Red Herring (17 page)

“An onion? Yeah?”

“Got to have ice,” said Furst. “Ice is critical.”

“I put some ice in it,” said the barman, pointing.

“Ton of ice. So that when you shake the ingredients together the ice bruises the gin. Gets the flavour out. That’s why it’s better to use a shaker than a pitcher, see.”

“I see,” said the barman. Yanks, he thought to himself. Jesus.

“O-kay,” said Furst. “Time for the drum roll.”

He picked up the glass, had a sip, rolled it round in his mouth, swallowed it, sucked in some air and thought about it for a second or two.

“You know what? It’s not bad for a first-timer.” He had another sip. “Get you shot in any self-respecting joint west of the Mississippi, but like I say, not bad.”

“Well, you know, little country,” said the barman, sourly. “That’ll be two and six, thanks.”

“But what a
great
little country,” said Furst, toasting its greatness with a third sip. “First time, but I’m sold.”

“Yeah?” said the barman. “You like it?”

“Very much so.”

“Lot of you blokes here during the war.”

“Oh, sure. They talk about it all the time.”

“Do they?” said the barman. Maybe this Yank wasn’t such a bad sort of a fella after all.

Furst looked around the bar. It was empty.

“What time you kick us all out?” he said.

“No hurry,” said the barman. “I could make you another one, if you like.”

“Hell, why not?” said Furst, putting the glass down on the bar. “Join me?”

“Oh, yeah. Might give it a go.”

“Joint could use some music,” said Furst.

There was a Regal Fleetwood on a ledge above the bar. The barman turned it on and twisted the dial to 1YA.

“Onions?” he said, waiting for the valves to warm up. “What? Like tripe and onions onions?”

“Cocktail onions. Little ones,” said Furst, demonstrating the size. “I’m an olive man, myself.” He tapped out a cigarette and lit it.

The barman put a second martini down in front of Furst. Les Paul and Mary Ford came on the radio. Furst hummed along.

“I’ll have a whisky and milk,” a voice said. “Not too heavy on the milk.”

Furst glanced. Solid feller. Ruddy, raw-boned face. Good suit but lived-in.

“Are you a guest in the hotel, Mr Walsh?” the barman said.

“Get me the drink, son.”

“Whisky and milk coming up,” said the barman, in a small voice, reaching for a glass.

“Where’s the dunny?” said Walsh.

The barman pointed. “Through that door, end of the hall, Mr Walsh.”

Walsh put his hat and some coins on the bar. “Keep an eye on my hat.”

The barman watched until Walsh had disappeared into the toilet. He leaned towards Furst and lowered his voice. “Big wheel in the unions,” he said, putting an ice cube into a glass and the glass under a whisky jigger.

“That so?”

“Real hard man,” said the barman. “I could tell you some stories about that joker.”

“What sort of stories?”

The barman put the whisky on the bar and drew his finger across his throat. “Those sort of stories.”

“You don’t say?” said Furst.

“Too right. Reckon he threw a stoker overboard in the middle of the Tasman once. Bloke said something Walsh didn’t like? Over the rail into the drink he goes.”

“Well I never.”

The barman poured a splash of milk into the whisky. The song finished. Walsh came back into the bar. He picked up his glass.

Furst put out his hand. “The name’s Furst,” he said. “I’m staying here at the hotel.”

“Walsh,” said Walsh, and sipped the whisky. “I’m picking you for a Yank,” he said.

“You’re right,” said Furst. “San Francisco.”

“Frisco?” said Walsh, with joy. “Know it well.”

“No kidding?”

“Lived there for a bit, oh, this’d be a good thirty years ago, even more,” said Walsh. “Still remember the address. 2011 Turk, Apartment 4H.”

“I’ll be darned. I worked the Tenderloin for twenty years. San Francisco Police Department.”

“Go on?” said Walsh. “I thought you looked familiar.”

They both laughed.

“What took you to the Golden State, Walsh?”

“Between ships,” said Walsh. “Met a gal, as you blokes say, decided to stay put for a bit. Pat, by the way.”

“I arrived there at the end of the war. Took my discharge and stayed. 1919,” said Furst. “I’m from New York, originally, and call me Al.”

Walsh tapped the bar with his knuckles and pointed at his glass. He turned to Furst. “Top you up there, Al?”

“Hell, why not?” said Furst, finishing his martini.

