An Accident Waiting to Happen Read online

  VINCENT BANVILLE

  AN ACCIDENT

  WAITING TO HAPPEN

  Vincent Banville is a writer, critic and journalist living in Dublin. His first novel, An End to Flight, won the Robert Pitman Literary Prize. He is also the author of five children’s books, the Hennessy series, along with three crime novels, Death by Design, Death the Pale Rider and Cannon Law (New Island, 2001). He is the Irish Times crime critic.

  AN ACCIDENT WAITING TO HAPPEN

  First published by GemmaMedia in 2009.

  GemmaMedia

  230 Commercial Street

  Boston MA 02109 USA

  617 938 9833

  www.gemmamedia.com

  Copyright © 2002, 2009 Vincent Banville

  This edition of An Accident Waiting to Happen is published by

  arrangement with New Island Books Ltd.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover design by Artmark

  13 12 11 10 09 1 2 3 4 5

  ISBN: 978-1-934848-15-9

  Library of Congress Preassigned Control Number (PCN) applied for

  OPEN DOOR SERIES

  An innovative program of original

  works by some of our most

  beloved modern writers and

  important new voices. First designed

  to enhance adult literacy in Ireland,

  these books affirm the truth that

  a story doesn’t have

  to be big to open the world.

  Patricia Scanlan

  Series Editor

  For Aoife

  Who has brought so much love

  into all our lives

  Chapter One

  It was a raw, grey day in Dublin City. I had woken up that morning to find my two-year-old daughter Emily sitting on my chest. She was singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’, only breaking off to demand to have her nappy changed. I did the necessary, then we went downstairs in search of something to eat.

  We were in the sitting room, watching the Teletubbies and eating rice crispies, when my wife Annie came down. She has red hair and a temper to match. She also has definite views on how Emily should be brought up.

  Now shaking her head, she said, ‘What did I tell you? No television, no comfort food. You’ll have the child spoiled. If we don’t train her in before she comes to the age of reason —’

  ‘Train her in?’ I cut in. ‘Why can’t we let her be a free spirit? Do her own thing.’

  ‘At the age of two?’

  ‘Well, she can walk and talk. Sing, dance, say her abc’s. I know she sometimes puts her shoes on the wrong feet, but that can happen to anyone.’

  Annie’s sense of humour will always overcome mock anger. Laughing, she bent down and planted a kiss on Emily’s cheek. As she straightened up, I said, ‘What about me?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘A kiss for Daddy?’

  Thinking I was talking to her, Emily gave me a big wet, slushy one. I also got a mouthful of rice crispies, which went snap, crackle and pop.

  After we were washed, cleaned and dressed, Annie took off for work, leaving me to drop Emily at her crèche. Rain was pouring down from an October sky, the clouds low and sulky. The kids in the crèche were in bad form too. Emily’s friend Aoife attached herself to my leg like a limpet. She had to be removed with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. I felt for the carers, two young girls who couldn’t be long out of their teens themselves.

  My name is John Blaine, and I’m a private detective. What that means is that I stick my nose into people’s business because other people pay me to do so. I find missing sons, daughters, wives and lovers. I spy with my little eye for folk involved in divorce cases. Once upon a time I worked for an insurance company, and a friend there, Tom Hardy, sometimes hires me to look into suspect claims. I’m good at my job, mainly because I’m six foot two, have scars on my face from my days on the Wexford hurling team, and am as stubborn as an old mule with a thorn up his bottom.

  My office is located just off O’Connell Street. Down a lane behind the Imperial Hotel. The rain was still pelting down, drumming off a line of evil-smelling dustbins. I had to move one in order to get in my door. Up the stairs, into my outer office and through to the inner one. There was a musty smell, but I couldn’t open a window for the very good reason that there wasn’t one.

  I looked through my mail, then dumped most of it in the bin. My answering machine was more promising. A voice told me it was Bertie Boyer calling, the owner of the Purple Pussy nightclub. He might have some work for me if I cared to look in on him. He left a telephone number, then clicked off.

  I rang the number, and waited until a very nice female voice said that she was Gertie and asked what she could do for me. I said I could think of quite a few things she could do for me, but for the moment it would be enough if she would put Bertie on the line. Bertie and Gertie, I mused, I wonder if they’re related.

  Bertie came on the line. He had a strong Dublin accent. He told me he couldn’t talk over the phone, but if I dropped over he’d fill me in on what he wanted. The address of the club was in Temple Bar, on the other side of the River Liffey. As I wasn’t exactly snowed under with work, I told him I’d be over before noon.

  I left soon after that, but I had only gone halfway up the lane when the wind blew my umbrella inside out. I dumped it and had to walk the rest of the way in the pelting rain. A bad start to the day, and it was about to get much worse.

  Chapter Two

  The Temple Bar area prides itself on being Dublin’s latest in-spot. It has a lot of trendy restaurants, trendy places to be seen, and trendy people to be heard. On this wet and windy October Thursday it was just as miserable as the rest of the city. Cold grey buildings, the smell of fast food, rubbish in the gutters. And one lonely street musician playing a sad song on his wailing violin.

