John Brady - The good life

He drained the can and let the fizz tear at the back of his throat. The resentment crept back into his chest. Maybe he wasn’t a goner like Jer, but still he lived at home in a crummy little room with his ma nagging him, with an oul fella who hadn’t brought wages home in ten years. He grasped the Coke can tight and crushed it. There had to be something for him. Mary only worked part-time in this place around the corner.

What if she wasn’t there now? He elbowed away from the wall and headed down the street toward Tresses.

Sting, he thought as he pushed the door open. Jases, couldn’t they do better than that? A fat guy with a buzz-cut was sitting in one of the chairs reading a magazine. Two women were getting their hair done. The woman at the counter was trying to fix a bracelet with a nail-file.

“Howiya there,” she said. “A trim, was it?”

No sign of Mary. She’d told him not to show up here. She was only in the place a couple of months, part-time.

“No, thanks. Not today.” Maybe Mary was on a break. “I was, you know, looking for someone who works here.”

“Oh, who’s that?”

Screw Sting, he thought. Screw the Amazon rain forest for that matter.

“Mary, you know?”

Buzz-cut looked up from the magazine. The receptionist glanced over at him and then back. She was still smiling but her tone had changed.

“There’s no Mary here.”

“Mary Mullen? Kind of tall. Always wears a-”

“Mary doesn’t work here,” said Buzz-cut. Dub accent, he thought, and he had that glazed look in his eyes that was telling him to get the message.

“Well, she used to, didn’t she. Three weeks ago she was working here.”

Buzz-cut opened his eyes wide.

“So?”

He stared into Buzz-cut’s eyes. Jammy Tierney, the guy who was supposed to be his friend, coming the heavy with him. The tiny hole in his pocket. Going home to be pestered by the Ma again. Knowing he’d be out again after tea looking to score. Mary hadn’t even told him she’d left this kip. Maybe she’d been in a barney with them here.

“So I came by to talk to her. Can you live with a major crisis like that?”

Buzz-cut closed the magazine and stood. He looked a damn sight bigger standing.

“Hit the trail here, brother. She doesn’t work here any more.”

The wet hair and the shampoo, the hot damp stink of hair being dried became suddenly choking.

“I was only asking. What’s the big deal? Jesus!”

Buzz-cut flexed his fingers. He kept his eyes on Buzz-cut’s as he stepped out the door.

“What’s so strange about asking a question about a friend of mine? All you have to say is, well-Jesus! People these days! Must be the bleeding music turns you into head-cases here.”

He was out on the footpath before Buzz-cut began to move. Why the hell hadn’t Mary told him? Had it been that long since he’d seen her? He looked at his watch. Was there a phone box around here?

Don’t have much of an appetite meself either,” said Malone. Bun under his belt, Minogue stirred his coffee and watched his colleague wolf down another sausage roll. The Inspector had picked a table near the door of Bewleys’ restaurant. The late-morning crowd continued to move through the ground-floor section. Many patrons sat slouched, their faces flushed and even slick with the heat. Eyes shone in the clammy gloom. Two men in ponytails and brightly patterned shirts were lining up for coffee. He knew from Peter Flood in the Drug Squad that the taller one was a convicted drug dealer. Both men were elegantly groomed and outfitted. They were enjoying a good laugh. One of them spotted Minogue and his laugh turned to a smile. Minogue saw him elbow his crony and murmur something. The crony began to concentrate on the food he was picking. Some town, thought the Inspector. Bananas we should be growing.

A waitress began cleaning up the adjoining table. He watched her blow breath up from under her bottom lip at a stray strand of hair over her forehead. Blonde, he saw, and out of a bottle at that. The roots looked black, same as Mary Mullen’s. He sipped more coffee. The image kept soaking in behind his eyes: the killer astride her, slamming her head on the pavement. Minogue stretched and rubbed hard at his eyes. The image was still with him.

“Quite the bullock,” Minogue murmured. Malone looked up from his tea.

“Patricia Fahy’s father, I meant.”

Minogue stared at the question marks he had scribbled in his notebook. He shifted in his seat and snapped his notebook shut.

“Well, Fahy won’t get his spake in the next time, Tommy.”

“Will we try her later on again this afternoon?”

“Maybe tomorrow instead. People lose it when they get a shock, but still I think that the same Patricia Fahy was being a bit economical with the truth. Not knowing much about where Mary was working or socializing? Doesn’t fit.”

Malone nodded and squinted at the Inspector.

“And didn’t know if Mary had a boyfriend? Her own flatmate?”

“Pull the other one, like,” said Minogue. “It’s got bells on it.”

“She’s scared, isn’t she?”

Minogue nodded. Malone finished his tea and looked at his watch.

“Stop me if I’m being pushy now,” he said. “But aren’t we supposed to be in a rush?”

Minogue eyed him and sipped at the leftover froth in his coffee.

“Before the trail goes cold and all that?”

“I suppose,” said the Inspector. “But we’re moving along well enough. Forensic takes time. We’re getting her father; we’re connecting her to criminal associates. We’ve interviewed the mother. Done a lot of site work, started the secondary search. We’re not working alone, man. The teams are out there already.”

“Huh,” said Malone. “There must have been someone by that part of the canal the other night.”

“I hope you’re right. I found a rake of spots along the canal where you’re out of sight of the street. I was able to walk right under the bridge even. The light’s bad.”

Malone tapped his fingers on the table, bit his lip and nodded several times.

“Mightn’t even be the site, Tommy. Could’ve brought her there, slipped her out of a car. Even if we find damn-all from the canal, we don’t want to get locked onto assumptions here.”

Malone rubbed at his nose and glanced at the Inspector. The gesture reminded Minogue of a boxer getting the last word from the trainer as the bell sounded to start the round.

“What do you reckon yourself? So far, like.”

Malone began plucking the hairs by his watch-strap.

“Well, I reckon I don’t want to make an iijit out of myself with guessing, do I.”

“I’m not trying to get a rise out of you,” said Minogue. “So I’ll tell you what’s been going through my mind. With that bruise in the face, he was probably facing her. I’m going on the assumption for now that he’s not a citeog.”

“A what?”

“Left-handed. If he did that, he’s a certain type of person. Strong, of course. More than just a short fuse. I mean, very, very aggressive type of a fella. You go over a distinct barrier as regards behaviour when you hit someone in the face. Especially a woman.”

Malone rested his cheeks on his fists. “Okay,” he said.

“You’d be inclined to expect a pattern. A record, if you follow me.”

Malone’s fists had pushed his cheeks up to his eyelashes. Minogue finished his coffee. He looked into the narrow slits which Malone’s eyes had become.

“How’d you get into the boxing anyway?”

“The, er, the brother got me started.” Malone leaned in over the table and frowned up under his eyebrows at Minogue.

“Listen, on that same matter. Do we have a minute?”