“What brings you down this way?” said Walsh, as the barman made the drinks. “Chasing a bank robber?”

Furst chuckled. “I’m retired. I work for an insurance company now.”

“Insurance, eh? What sort? Life? General?”

“More the investigation side. Fraud.”

“Really?” said Walsh. “Sounds interesting.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Molloy and Caitlin walked quickly up College Hill. A truck passed them. One or two cars. A woman walked in the opposite direction with her head down, high heels clacking on the footpath. There was a phone box on the corner of Geraldine Street. They crammed in.

Molloy looked up the Hotel Auckland in the telephone book. He put two pennies in the slot and rang the number. The operator put him through to Furst’s room. No reply. He asked her to try the house bar. She doubted it would still be open. Molloy insisted.

“House bar,” said the barman.

“Is there a bloke called Furst there?” said Molloy. “Big Yank, about fifty. Staying in the pub.”

“Yes there is.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“Just a tick,” said the barman, putting down the receiver.

The barman walked over to the unlit fireplace where Furst and Walsh were sitting in armchairs, smoking cigars and telling war stories.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “You’re wanted on the telephone.”

Furst looked at his watch.

“Must be head office,” he said. “You mind?”

“Go for your life,” said Walsh.

Furst went to the bar and picked up the receiver. “Al Furst,” he said.

“Al?” said Molloy. “It’s me. Johnny Molloy.”

“Hey,” said Furst. “You stood me up tonight, you limey bastard, you and your Girl Friday.” He was in a good mood.

“Got tied up,” said Molloy. “I’ll tell you about it. But listen, there are people who are on their way over to see you. Watch out.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

“The Maori who did me over the other night. His name’s Sunny Day. And a lanky kid called Lofty,” said Molloy. “They work for a bastard named Walsh.”

“Fintan Walsh? Union bigshot?”

“Yeah.”

“Hell, I’m having a drink with him right now.”

“Furst, listen to me,” said Molloy. “The other two nearly threw Miss O’Carolan into a furnace an hour or so ago on Walsh’s orders.”

Furst laughed. “Oh my, Molloy, you’re giving me the vapours. Telephone me in the morning and we’ll tie up the loose ends, okay?” He hung up.

Molloy stared at the receiver for a moment before putting it in the cradle. “They’re boozing together in the house bar,” he said. “Best of pals.”

The phone booth was suddenly flooded with light. Molloy grabbed Caitlin and drew her in. The light swept past. A car driving down College Hill.

Molloy relaxed his hold. They were an inch apart.

“Wow,” said Caitlin, a little breathless.

“Don’t get excited. I thought I recognised that car for a second.”

“Whose did you think it was?”

“Does it matter?” said Molloy, his throat dry.

“Not to me,” said Caitlin, softly, closing her eyes and tilting back her head.

Molloy tightened his arms around her and felt a stab of pain.

“What?” she said, alarmed.

“Nothing,” he said, trying to brush it off. “Ribs are a bit sore, that’s all.”

“Oh dear. Are they broken, do you think?”

“Wouldn’t think so.”

“Good thing I’m almost a nurse,” she said. “Come on. There’s a taxi stand in Three Lamps. I’m taking you home.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Home was an elegant two-storey bungalow in Herne Bay set back off the road behind an enormous tree. Creeper grew around the entrance and along the top of a large picture window, and in the moonlight Molloy could see a chimney made of river stones.

“Will you marry me?” he said.

“It belongs to my aunt, you dope,” said Caitlin, squeezing his arm.

The kitchen was at the back of the house with a view down a lawn and over a wooden fence across the harbour to the Chelsea Sugar Refinery in Birkenhead.

Caitlin turned on the light. “Take your coat and shirt off.”

Molloy stood in his singlet.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Sort of here,” said Molloy, pointing.

She put an ear to his chest. “Take a deep breath.”

He looked down at her hair. She splayed her hand on his ribs, applying pressure. “I doubt it’s broken. If it was, you’d know about it. There’s not much I can do. I’ll bandage it. These sorts of injuries fix themselves. I’ll find you some painkillers. Won’t be a tick.”

She left the room. Through the kitchen window Molloy could see a small boat moving up the harbour past Watchman Island, a lamp swinging on its bow.

Caitlin came back into the kitchen with a bottle of aspirin, a bandage and some Johnnie Walker. She poured neat whisky into two kitchen glasses and gave one to Molloy. She shook two pills into his hand.