  The Purple Pussy nightclub was located in a narrow alley, which led down to the river. I recognised it because of the cut-out purple cat over the door. This appeared to be made of some type of light wood that swung in the wind. It was out-lined in neon strips, some of which had passed their sell-by date.

  I knocked on the metal door and waited. A snake of water splashed down from a broken gutter and I had to be quick on my feet to avoid it. After two more knocks and a couple of kicks to the panel, a window opened above me and a head emerged.

  ‘What’s all the racket about?’ a voice asked. ‘We don’t open till eleven tonight.’

  I made the mistake of gazing upwards and got a splash of water in the face for my trouble. I moved back to get a better view. The face above me was young, female and nestled in a huge mop of bright blue hair. She didn’t look very happy to see me.

  ‘I’m John Blaine,’ I bawled up at her. ‘I was sent for. By Bertie. About a bit of business.’

  ‘A bit of wha’?’

  I sighed deeply, but resisted the temptation to throw something at her.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Could you open the door and let me in? It’s raining cats and dogs out here. And I’m not wearing my waterproof head.’

  ‘Waterproof head. That’s a good one. Hold on and I’ll come down.’

  I held on, and in a short while the door opened and I was invited inside. The head I had been talking to was now attached to a shapely body. She was dressed — but only just — in a halter-neck top and a skimpy pair of shorts. These garments were also in a fetching shade of blue. I gazed about me at the large barn-like building. Th
e walls, drapes, tables, chairs and floor were all coloured purple. I had entered into a purple world.

  We gazed at one another, the girl and me. She put a hand on her hip, then ran her tongue along her full lower lip. I shook the rain out of my hair like a wet dog, and tried to look neat, clean and well-advised.

  ‘Bertie?’ I hinted, hoping she hadn’t gone into a coma on me.

  ‘He’s out the back.’

  ‘The back?’

  ‘That’s where his office is. Through the bead curtain. Second door on the left.’

  ‘Are you Gertie?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I told you. The name’s John Blaine.’

  ‘And you do what?’

  ‘I sell purple paint. I thought you might be in the market for some.’

  The girl giggled, then pushed at me playfully with a hand that sported — yes, you’ve guessed it — purple nails.

  ‘You’re very tall,’ she said. ‘Where’d you get all them scars on your face?’

  ‘Sticking it into other people’s business. I’m a real Keyhole Kate.’

  This time she gave a full-throated laugh. The halter-neck top groaned with the effort of keeping in her chest. I thought about making her laugh some more, but then remembered Bertie waiting for me in his office.

  ‘I better get going,’ I told her, rolling my eyes regretfully.

  She nodded, then said, ‘Gertie is the boss’s other half. She’s spoken for. I’m Denise and I’m free, white and over 21. Come up and see me sometime.’

  ‘So that we can peel a grape together?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Chapter Three

  The bead curtain clicked merrily as I went through it. Out of curiosity I peered into the first room on the left. It was a broom cupboard, containing brushes, and a battered-looking Hoover. Moving on, I knocked on the second door. I heard movement inside, so I turned the knob and went in.

  A very large woman was sitting on a sofa opposite me. She was wearing a tent-like robe that covered her from her neck to her feet. Her hair was drawn back tightly into a bun, giving the skin of her face a stretched look. She was eating yoghurt from a tub, spooning it greedily into the cavern of her mouth. She paused when she saw me, then glanced to her right.

  I followed her gaze and saw a tiny man sitting behind a huge desk. It was hard to judge, because he was sitting down, but he couldn’t have been more than five feet in height. He had a mass of greying hair, cruel little eyes and a curl to his mouth that said mess with me and you’ll be very sorry indeed. He was wearing a pinstripe grey suit and a dark blue shirt and tie. He had a little moustache under his nose that looked as if a centipede had crawled there and died. I took an instant dislike to him.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the little guy asked me, in a surprisingly deep voice.

  Deciding not to take offence at his tone, I said mildly, ‘I’m Blaine. You rang. Said you had something that might interest me.’

  ‘Blaine, Blaine …’ He looked over at the woman on the sofa. ‘You know anything about a Blaine, Gertie?’

  Gertie shovelled in another spoonful of yoghurt, then let the tub rest on her mound of stomach. ‘He’s the private dick,’ she told Tiny Tim. ‘You found him in the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘I take it you’re Bertie Boyer,’ I said, moving to stand in front of the desk. ‘Owner of the Purple Pussy nightclub and husband of Gertie here.’

  ‘Husband?’ Gertie said. ‘That’s one for the birds. When are you going to make an honest woman of me, anyway, you little squirt? We’ve been engaged now since Jesus was a lad.’

  ‘There’s a time and a place to discuss that,’ Boyer told her sourly. ‘And it’s definitely not now. Why don’t you take your fat backside out of here and go help Denise get the place ready for tonight?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and take a running jump? Preferably off the side of a cliff. And you know Denise and me are not talking. Ever since I found the two of you together in here the night before last.’

  ‘I’ve told you, we were discussing the stock market —’

  ‘With your arm around her and your tongue stuck in her ear?’

