The Rage (10 page)

‘I see your point, but—’

‘The kid, Conor – he got probation for the shoplifting. It’s a mug’s game, taking these things personally.’

‘It’s your call – I just thought you should have the option.’

Vincent cupped the back of his brother’s neck, his voice warm. ‘I appreciate that – thanks. But we’ve got a big job to do. From here on, no emotional shit, just business.’

Noel picked up the folded piece of paper. ‘Your call – besides, it’s a long road. Put it in your wallet – maybe you’ll change your mind.’

Vincent smiled. ‘Not out of the question.’

When he went into the courtroom, Bob Tidey looked towards the back row and saw Trixie Dixon. A couple of rows ahead, he recognised Roly Blount, Frank Tucker’s chief enforcer. Here to see that Christy Dixon behaved like the patsy he was. Tidey turned away without acknowledging Trixie.

There would be a number of cases processed this morning – this was a filtering court, cases sorted like mail for sundry destinations, remands and postponements as well as sentencing in cases already pleaded. Lawyers and witnesses chatted while they waited for the judge to emerge from his chambers. You could tell the defendants – they were the ones with the nervous, pale faces. Everyone else was going home when the show was over.

Cases moved quickly and it was no time before the court clerk intoned, ‘The DPP versus Christopher Dixon, for sentencing.’

The judge was one of those smart, decisive guys – no bluster, no quips, no throwing shapes. He was here to get a job done. Bob Tidey liked that kind of judge.

‘I understand the defendant was cooperative, Detective Sergeant?’

‘He admitted the break-in, Judge,’ Tidey said, ‘and when we found the gun, he immediately admitted possession.’

‘His counsel says he was holding onto it for someone?’

‘I believe that’s true, Judge.’

‘Have there been any further arrests in this matter?’

‘Mr Dixon said he didn’t know the name of the person who asked him to hide the gun. I believe that’s true, Judge. I also believe that Mr Dixon believed – and I think he was right – that he had little choice but to do as he was told.’

‘Has he made any effort to help the police lay hands on the owner of the gun?’

‘Judge, we asked him the questions and I believe he answered them as truthfully as he could. I believe he knew the gun owner to be a dangerous person – knew him by sight and by reputation but not by name.’

‘Have the police been able to establish if the gun was previously used in criminal activity?’

‘No, Judge – Technical did the usual tests, but it’s not a match to any crime for which we have records. We made inquiries of PSNI, but there’s no match in the North either.’

The judge nodded. The court was silent for a while as he made a note. There were judges on whom Bob Tidey’s message would be lost, but this wasn’t one of them.
This young gobshite is being as straight as he can be without getting a bullet in the head
. The judge finally looked up at Christy.

‘Mr Dixon – I appreciate your dilemma. You felt yourself under a measure of duress, from someone you believe to be dangerous. But that does not justify your action – taking possession of a lethal weapon, a weapon that might, but for happenstance, have been used in some appalling criminal enterprise. Two years on the break-in, final year suspended. Three years on the gun-possession charge, final year suspended.’

Christy’s counsel was on his feet. ‘To run concurrently, Judge?’

‘Yes.’

Three years, total, one suspended. Christy would be out in maybe sixteen months if he behaved himself, which he probably would. Trixie Dixon was still sitting at the back. He nodded his gratitude to Tidey. Roly Blount had already left.

Mickey Kavanagh looked at his watch again. Frank Tucker was twenty minutes late. Nothing unusual – Frank was always late. The mid-morning sun was warm, the sky blue – Mickey relaxed, lit another smoke. After a couple of minutes, Frank’s Saab stopped at the corner of Le Fanu Road. Mickey threw away his cigarette and climbed into the back.

Tucker nodded his hello and the driver, a big man named Sullivan, took them off down Ballyfermot Road.

‘It’s about Junior Kelly,’ Kavanagh said.

Tucker said, ‘Not here.’

