Dark Times in the City (25 page)

Tomorrow Matty’s wife and Todd’s parents would be pestering him. He decided he’d play it like he was mystified, and say truthfully that he hadn’t seen either of them in a couple of days. And that he hadn’t a clue where they were. Matty had some businesses of his own in Spain, and Lar could wonder aloud if he might perhaps have gone there in a hurry to sort out a problem.

A hundred yards down the pier, he stopped and looked back at the village. Pushing one o’clock in the morning, everything quiet except for the distant squawks of the teenagers. Lights along the waterfront, fishing boats lined along the west pier, pleasure craft dotting the harbour, the whole thing over-seen by the three-quarter moon in an almost clear sky. A few yards from where he stood, the stone stairway led down to the water. It was where he and Jo-Jo used to take the boat across to Ireland’s Eye.

It might have been a fishing village over on the west coast, rather than a haven for the Dublin gentry.

The peace was stained by the sound of a car accelerating along Harbour Road, a low sports model passing out a family car. Lar stood in the cold, looking at the village. Pretty and familiar and all in his past, all the things that made his life comfortable, if that mad fucker had his way. He went close to the edge of the pier and dropped the pieces of the DVD into the water.

In the end he did as Frank Tucker instructed, through Tommy Farr. ‘Choose a hotel, book a room, anywhere in the city centre,’ Tommy said. ‘You pick the place, you tell no one until you get there – that way you know there’ll be no surprises waiting. Have your people check it out, then call me – I’ll tell him you’re ready. He’s got it worked out so it’s safe for everyone.’

Lar Mackendrick chose Buswell’s Hotel. It was central, busy, close to the Dail. The police and the army had permanent posts in Leinster House, protecting the politicians, so the area had slightly more security than most. As instructed, he booked two rooms on the same floor, under a phoney name.

Lar got there at ten in the morning. After he called Tommy Farr to say where he was, he waited half an hour until a young man arrived in the lobby and introduced himself to Lar’s people. They took him into the toilets and patted him down, then brought him up to the second floor. The young man was a civilian, a technician with a laptop. He put the laptop on a table, logged on, then crouched down by the skirting board and ran a phone cable up to the computer. He spent a minute tapping keys, then he gestured for Lar to pay attention.

‘That’s the camera, that little round thing over the screen. There’s the mike – speak normally, the sound levels are set, there should be no problem.’ The picture on the screen was of a room like this one, probably a hotel room.

‘Where’s that?’

‘I’ve no idea – another hotel, I’d guess.’

‘How do I know this thing isn’t wired to blow up in my face?’

‘I bought it yesterday, in Dixon’s. No one’s messed with it.’

Lar said, ‘You wait across the hall, with my people, just in case. If anything goes wrong, your family will always wonder what happened to you.’

The technician nodded. He seemed unconcerned. He made a call on his mobile, then left the room and a few seconds later Frank Tucker appeared on the screen. He was wearing a dark blue suit, with a pale cream shirt and a dark blue tie. He sat down and said, ‘You’re looking well, Lar – all things considered.’

‘You cunt.’

‘Doing it this way means no cops had a chance to tap anything, bug anything. We can speak freely – no one has to wonder if anyone’s got a gun in his sock.’ Tucker put regret in his voice. ‘First off, I’m sorry about Matty.’

Lar said nothing.

Tucker said, ‘Any other way of opening negotiations, it wouldn’t have worked.’

‘I’m going to do you myself, cunt.’

Tucker stared out of the screen, his expression patient and sympathetic. ‘I know how you feel, Lar. You need time to think this through, to see what the choices are. You spoke to Tommy, so you know what I’m aiming at.’

Lar said, ‘From what I gather, you reckon we need a new high king and you’re the man for the job.’

Tucker turned his hands palms up. ‘Self-protection, really. It makes sense. The setup we have now, it’s a mess. Any number of gangs, some of them nothing but coked-up kiddies who’ll swat you if you look crooked at them. They kill one another because someone insulted someone else’s uncle – a waste of energy. Then, there’s a handful of smart guys like you and Tommy Farr.’