  Getting fed up with this family argument, I broke in. ‘I’d love to stand here and do referee, but I have some other business to attend to. Maybe you could continue this later and in the meantime fill me in on whatever it is you want me to do?’

  They glared at one another. Finally Gertie shoved herself off the sofa and padded out the door. A hippopotamus couldn’t have done it more gracefully.

  ‘Women,’ Boyer muttered, shaking his head. I waited hopefully to see if the centipede moustache would fall off, but it stayed attached. He waved a hand at a straight-backed chair. ‘Take the weight off your feet,’ he said. ‘I don’t like people looking down at me.’

  I did as I was bid, the chair creaking slightly as I planted myself in it. Then I sat back to listen to Bertie Boyer’s tale of woe.

  Chapter Four

  ‘I run a very popular joint here,’ Bertie stated. ‘We get all sorts coming to let their hair down. Doctors, lawyers, judges. Even some members of the government …’

  ‘I’ve heard the Taoiseach and the President have been seen dancing here together,’ I said drily.

  Bertie gave me a dirty look.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, come around tonight and see for yourself. The place’ll be jumping.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m past all that. A family man, don’t you know. With responsibilities. And in a very short time I have to pick up my baby daughter from her crèche. So I’d be grateful if you’d get the finger out and tell me what you want me to do.’

  For a moment Bertie looked as if he was about to jump across the desk and catch me by the throat. But he thought better of it, and instead said, ‘Are you into the strong-arm stuff? You look as if you’ve mixed it a bit in the past. That’s a pretty lived-in face you’re wearing.’

  ‘I only use it during the day to scare off muggers. I’ve a much better-looking one for night-time.

  ‘Yeah. Well, the thing is that I’ve got a problem with some hard cases who are demanding protection money from me. They say if I don’t pay up they’ll torch the place, with me ending up as burnt toast.’

  ‘And Gertie the marmalade to go on it?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I crossed my legs and leaned back. Normally I wouldn’t touch something like this with a forty-foot pole. But I was badly in need of some readies and there wasn’t any other work on the horizon.

  ‘What exactly d’you want me to do?’ I asked. ‘I’ll tough it out if I have to, but only after I’ve tried talking the other fellow to sleep first.’

  ‘Well, that’s exactly what I want you to do. Go and talk to these guys. Reason with them. And then when they can’t see reason, beat the crap out of them with a baseball bat.’

  ‘I haven’t got a baseball bat. Would a hurley stick do?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  Bertie squinted his little eyes and tried not to look sly.

  ‘They’re a new breed of tough guys. Russkies or Bosnians or something like that. They don’t talk the King’s English.’

  ‘You’re telling me that some people from Eastern Europe are threatening to burn down your nightclub if you don’t give them money?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. It’s bad enough having to deal with the local hoodlums, but this new breed. I ask you …’

  ‘And you want me to go and talk them out of their plans?’

  ‘I’ll pay you well. Two hundred now, and another three hundred if you get them off my back. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

  ‘I keep the two hundred whether I succeed or not?’

  ‘You’ll have to bring back some proof that you went. Maybe a finger or a toe. Or you could scalp one of them. They’re into long hair.’

  I rubbed my face and thought about it. I had nothing to lose by going to see these peop
le, and I badly needed the two hundred quid. There wasn’t much chance that I’d get them to back off, but one never knew.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘Tell me where these guys live and I’ll pay them a visit. But I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘That’s all I ask,’ Bertie said, doing his best to look sincere.

  He opened a drawer in the desk and fumbled about in it. He finally took out a wad of money held together by a rubber band. Snapping off four fifties, he slid them across to me. He also gave me a sheet of paper with a name and address on it. That finished our little family gathering for the moment, so I got up and left. There was no sign of either of the girls as I moved across the dance floor towards the door.

  Chapter Five

  I went back out into the rain. Knitting needles of it were dancing on the pavement. At two I would have to collect Emily from the crèche. It was now twelve-thirty. Sheltering in a shop doorway, I examined the note Bertie Boyer had given me. The name on it was Polonski. The address was down in Parnell Street.

  My car, a very old Renault, was once again in the garage. A taxi? A bus? I decided to walk. A guy in a plastic raincoat, carrying a large golf umbrella gave me shelter as far as Eason’s bookshop. From there on it was water, water everywhere. By the time I got to the Polonski address, I was wet through.

  Number 49A was a fast-food joint. It was closed but still encased in the tangy smell of last night’s fish and chip dinners. Shading my eyes with my hands, I gazed in through the glass. No sign of life. There was a door in an alcove beside the shop. I pressed the bell and waited. After a time I heard movement inside, then the door suddenly opened and a large dog came bounding out.

  It was a labrador. Now labradors are usually placid dogs, but this fellow appeared quite annoyed about something. And he looked as if he were blaming me for the cause of his annoyance. He approached me slowly, a growl deep in his throat. I placed my hands over my essentials, like a football defender awaiting a Beckham free kick. It’s a well-known fact that a dog knows when someone is scared. It was my hope that the smell from the fish and chip shop might distract him from the waves of fear washing over me. It didn’t seem like it, though.