Islandbridge by John Brady Page B

said O’Keefe. “Or the plane, or whatever it is.”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œThat factory was where he worked.”
    â€œWas he long in it?”
    â€œEleven years. He thought he was safe. But what can you do?”
    They half-listened then to an assistance call to a printing shop. The staff had just come in and the place had been burglarized. A Finglas car took the call. Kelly sped up again and was soon turning into the industrial estate and beginning to coast down by the warehouses.
    O’Keefe finished his KitKat. He sighed, and started up a cigarette. He rolled down the window a little after the first pull.
    â€œHe might try the States,” he said. “The brother. But it won’t be on a visa, I can tell you.”
    â€œThere’s work if you’re willing, I hear,” was all Kelly could muster.
    O’Keefe took a long, meditative drag on the cigarette and he opened the paper again.
    â€œWell, well, well,” he said. “Some you win – or we do, I should say.”
    â€œThe hurling, is it?”
    â€œNo, no. A different sport entirely. Things take care of themselves sometimes, is what I’m saying. But we shouldn’t be clapping in public now, should we.”
    Kelly looked over.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œThere are scumbags getting what was coming to them. A rare enough event in this kip.”
    â€œSomething in the paper?”
    O’Keefe folded the newspaper again and flattened it more on his knee.
    â€œYou’re a muck savage,” he said. “Don’t you read the papers at all? Look, I’ll read it out to you. But before I do, maybe I should tell you a bit about this fella, or his family. You probably heard of them, but a fella in the know in CDU was telling us some of their shenanigans.”
    â€œWho, or what are you on about?”
    â€œAh you know them, come on. Everyone does, every Guard – the Rynns.”
    Kelly felt surges moving up and down his arms, and his back locking up.
    â€œI heard it on the radio this morning. What’s the name of the crowd in The Godfather there, that film? Car– Corleones, that’s it. The son was a maniac, I heard. Jimmy Rynn. Junior they call him. Surely to God you’ve heard of him, or his oul fella?”
    Kelly nodded.
    â€œThe son was off the wall,” he said. “Breaking legs, kneecapping, God knows what else. So he must have done it once too often. Here is it, listen: ‘Garda sources have confirmed that the body found in a field near Blessington was that of James Rynn Junior. Preliminary reports suggest that Mr. Rynn died of gunshot wounds. He was on bail awaiting an appeal of a conviction for theft and several related charges. And blah-dee-blah more, suspects sought dah dee dah . . .’”
    O’Keefe reached down for his Coke and pulled off the tab.
    â€œI’ll drink to that,” he said. “God forgive me.”
    Kelly had the feeling that the patrol car was driving itself, and that the hands on the steering wheel worked independently of their owner.
    O’Keefe stifled a soft belch.
    â€œPlenty more where he came from,” he said “But we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, I suppose.”
    Kelly smelled O’Keefe’s sugary breath wafting across to him. The flashes from the laneway that night, and the shouts ran through his mind again. He took his foot off the accelerator and stared at a van parked up on the curb.
    â€œWhat’s wrong? What do you see?”
    Kelly shook his head. Everything had a strange light to it now, even a glare off the lorry coming his way. He saw then that a shaft of sunlight had somehow broken through the cloud.
    â€œSo, you heard of them,” said O’Keefe. “The Rynns?”
    â€œWho hasn’t?”
    â€œTit-for-tat, I’ll bet you. Maybe the father’ll be next. Hope springs infernal?”
    O’Keefe looked over for a