‘So, you take us out of the game?’

‘Like I say, Lar, it’s a mess. It’s all based on neighbourhoods and families, people who grew up together. Everyone’s got their own little market, their own suppliers, their own distribution. All that shit, it’s a recipe for small wars and endless feuds.’

‘There’s room for everyone.’

‘The boom years, we all got rich, even the coked-up kids. So much money around – the rugby crowd and the business crowd, the celebrity set, they all need a little toot to keep them at their peak. This isn’t a cottage industry any more – someone’s going to consolidate the market and the losers go to the wall.’

‘And you’ve got yourself down for Mr Big.’

‘Leave it too late, someone sees me as a soft, juicy target.’

‘That’s how you see me?’

‘You made your money a long time ago, Lar, same as Tommy Farr. Most of us, me included – we’re too scared to spend real money. We’ve got the CAB looking over our shoulders, so we live in poxy little houses in the old neighbourhoods. Your money’s been well laundered for years, before all that crap started. You’re settled, comfortable. What they call you, in business terms, Lar – you’re low-hanging fruit.’

‘Mr fucking Big.’

‘I’ve got troubles of my own, Lar. There’s some mad bastards out in Clondalkin – they’ve got me in their sights. I’ve got one of them in my pocket, so I know what they’re thinking. It’s just a matter of time. They reckon they’re the dog’s bollocks – all they have to do is point a finger and go
boom
and they’re in the big time. Soon as you and I reach an agreement, I’ve got plans for that shower.’

‘I’m a detail, then, before you get onto the main agenda.’

‘Consolidation, Lar. I’ve got Tommy Farr’s operation in the bag, I come to an arrangement with you and I’m bigger than Manchester United. The Clondalkin crowd are a couple of leagues too small – when they see that, they back off and hope I don’t swat them.’

‘So, I just walk away – with what?’ Lar’s head was down, his gaze unfocused, staring at the keyboard of the laptop.

‘No one goes away empty-handed. Same deal I offered Tommy Farr. You can sell most of your property, or rent it out if the market’s too depressed – you leave the businesses to me. Then, two grand a week – call it a pension.’

Lar Mackendrick looked up, teeth bared.

‘Cunt.’

‘No offence taken, Lar. I know it hurts.’

‘Piece of shit. You strut around this fucking town, Mr Big – you piece of
shit
– but you won’t see me coming.’

‘There was a time, Lar, when that would have been true. It was your brother who built up the tight outfit, it was Jo-Jo who made it work, set up the money laundering and the property shelters. You’re different, Lar. You have employees, casual labour. Apart from Matty – most of them you don’t know their names. There isn’t one of them would risk a cut finger for you, let alone a bullet in the head.’

Tucker leaned forward towards the camera. ‘I could swat you tonight, Lar. I reached into your outfit and I took Todd, and he set up Matty. You don’t know who else I’ve got. And that makes every one of them suspect, and that means there isn’t one of them you can count on.’

‘
Piece of shit!
’

‘You’ve got a week to get back to me.’

Lar pointed at Tucker’s image on the screen. ‘You think you can just—’

Tucker reached forward and tapped three keys on his laptop and the screen went blank.

‘– tell me – you
fucking
—’

Lar stopped. He stared at the screen, aware of the sound of his own loud breathing. He stood up, grabbed the laptop by the screen and threw it against the wall.

May knew something was going on, but when she tried to get Lar to talk about it he waved her away and found something that urgently needed doing.

On the second day of his sour mood, he lost his temper with her. She was cooking dinner and Lar was sitting at the kitchen table, with the
Evening Herald
spread in front of him. He’d been staring at the same page for ten minutes.

‘What’s wrong, love?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Please, let’s—’

‘Just stop – leave it alone.’

Her tone was soft. ‘Whatever’s going on—’

‘
Christ sake!
’

The fear beneath the stubbornness was unmistakable. Lar left the house and when he came home two hours later May could smell the drink off him.

‘Tell me.’

He told her.

She said, ‘Well—’

Lar said, ‘He’s right – the little fuck is right. There’s nothing more to say – it’s over.’