“Good health,” she said. They clinked glasses. He swallowed the pills. She unravelled the bandage.

“Take off your singlet.”

“I’m really surprised you didn’t continue with nursing,” said Molloy, as Caitlin wrapped the fabric around his chest. “That bedside manner.”

She looked at him. “Oh, I’ve got a bedside manner, all right,” she said, securing the bandage with a safety pin. “Don’t you worry.”

The air between them crackled.

“Look,” said Molloy, after a moment. “I better be off.”

“Why?” said Caitlin, putting down her glass.

“Let’s not get carried away,” he said.

“Why not?” she said, slowly undoing the top button of her blouse.

“Because I’ve been around the block a couple of times,” said Molloy, putting his hands gently on her shoulders. “And you’re a girl with her whole life ahead of her.”

“So?” She was wearing a sheer corselette with a deep plunge. “It won’t be my first time, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Furst was struggling to put on his pyjamas when he heard a knock at the door. Matching Walsh drink for drink had been a mistake. He had rung the front desk and asked for analgesics to be sent up. But rather than the night porter, his visitor was a peroxided nymph straight from the lurid cover of an Erle Stanley Gardner mystery, as
fatale
as
femmes
come.

“Hello,” this vision said, her open and friendly tone belying her sultry appearance. “Are you Mr Furst?”

“That’s me,” said Furst. “Are you the night nurse?”

“If you like,” said the girl. “I’m Brenda. A friend asked me to come up and keep you company.”

“A friend, huh?” said Furst, pulling the folds of a dressing gown over his stomach. “And who would that be?”

“Mr Walsh. F.P. Walsh.”

“Did he now, by God?” said Furst, looking quickly up and down the hallway. “Well, come right in, honey. Brenda, was it?”

“Brenda, yes. Although I’m thinking of changing it to something more modern. Gosh, this is a nice room.” She kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed. “Oh!” she said. “Is this one of them inner-sprung mattresses?”

“You know, Brenda,” said Furst, feeling better already. “I believe it is.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Lofty parked the Chrysler in front of a grocer’s in New Lynn. Sunny was letting him drive. Lofty went inside and bought a loaf of bread, a pound of butter, milk, tea, chocolate biscuits, Weet-Bix, half a dozen eggs, six slices of bacon, rolling papers, tobacco and a box of matches. The shopkeeper put the items in a cardboard box. Lofty loaded it into the boot of the Plymouth, next to the box of gelly, a canvas carpenter’s bag filled with tools, and a crate of Waitemata, and got back in the car. They drove to Laingholm and then down a gravel road to Huia. Lofty stopped outside a fibrolite bach set back off the road. O’Flynn was sitting on the back porch with a mug of tea, his nose peeling, one hand shading his pale green eyes from the morning sun.

“The cavalry has arrived,” he said. “About time.”

“Put the kettle on,” said Sunny.

Lofty put the box of groceries and the beer on the porch. Sunny placed the gelignite and the detonators and the canvas toolbag next to it.

O’Flynn came out with a teapot and cups. “I’ve no sugar.”

“Not for me,” said Sunny.

“Me neither,” said Lofty.

“You didn’t bring a girl, did you?” said O’Flynn. “Jaysus, I could use one.” He winked at Sunny. “Even your man’s looking sweet.”

“Hey!” said Lofty, stepping backwards.

“Do we have a day for the spectacular?” said O’Flynn, taking the lid off the box of gelignite. He took out a stick and threw it to Lofty. “Think fast!”

“Oh, jeez,” said Lofty, fumbling the catch. “What did you do that for?”

“This Saturday,” said Sunny. “There’s a boat to Sydney at midday. All the girls you want in Sydney.”

“So I’ve heard,” said O’Flynn. “What’s today?”

“Wednesday. I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock in the morning. You’ll be out of the country by lunchtime.”

“And the fella who’s sniffing round? The shamus?”

“He got the message, don’t worry.”

“There’s another thing,” said O’Flynn.

“What?” said Sunny.

“I’ve a suitcase in left-luggage at the railway station.”

Sunny paused. “You should have thought of that,” he said.

“We left in a hurry you’ll recall.”

“Even so. What’s in it?”

“Oh, items of a sentimental nature. Letters and the like.”

“Travelling money?”

“A hundred greenbacks give or take.”

“Give me the ticket. I’ll see what I can do.”