They drove in silence and a few minutes later they were on their way through the Phoenix Park. The Saab stopped close to the Papal Cross and Tucker and Kavanagh got out. They strolled across the open landscape, towards the mound below the cross.

‘I have the car swept every day,’ Tucker said. ‘My house, the pub – we’ve never found anything, but the technology they’ve got, you can’t be sure. The fuckers are all over me. It’s not a problem, long as we’re careful.’

Kavanagh was looking up at the massive cross. ‘My mother still talks about bringing us all up here thirty years ago, when the Pope came. Pretty much everyone in the city, a million people – all waving at His Holiness.’

Tucker smiled. ‘No Holy Joes in my family.’

‘She was pregnant with me. She named me after Father Michael Cleary.’ Kavanagh snorted. ‘Prancing around up there beside the Pope, him and Bishop Casey, directing the show. Casey knew well that Mick Cleary had a two-year-old son, but Cleary didn’t know the Bishop had his own son tucked away in the States.’

‘The good old days – saints and scholars and a randy clergy.’

‘My ma was properly pissed after it all came out.’

When they were standing below the cross, Frank Tucker said, ‘You’ve got a problem?’

‘It’s Junior Kelly.’

‘What’s the story?’

‘He feels he’s not appreciated.’

‘He’s a wanker.’

‘It’s turned serious. He’s been talking to Chapman’s people.’

‘Is this pub gossip or is it solid?’

‘Chapman sent one of his tools to see me last night, told me Junior came to see him twice.’

‘With a view to what?’

‘Junior thinks you and Chapman will end up butting heads. This way, he crosses over and sets you up, Chapman comes out on top – and Junior’s got himself into a snug place.’

‘You sure of this?’

‘Played me a tape – it’s Junior’s voice.’

‘And Chapman is pissing him away?’

‘Must have his reasons.’

Tucker stood a while, looking down at the grass, gently prodding it with the toe of his shoe. Then he looked up. ‘It’s a peace offering. Chapman turns Junior over – he’s telling us he could have done the dirty, but he didn’t.’

‘Trust him?’

Tucker shrugged.

‘What about Junior?’

‘He made his choice.’

‘I’ll send Danny and Luke.’

Tucker stood close to Mickey Kavanagh. ‘I want you to do this yourself. Tell him what’s coming, make him kneel, make him wait. When he’s done pissing and crying, tell him Frank Tucker sends his regards.’

‘Done.’

Hands in his pockets, Tucker looked up at the Papal cross and after a few seconds he said, ‘Send Danny and Luke to take care of Chapman.’

‘You sure?’

‘Maybe he’s being cute – maybe not. This game, you guess wrong and—’

‘Still, I mean—’

‘You leave a loose end, maybe it trips you up. He goes.’

‘Gonna be a great summer,’ Vincent Naylor said.

Albert Bannerman made a see-sawing hand gesture – maybe, maybe not. They were sitting at a table outside Grogan’s pub. Somewhere up the lane that led to Grafton Street, three kids were whining a barely recognisable Oasis song over a couple of off-tune guitars.

‘It was like this last year,’ Albert said. ‘April, May, the sun is splitting the bricks. What happened? August, rains all day and the country is flooded. Everything’s upside down with this country.’

‘Grab some rays while it’s here.’

Albert’s Guinness had a couple of inches left in the glass. Vincent Naylor was still just halfway through his Southern Comfort. Drinking in the afternoon wasn’t his usual style, but this kind of meeting, some people can read a meaning into ordering a Coke.

‘The country’s fucked,’ Albert said. ‘The big boys got too greedy, ran everything off a cliff.’

Vincent Naylor nodded. When he thought about it, though, the big boys might have got greedy, but when the shekels are there to be picked up, what else are you gonna do? Name of the game, right?

‘Off a cliff. You know Jimmy Wrigley?’

Vincent shook his head.