Frank Tucker had the balls and the organisation he needed to cut out Tommy Farr, and he knew how to dismantle Lar Mackendrick.

‘I can go after him – I go after him, I’m dead. And it won’t take a war to do it – he’s already got his moves mapped out. He’ll already have some of my people in his pocket – there isn’t anyone I can trust.’

Lar’s gaze was focused a couple of feet in front of him, somewhere in mid-air. ‘If I do what he says, I get to fuck off out of
the country. And if I stand up to him, I get to lie beside Jo-Jo in Sutton cemetery.’

‘You’ve got money, you’ve got people.’

Lar’s outfit had an inner circle of half a dozen, revolving around Matty Butler. Beyond those were the dozen or so in the wider team, and then the freelancers who signed up for particular jobs. Tucker would know every one of them.

‘For years, it was Jo-Jo ran everything. Without Matty, I’m—’ He gestured with both hands held wide. ‘And that little bastard knew that was where to hit me.’

‘You’re giving in?’

‘What else can I do?’

Lar changed his mind next evening. He didn’t use the phrase
blaze of glory
but that was what it sounded like to May.

‘Whatever happens – if I can hold my nerve I think I can take that little bastard.’

She asked what he had in mind, but there was no plan. Just a surly reaction against Frank Tucker’s demands.

‘I won’t piss off and vegetate. I won’t count the days. I won’t watch the Christmases clicking by until I stroke out.’

It was the end of a long day, in which one draining hour of depression followed another. It was as if Lar had weighed the consequences of resignation against those of rebellion and he’d made a choice.

May was in bed, Lar was standing by the bedroom window, looking at the lights of Howth village below and the darkness beyond.

‘People come to me, they offer me deals, they ask me to come into things with them, they tell me what they’re planning, like they want me to give them the nod. I need all that.’

Lar turned to May. ‘It isn’t just the money. There’s things that wouldn’t happen without my say-so. I make a difference.’

He turned back to the window. The sea had never been darker, the sky had never been more clear. The lights in the houses scattered around the hills below had never seemed more like jewels set on black velvet.

Maybe he was right. Maybe that was the best way. Lying in the darkness, May Mackendrick pondered the choices. Rebellion and perhaps a quick retribution from Frank Tucker and his scumbags. Or years of festering resentment, vegetating in some foreign resort.

Maybe Lar was right.

Go for it, damn the risk.

The odds were with Frank Tucker, but it was better than counting down the days.

Lying there, listening to Lar’s breathing, May considered her own prospects. There was money safely put away, she was three years younger than Lar and she could see a very different life waiting.

She would miss him.

At breakfast, Lar was silent. May couldn’t tell if he’d changed his mind again.

After she’d put milk on his porridge and poured his tea, she stood behind Lar and one hand gently stroked his hair. She said, ‘What would Jo-Jo do?’

‘Jo-Jo wouldn’t run.’

‘But how would he fight, what would he do?’

If there was one image that outweighed all others in Lar’s memories of his brother, it was Jo-Jo in an armchair or sitting
at a table, a book open in front of him. Jo-Jo was the bright one, Jo-Jo used his head.

A year after Jo-Jo and his mother Pearl were murdered, Lar finally got around to clearing out their things. He shared some mementoes with family members and gave the rest to a charity shop. One drunken evening, playing one of Jo-Jo’s Marty Robbins CDs, he went through Jo-Jo’s books and chose about a dozen of them to keep on a small shelf in his living room. The John Grisham novel that Jo-Jo had been reading just before he was murdered, the three old Alistair MacLean paperbacks he’d had since his teens, James Plunkett’s
Strumpet City
, which Jo-Jo had read and reread back in the 1970s and had urged all his friends to read. There were a few books on Irish history and a tattered guide to hillwalking in Wicklow.
Strumpet City
reminded Lar of the stories of old Dublin that his grandfather used to tell. He liked the Grisham book but he thought the MacLean stories were old-fashioned. He didn’t open the history books. Then there was the little book he now took down from the living-room shelf.