoke in a quiet voice.
“Look. It’s no big thing. Just relax.”
“That’s Murph’s script too: just relax.”
“Really. Well let me tell you something. If Murph said ‘relax,’ then that’s when you should worry. Now when I say it, I mean it. You’re in good hands.”
“How do I know?”
“Murph would have dragged you into a lot of situations. I’m telling you.”
Fanning elected for silence. He tried to ignore the pungent scent of the glue working its way into his nostrils again for another assault on his patience.
“And the thing is,” Cully murmured, “you wouldn’t have known, would you. Until it was too late.”
Chapter 33
Ali Rogers had the regulation tight clothes and half-on blouse over a tank top, and the too-small jeans. She sat hunched over; spoke only in whispers; never looked up; continued to pick at her hair. The kewpie-doll hank of hair tied up on the right side of her head disturbed Minogue. Child or vamp, was the message he was receiving from it.
Her father had a glazed look in his eye, and was breathing hard right from the start. He was often given to staring at her, sometimes breaking his stare to look up at the ceiling and then allowing his gaze to settle back on to the bloated, blotchy face of his daughter.
Mrs. Rogers, Margaret, was intense, and held herself away from the chair back. She was half her husband’s size. She wore the same type of leather jacket as he did. Minogue tried to remember if she were thirty-five or thirty-six. He didn’t know if it was makeup or a sun-bed tan she had.
Another Garda, Maeve Dwyer, had come in for the interview. She stayed in her civvies. The quiet in the room soon became oppressive.
“Tell the man, Ali,” said her father.
The mother glared at him.
“Was it Aidan’s idea?” Minogue asked.
She shook her head.
“Justin’s?”
Again she shook her head.
“Yours? Tara’s?”
This time she made no movement but stayed hunched in her chair.
“Come on love,” said her mother.
The girl’s voice was a little hoarse.
“I said, already.”
“You said nothing,” said the father. His jacket creaked as he re-crossed his legs.
Garda Dwyer gave Minogue a glance. For a moment he wondered if Women’s Aid training courses for the likes of Garda Dwyer had included how she should be taking down very large, irate Dublin men like Rogers.
“Ali,” said Minogue. “Can you see where we’re coming from? A man was beaten up, and now he’s dead. Why would he be beaten up and all his valuables just left there, the way you’re trying to tell us?”
“He was,” she said.
Her lips were almost sticking together now with a line of dried saliva.
“He was…? He was dead, are you saying?”
“I suppose, I don’t know.”
“Why did you think he was dead?”
“He wasn’t moving,” she whispered.
“Was he breathing?”
“I don’t know. There was blood.”
She nodded and she opened up her hand to let out a balled-up tissue.
“Because Aidan-”
“No! Stop saying that!”
The father leaned in suddenly with an ominous creak of leather.
“Didn’t I tell you? Stop trying to protect those two fu-”
Minogue raised his hand. The girl’s father stopped and looked down at his wife’s hand with an expression of disgust.
“Leave her, Paddy. Just leave her.”
“I’m not going to sit here and watch her digging her own grave, am I!”
“She’s not,” said the mother, with her effort at patience clear in how she was holding her breath. “Just leave her. We’re here to do what’s right.”
“This is only helping those bastards!”
Minogue wasn’t sure who he had meant. He kept his eyes on the girl. Her eyes moved from side to side but her face remained slack. The red streak and the highlights in her hair kept reminding Minogue of some exotic bird.
“This is a farce,” the father snapped. “A farce entirely.”
“Would you shut up,” said the mother. “Excuse me, but would you just for once? What good are you doing with the carry on of yours?”
“I know what I’d like to do,” he retorted. “That’s one thing I do know. And by Jesus, if it comes to that, no better man.”
The mother rolled her eyes. Minogue saw her chin quiver.
“Mr. Rogers.”
Narrowed eyes turned to Minogue.
“This can’t work if you carry on like that.”
“Carry on? The pot calling the kettle black here, I’d say. I’m not the one dragged a little girl into a police station near midnight, to question her. Am I?”