The Going Rate (38 page)

“Oh come on. Back on track there, gunner.”

“You know what I think,” said West Ham.

“Cheer up, for Christ's sake.”

“Don't push it no more. This is different.”

“Mutiny in the ranks?”

Cully's mockery didn't draw any more response. They gained the entrance to the valley and turned down toward the city. West Ham drove carefully now.

“Give me some of that,” said Cully. “Don't be a wally.”

“What? What have I got?”

“Wot? Wot?” said Cully. “You know bloody ‘wot.' Some of that jungle rum you got. That's wot.”

Chapter 38

W
EST
H
AM LEFT THE CAR RUNNING
outside the chipper. He slammed the door, still grinning at something that Cully had muttered. He seemed to be unsteady on his feet as he walked, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head. Cully offered Fanning the rum again.

“No,” said Fanning. “Thanks.”

Cully sucked on his teeth after a swig, and he screwed the top back on.

Fanning sat back against the seat again and he watched the reaction of the girl behind the counter to West Ham's order. A couple of teenagers were eating fish and chips at a seat next to the window.

“He's a pretty good friend of yours, isn't he?”

Cully turned.

“Westie? Why are you asking?”

“You let him say what he wants to. Calling you a Paddy?”

“That stuff doesn't matter,” said Cully.

“In England, it matters, I'd say.”

Cully hesitated.

“Well we're not in England, are we. We're here in Dublin for a bit of a lark. It's me showing him about, isn't it.”

“Doesn't look that thrilled to be here.”

“Leave West Ham out of it, this thing.”

Fanning could still smell petrol. Maybe it was on his clothes, or on the seat.

West Ham was counting out exact change. The girl at the cash register looked quickly up to his face from his money, and then back. He said something to her as he handed over the money. She smiled nervously and began counting. Three teenaged boys came down the footpath by the clothes shops and entered the chipper.

“You don't mind sitting in a stolen car here,” Fanning said.

“Do you?”

“I've never done it before.”

“Look,” said Cully, “the cops don't care. They've got enough to do. Why should they put themselves out over it? Insurance covers it. Nobody cares, believe me.”

“Murph will care.”

West Ham had the same shambling gait on his way out of the chipper.

“I don't know about that,” said Cully. “Be interesting to find out, I suppose.”

“You don't sound like you care much.”

“‘The rain in Spain falls mainly down the drain.'”

“On the Plain. It falls on the Plain.”

“What Plane?” West Ham asked as he opened the door. “Are we going back?”

The greasy heat from the fish and chips came out as vapour.

“It's nothing,” said Cully.

West Ham sampled some of the chips, holding them between his teeth and breathing on them. He made no move to offer them around. Fanning noticed the first drops of rain sliding down the window.

“You might as well just pour lard into your arteries,” said Cully.

West Ham's eyes met Fanning's in the mirror.

“You stick to your carrot juice and tofu then.”

Cully shifted in his seat.

“I'll drive,” he said. “You can stuff yourself.”

Fanning heard West Ham mumble something as they exchanged seats.

“What,” said West Ham after swallowing a chip.

“I can drop you somewhere else,” Cully said to him.

“Christ, now? Get a few drinks, see what's up.”

“Later on, maybe,” said Cully, and he pulled over.

West Ham grunted, but slid out of his seat and stepped out onto the footpath without complaint. Neither man said goodbye.

Cully crunched reverse twice before finding it.

There were few enough people walking along the footpaths. Buses swished by in a haze of drizzle. An ambulance passed by slowly, followed by a Garda squad car. Fanning stole a glance at Cully. He seemed unconcerned.

“So, you like motoring about in a hot car,” Cully said.

Fanning looked over for a moment.

“I'm not sure.”

“That means you do,” said Cully. He braked for the turn by the Rotunda Hospital, and turned onto Parnell Square.

“I'll tell you how I know that,” he said pausing to avoid a taxi, “how I know you like it. You would have said so if you didn't like it. ‘Not sure' means you do, but you don't want to admit it. It's a middle-class thing.”

“Ah, psychology,” said Fanning.

“Call it what you like. It's true.”

“A weakness, you think, no doubt.”

Cully shrugged

“I don't care,” he said, “if it is or isn't.”

Parnell Square was almost deserted.

“Where are we going?”

“We're getting rid of this thing. You can study that. Write about it. Anyway, it's not too far. Then, who knows.”

“Why did you tell West Ham to go his own way?”

