Crime Always Pays

For their support and encouragement, and for writing damn fine novels, this book is dedicated to Adrian McKinty and John McFetridge. 

Praise for Declan Burke's
THE BIG O
:

"Imagine Donald Westlake and his alter ego Richard Stark moving to Ireland and collaborating on a screwball noir, and you have some idea of Burke's accomplishment." – Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

"THE BIG O is one of the sharpest, wittiest and most unusual Irish crime novels of recent years … Declan Burke is ideally poised to make the transition to a larger international stage." – John Connolly, author of THE LOVERS

"Burke has married hard-boiled crime with noir sensibility and seasoned it with humour and crackling dialogue … fans of comic noir will find plenty to enjoy here." – Booklist

"THE BIG O is full of dry Irish humour, a delightful caper revolving around a terrific cast … If you don't mind the occasional stretch of credulity, the result is stylish and sly." – The Seattle Times

"Carries on the tradition of Irish noir with its Elmore Leonard-like style ... the dialogue is as slick as an ice run, the plot is nicely intricate, and the character drawing is spot on … a high-octane novel that fairly coruscates with tension." – The Irish Times

"With a deft touch, Burke pulls together a cross-genre plot that's part hard-boiled caper, part thriller, part classic noir, and flat out fun. From first page to last, THE BIG O grabs hold and won't let go." – Reed Farrel Coleman: Shamus, Barry, and Anthony Award-winning Author of THE JAMES DEANS

"Irish thrillers don't get much more hard-boiled than this gritty, violent and wildly hilarious kidnap caper." – Irish Independent

"Delightful … darkly funny … Burke's style is evocative of Elmore Leonard, but with an Irish accent and more humour … Here's hoping we see lots more of Declan Burke soon." – Kansas City Star

"Faster than a stray bullet, wittier than Oscar Wilde and written by a talent destined for fame." – Irish Examiner

Advance praise for Declan Burke's forthcoming
BAD FOR GOOD
:

"A genuinely original take on noir, inventive and funny. Imagine, if you can, a cross between Flann O'Brien and Raymond Chandler." – John Banville, Booker Prize-winning author of THE SEA

"BAD FOR GOOD is unlike anything else you'll read this year … Laugh-out-loud funny … This is writing at its dazzling, cleverest zenith. Think John Fowles, via Paul Auster and Rolling Stone … a feat of extraordinary alchemy." – Ken Bruen, author of AMERICAN SKIN

"Stop waiting for Godot – he's here. Declan Burke takes the existential dilemma of characters writing themselves and turns it on its ear, and then some. He gives it body and soul … an Irish soul." – Reed Farrel Coleman, two-time Shamus Award-winning author of EMPTY EVER AFTER
"A harrowing and yet hilarious examination of the gradual disintegration of a writer's personality, as well as a damned fine noir novel … Burke has outdone himself this time; it's a hell of a read." – Scott Philips, author of THE ICE HARVEST

WEDNESDAY

Sleeps

It was bad enough Rossi raving how genius isn't supposed to be perfect, it's not that kind of gig, but then the vet started carping about Sleeps' pride and joy, the .22, nickel-plated, pearl grip, enough to stop a man and put him down but not your actual lethal unless you were unlucky. And right now, empty.

Sleeps waggled it in the vet's general direction. 'Less talk,' he said, 'more angel of mercy. How's that ear coming?'

Not good and not fast, Rossi ducking around like Sugar Ray in a bouncy castle. Still in shock, bofto on the wowee pills, with these delusions of grandeur – he was Tony Montana or maybe Tony Manero, Sleeps couldn't say for sure.

It didn't help there was no actual ear. The wolf had tore it clean off, along with enough skin to top a sizeable tom-tom. Plus the vet was using catgut and what looked to Sleeps like a needle he'd last seen on the Discovery Channel stuck horizontal through a cannibal's nose.

In the end Sleeps stepped in and stuck his forefinger in the wound, stirred it around. Rossi screeched once, high-pitched, then keeled over.

          'I'll be wanting,' Sleeps said, wiping his finger on Rossi's pants, 'a bag of horse tranks. And whatever gun you use for putting down the animals.'

          The vet shook his head. 'We don't use those anymore, they're not humane.'