‘Does a bit of work for me, time to time. Last week, he was picking up a Lancia, outside some fella’s house – Mount Merrion, I think, late in the evening, almost had the door open. Fella comes out of the house, stops and looks at Jimmy. Jimmy’s frozen, knows he should be running like fuck, but he’s just standing there and the fella starts laughing. Throws his head back – Jimmy said the guy was half hysterical – hooting like a fucking monkey. Fella puts his hand in his pocket, takes out his car keys and throws them to Jimmy. Take it, he says, off you go. They’re taking the house, he says, the judge gave me two weeks to move out. They’ve taken the credit cards. They’ve even taken the fucking Ten Year Ticket for Lansdowne Road. They’re coming for the car tomorrow. Fuck ’em, he says – you might as well have it.’

Albert grinned. ‘Jimmy says, fair play to you, sir, and the fella starts laughing again. Like I say – upside down, it is. This country’s fucked.’

Vincent took a sip of his Southern Comfort. He wondered if he maybe went down and gave the three little gobshites a tenner they’d take their Oasis shit somewhere up the road.

Albert Bannerman finished off his pint and took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘Noel’s OK, then?’

Vincent nodded. ‘He’s fine.’

Albert skimmed the flat of his palm back across his shaven head. ‘What I don’t want is this starts some kind of – you know, push and pull, you and me. This town, too many little niggles turn into feuds, you end up with the Hundred Years War.’

Vincent was shaking his head. ‘Everyone did what they had to do – Noel, you, me – that’s the way I see it.’

Albert nodded agreement.

Vincent said, ‘Except that bitch.’

‘Lorraine says she didn’t know he’d be there. At Cisco’s.’

‘You believe her?’

‘Maybe she was hoping he’d be there – that’s what she’s like. She was—’ He made a gesture with his cigarette hand, like it was something he didn’t want to put into words.

‘She was showing you off?’

‘One way of putting it.’

‘Noel’s soft,’ Vincent said. ‘Head over heels he was, from the start – a year of having his strings pulled. It had to end in tears. Bitch stomped all over him.’

Albert said, ‘It happens.’

‘Wasn’t enough to walk out – had to do it in front of a couple of his mates.’

‘He should’ve smacked her.’

‘Noel’s not like that. What I’m saying – I’m not trying to mark your card, you and her is your business. I’m just explaining.’

‘Fair enough,’ Albert said. ‘And locking him up in the shed, it wasn’t like I had a choice – other circumstances, someone comes to my house with a knife—’ He made the same hand gesture.

‘Everyone did what they had to do.’

‘I could see he was out of his head.’

‘Noel’s a good guy.’

They said nothing for a while, then Albert pointed at Vincent’s glass. ‘Go again?’

‘My shout.’

When Vincent came back out with the drinks, Albert said, ‘You got anything going at the minute?’

‘Nah – things are slow. You?’

Bannerman took a sip of his pint. ‘Pretty quiet. You still working for Mickey Kavanagh?’

‘Mickey’s a big shot these days – got his own scene with Frank Tucker.’

‘You at a loose end?’

‘Is that an offer?’

‘Some of the kids I’ve had working for me – all muscle, from ear to ear. Someone who knows the score – if there’s something we could hook up on—’ The hand again.

‘Could be awkward – Noel and all.’

Albert made a face. ‘Lorraine and me – I’ve got a wife, four kids, they’re living out in Tallaght, everything’s cool. Lorraine’s what she is, but these things, they’ve got a natural lifespan – no one believes in fairy tales.’

‘No reason, then – if the right job comes along.’

‘This country’s fucked, but there’s always work for them that’s willing, is what I say.’

‘What kind of car?’ Bob Tidey asked.

‘It’s green,’ Maura Coady said.

‘You don’t know what make?’

‘No.’ She sounded apologetic.

‘Can you see the number plate?’

‘Not from here.’

He was about to ask her to go outside and have a look, but he could hear the timidity in her voice. Besides, he felt contrite, having put off calling her this morning, enveloped in organising witness depositions. It was late afternoon before he got round to it. Once he’d listened to the details, it dawned that perhaps this wasn’t the waste of time he’d first assumed.