Eightball Boogie Read Free Page A

a sideways glance.
    “ Cheap shoes,” he sneered. “And hey, Kilfeather?”
    “ What?”
    “ Get snotty again and I’ll wipe your fucking nose.”
    He went back to the Mondeo, lit a cigarette, caught Kilfeather throwing some juju eyeball. Rubbed his nose, slow and deliberate, so Kilfeather glared at me instead. I took the hint and left.
     

2
     
    Herbie was still draped across his moped, shivering.
    “ Well?”
    “ It might not be suicide.”
    “ You got something?”
    “ Nothing you could quote in a family newspaper.”
    “ Fuck.”
    He straightened up, blew on his hands, remembered he was wearing gloves. Stared out over the lake to the town sprawled across the foot of the mountain, a verruca out of control. Out across the five miles to the Atlantic, chopping up grey and white.
    “ Regan tell you who found her?”
    “ No.”
    “ Think he might?”
    “ Squeeze the sponge, Harry, it dries up.”
    “ Yeah, yeah.” I dug out the makings, bummed a skin, rolled a twist. “Alright, leave it with me, I’ll make some calls. It’s already too late for the evening editions anyway.”
    “ Kilfeather’s a bastard.”
    “ He’s Dibble, Herb. That’s his job. Anyway, Kilfeather isn’t the problem. There’s a big lad from out of town running the show.”
    “ You didn’t get anything from him?”
    “ He didn’t see me, I wasn’t up a ladder. And a word to the wise. If he finds out Regan leaked you the story, Regan’ll be springing a few leaks of his own.”
    He swore, sparked up a ready-rolled from his grass-sprinkled pouch, eyeballing the garda leaning against the driveway pillar. Picked a flake of tobacco from his lower lip, flicked it in the garda’s direction, leaving the middle finger extended. The garda stared back, placid. Herbie said: “Think they’re in on it?”
    “ Who – the Dibble?”
    “ Who else? Fuckers’re into everything else.”
    “ Herb – why would the Dibble want Imelda Sheridan dead?”
    “ Maybe she was running a brothel, got the Inspector in a compromising position. Maybe she’s plotting a coup, Tony for president, the Dibble got wind of it.” He shrugged, matter of fact. “Could be anything.”
    I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
    “ Get off the weed, Herb. Seriously, man. Your head’s in a jam jar.”
    He started winding up, getting excited, tone urgent.
    “ This is front-page stuff, Harry. Banner headlines. Big fuck-off shots, see them a mile off, my name at the bottom. Mine, not those Fhotoprint fuckdogs.”
    The agency took a cut of everything we cooked up, which bothered Herbie. It didn’t bother me, thirty per cent of fuck all being approximately fuck all.
    “ Nail it down, Harry. I gave you this one on a plate. Coke, suicide, possible murder, the fucking lot. What more do you need?”
    “ How about proof?”
    “ What’re you talking about, proof?” He waggled his camera bag. “The shots’re ready to roll, beauts too, hole in her neck you could roll the black ball into. Only words these babies need are someone’s name on a cheque.”
    “ What about some kind of idea of why? A detail or two?” I was stalling, watching the maroon Civic pulling up, the bodywork too fresh for it to be anything but a rental. “It needs to be done right, Herb. We do it right or we don’t do it at all.”
    He heard the Civic, turned and looked. Shrugged, the anger evaporating too quick to be healthy.
    “ It’ll be done alright, but not by us. Here’s the fucking cavalry now.”
    She was petite, five-two at most, the kind of late twenties that takes years of practice. The hair a tangerine peek-a-boo bob, the lipstick apricot. The smile friendly, chasing freckles across the bridge of a snub nose. The eyes deep enough to give me vertigo, wide enough to make me want to jump.
    “ Gentlemen.” Her accent had the faintest of northern drawls.
    “ Around here that’s libel,” I said. I nodded towards the house. “And I’d say the pedicure’s been