          'Humane? You're a 
vet
, man.'

          'We treat them like children,' the vet said, 'not animals.'

          'Nice theory.' Sleeps scratched the cattle-prod off his mental list, gestured at Rossi with the .22. 'But what if they're a little of both?'

Melody

'So if the movie gets made,' Melody said, 'or film I should call it, or the script at least gets picked up, optioned, then I pay it back, this loan-grant that's not really a loan or a grant but somewhere in between. At, you're saying, no interest.'

          'That's right.'

          'But if it doesn't fly, I don't owe anything?'

          'The Institute is here to encourage innovation,' the guy said, swiveling now in his chair behind the desk, fingers steepled on his pot belly. A nice view of Temple Bar behind him through the tall windows, the cobbled streets that'd been laid specially for the 
Michael Collins
 shoot, they'd left them down after, a gift to the city. Mel'd nearly broke an ankle on the way in, a kitten heel getting jammed between cobbles. He smiled now, Tony, the guy with kindly pale blue eyes behind rimless specs. 'If you're worrying about how you'll pay the money back,' he said, 'you're not likely to be at your creative best, are you?'

          Mel liked those odds.

          'I've got it all budgeted out,' she said, extracting the relevant sheaf of paper from her folder, the front of which bore the legend 
Beautiful Losers
 in gold magic marker. 'We're talking twenty-five and change, for the year. That includes research and writing, locations, some meet-and-greet funds for the --'

          'Locations?'

          'Sure, the eye-candy. I'm thinking Amorgos, where they shot 
The Big Blue
. You've seen it, right? Ohmigod, the scenery's amazing.'

          'Amorgos?'

          'It's in Greece, yeah. For when Jack and Judy get out to the islands, go to ground and --'

          'I'm just wondering,' the guy said, no longer swiveling, 'if it's Greece you need specifically. Because if it's just an island, you might want to think about the Isle of Man, there's nice tax-breaks going. Or the Saltees, just off the coast of Wexford. Spielberg, when he was making 
Private Ryan
, he was thinking about using the Saltees at one point.'

          'Okay,' Mel said. 'But you're not really getting that Greek quality of light on the Saltees, are you?'

          'That's where your post-production guys earn their money.'

          'Sure.' Mel staring the guy out, trying to decide if he was serious. 'But my movie, I mean film, it's set in Greece. What the story is 
about
, it's what these two do inGreece, Jack and Judy. They're like Jack and Karen in 
Out of Sight
, only Judy isn't a cop, they're both blaggers but very cool, very now. It's why Jack's named for Jack Foley, he's laidback but maybe lethal, you don't know. Or maybe he's a little older, like that guy from 
Miller's Crossing
 …' Perspiring now, Mel with the distinct impression she was losing the guy, hot flushes breaking out. She forced a smile. 'Ohmigod, I can never remember that guy's name, the 
Miller's Crossing
 guy.'

          'Albert Finney?'

          'No, not Albert, the other guy …' Mel had the old familiar feeling now, mild concussion from banging her head off brick walls. Stomach churning. 'Have you
read
 the script?' she said. 'I mean, the synopsis, the treatment, the character bible, all that stuff you had me put together, go back and rewrite like five hundred times before you'd even open that precious door over there … Did you read 
any
 of it? Like, where's there one character in the whole script Albert Finney could play? Which one of the young, hip, attractive characters could Albert, fine actor that he is, don't get me wrong, I loved him in 
Shoot the Moon
 but no way he's ever playing fifty again, never mind thirty-something … Excuse me a sec, okay?' Mel fumbled in her pockets for a Kleenex, then got up and went to the side of his desk, retched noisily into the wastepaper basket. Then she went back to the seat and got comfy, wedged herself in, Mel pretty sure it was the last time for a long time she'd be sitting in it, she might as well get her money's worth. Tony's eyes looking owlish as he licked his lips. 'Exactly who,' she said, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with the Kleenex, 'you don't mind me asking, have you identified as a possible for Albert Finney? Judy?'

Karen

Karen sat on the edge of the bed.

'A cruise,' Ray said, blinking up at her. 'Me and you and a Siberian wolf named Blue, off cruising the Med.'