Eightball Boogie by Declan Burke Page B

coffees. I ignored his dispirited search among the sachets stuffed under the bar, nodding at Baluba Joe, sitting at far end of the bar, the pint in front of him standing sentry over a half one, the flying helmet placed to one side. Over his head, pinned to the bar, was the yellowing newspaper cutting that announced Joe and his mates were to be awarded their medals for not dying in the Congo.
    “ Alright Joe?”
    “ Fuggoff.”
    “ Sound.”
    Dutchie came back with the Cappuccino. He sat up on the dishwasher behind the bar, sipping from a bottle of orange juice. I nodded at Joe.
    “ Thought he was inside?”
    “ He went in Saturday.” Joe checked himself in every Christmas for the week that was in it. “Came back out today, said he didn’t want to peak too soon.”
    “ Fair enough. So what’s up?”
    “ Nothing much. Just wondering if you and Dee are on for a meal out tomorrow night. Michelle is booking a Chinkers.”
    “ One step at a time, Dutch.”
    “ It being Christmas and all…”
    I filled him in on the morning’s events.
    “ So she threw you out. How many times is that?”
    “ Seven.”
    “ Seven?”
    “ I only count the times she’s sober.”
    “ Smart.”
    He chugged some orange juice. I changed the subject.
    “ Know a Frank Conway?”
    He choked on the juice, wiped a dribble from his chin with the back of his hand. Then he hopped down from the bar, dragged a tray of steaming glasses out of the dishwasher. He left them over the sink to drain dry, wiped his hands on a cloth.
    “ Conway the auctioneer? Slimy bastard, drives a big dick substitute. Runs a sideline importing second-hand cars across the border. Thinks his wife is too good for him. She thinks she’s too good for everyone else.”
    “ Someone has to be. Anything else?”
    “ Why, what’s up?”
    I sketched the outline of Frank Conway’s visit.
    “ So why are you digging on him? Shouldn’t you be digging on her?”
    “ I am.” I told him about my trip to Hughes Point. His mouth turned down at the corners.
    “ So who’s the bloke?”
    “ Fuck knows.”
    “ Dirty bitch.”
    “ That’s as may be. All this afternoon told me was, Helen Conway went for a walk at Hughes Point with some bloke drives a Volvo. He could be her father for all I know.” I took a deep breath, swallowed the Cappuccino in one gulp, wiped the froth from my lip. “But even if she is carrying on, Conway still isn’t kosher.”
    “ Like how?”
    “ Like he comes to me saying his wife is knocking out tricks, but kicks for touch anytime I try to get around the back of it. Gets agitated, knows more than he’s saying.”
    “ If he knows so much why’d he come to you?”
    “ I don’t know. Maybe Frank’s not worried about his wife screwing someone else. Maybe Frank’s worried about her screwing him, making off with the family jewels.”
    He shook his head.
    “ Conway might have problems. Cash isn’t one of them.”
    “ What do you hear?”
    “ You know there’s E in the motors, when they come across the border?”
    “ Yeah. What else?”
    “ There’s whispers about a knocking shop, on that new estate out the back of the college. Curtains are never open, there’s blokes coming and going all hours of the night. Sounds to me like a student nurse flop, but you never know.”
    “ Anything legal?”
    “ Last I heard he was involved in that development that went up out at Manor Grange. Bought the land for a hundred twenty, put forty houses on it at a hundred and eighty grand a pop. There’s another one planned for down at the river, opposite the new hotel. Apartments, state of the art, they look like something off a Polish industrial estate. The site cost him a hundred fifty, there’s seven pre-booked at one-sixty each and they won’t be ready to go for another six months.”
    “ So maybe it isn’t real estate. Maybe he fancies the ponies, or the stocks.”
    Dutchie took a long swig of orange juice, dropped the bottle in the bin.
    “ If he