“Don't need him for this. Do I. Gets in the way sometimes.”

Fanning felt for the pencil through the fabric of his jacket pocket.

“Is it the way he talks?”

“What about the way he talks?” Cully asked.

“Well he says things.”

“He says what things.”

“What he said when you told him you'd be dropping him off in town here.”

“He likes to bitch. Sometimes it's a laugh. Not tonight. But I'm used to it.”

“No,” said Fanning. “About the job, the work you do. How it was finished and couldn't you just go out for a few pints and that.”

“Yeah well he likes to take it a bit too easy sometimes,” Cully said. “Tough to keep an edge with that kind of attitude.”

“I mean something else he said. Something like ‘op's over.'”

Cully watched the traffic lights and pushed the gearshift from side to side.

“Who knows what he'd say. It's just talk.”

“Military-style talk.”

“Really.”

“It sure sounds like that to me,” said Fanning.

Cully stopped pushing the gearshift to and fro and looked over.

“And what would you know about that?”

“I'm just saying. I know what ‘fall out' means too. Even if he was being sarcastic.”

“Well good for you,” said Cully. He spun the tires in first gear before easing off the pedal. He came around the north side of the square and found his way through the heavier traffic car by car, turning abruptly back onto Parnell Street.

“What about the gun?” Fanning said.

“The pistol you mean. I'll take care of it.”

“Are you going tell them?”

“Tell them…?”

“That it's a rip-off?”

“Maybe I will.”

“You don't care.”

“Not much. No.”

Fanning gave up on his effort to draw Cully out for now. Cully took the turn down Gardiner Street. With the new three-level apartments drifting by to either side of the car, Fanning thought back to his days as a student. Coming up here for pints was considered daring. It was still Corporation flats, tenements, and vacant lots, with pubs full of people who started drinking at half-ten in the morning and were still there at closing time. Bohemian, he had thought, proletarian: real.

Through the wipers and the bleary glass he saw the Custom House just above the railway bridge and Beresford Place.

“Leave me off here at the Custom House,” he said to Cully.

“Don't you want to see how to dump a hot car? It's only a five-minute walk from the bridge.”

“So close to the city centre?”

“What did you think? We're going to go to some cliff somewhere?”

“I don't know.”

“How would we get back if we did that?”

“Well maybe West Ham will appear with another car.”

“That's funny,” said Cully. “But not too funny. He's in no shape to do that now. That's what I'm saying to you. You can't count on him a hundred percent.”

“I don't want to be too late getting home.”

“The missus waiting up for you?”

“No. But she's a worrier.”

“Can't relax these days, can you. Trying to keep things going right? The breadwinner thing. Is that what they call it?”

Fanning wasn't sure if it was a dig or not. He pretended to study the pattern on the shutters of a shop. Cully braked gently and curbed the car. He shut off the ignition and watched a couple walk by under an umbrella.

“Okay,” said Fanning.

Cully took something from a pocket inside his jacket. An envelope that had been folded twice. He unfolded it, held it level, and began rummaging for something else.

“Hold that a sec,” he said.

The envelope was light but there was something other than paper in it.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Cully took out a phone card from his jacket pocket.

“What do you think it is?”

Fanning felt suddenly vulnerable again. The city outside had been washed away by the rain running down the windows. Cully sighed as he leaned to his right and lifted the corner of the floor mat.

“I'm out of here,” said Fanning. “I don't want anything to do with this,”

“Open the glove compartment there. There's a lid of a plastic box, give it to me.”

Fanning pulled on the door release.

“Don't,” snapped Cully. “You'll blow it all over the place.”

“Look, I've got to go.”

“Bail out you mean. Reality too much for you?”

“It's not that.”

“You have no clue, do you.”

Fanning watched Cully put the envelope on his knee just above where he had placed the plastic lid for the sandwich container. Cully continued to unfold the paper with one hand.

“It's research I'm doing, not getting involved in crime.”

“You don't say. Ever done this? Coke?”

“A few times. It was ages ago.”

He watched as Cully angled the paper up. Small grains of powder fell out. And then clumps. Cully tipped the paper back up, folded it, and put it back in its envelope.

“So what did you use then?”

“It was ages ago, I forget.”

“A straw? Smoke it? In your arm?”

“Not in my arm, Christ, no. I was drunk. I don't remember.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

Cully had already began separating the powder into four separate clumps, and then into lines.

“I didn't say I was proud of it,” said Fanning.