Danny Dempsey and the Unlikely Alliance (6 page)

A month later, two men in bedraggled looking evening wear entered a rural branch of one of the largest banks in the county. The bank was in a small, sleepy town situated deep in the countryside. There was dirt all over the men's fine black suits. They were limping badly, and were plainly in distress. Their faces were scratched and bruised, and had what appeared to be blood streaking their cheeks and foreheads. Their black bowties were hanging askew, and it was taking them all their time to hobble towards the security guard, as each had an identical violin case clutched under his arm.

There'd been an accident a few miles up the road, one of them managed to gasp, and all the other members of the orchestra in the coach were either dead or unconscious. They themselves had been fortunate enough to escape with only minor injuries, but it had taken them well over an hour to reach here and raise the alarm. Could somebody please phone the Gardai and hospital services immediately and have them rush to the scene to see what could be done for their unfortunate colleagues? Every single mobile phone on the coach had been rendered useless by the terrible crash.

All the time they were conveying the tragic news, they were sidling closer to the security guard. At least they thought they were. They were so intent on convincing anyone listening, they didn't notice that he, too, was playing the same game, sidling away from them every bit as stealthily as they imagined they'd been advancing on him.

When they finally paid him their full attention, looking at him while continuing with their pleading for help, he seemed to be even further away from them as when they'd entered the bank. Which wasn't really all that surprising, Superintendent Clifford being such an enormous man, a couple of his sidles equalled half a dozen of theirs. He'd had some difficulty finding a security guard's uniform to fit him, but now that he had, he was quite enjoying the experience of impersonating one.

‘Aren't any of you going to do anything?' one of the crash victims asked in a plaintive voice, as nobody appeared to be paying any attention to their plight. ‘What's wrong with you people?'

But there was no answer forthcoming. The lone teller seemed altogether unmoved, standing there yawning, as he waited for the two old ladies hunched over at the counter, busily filling in lodgement forms. There was also a boy dozing on an old-fashioned mahogany bench near the door, a haversack at his feet, his head resting on his chest in peaceful repose.

‘All right, Laurence!' the second man growled, recovering from his recent trauma with remarkable forgetfulness. ‘Time for action. This is going to be a piece of cake. You take care of the guard. I don't think we've too much else to worry about.'

Laurence made an admirable transformation from accident victim to athleticism in the blink of an eye. He tore open his violin case and whipped out a canister of Mace, did a couple of rolling somersaults across the floor towards the security guard and came upright with the agility of an acrobat right in front of him.

Once he'd put the big gorilla out of action, it would be all plain sailing. A couple of old ladies and a hitchhiking kid weren't going to present any further problems. He pointed the canister upwards and pressed the plunger. A jet of Mace shot out just like it was supposed to.

If only all our jobs had been as easy as this one, Laurence thought to himself, we could have done one every day. But there was something wrong. Why wasn't the gorilla spluttering and coughing and reeling around the place with his hands covering his eyes? Because he's just put on a gas-mask, you dummy, that's why! Laurence couldn't believe it. Things weren't supposed to work out this way! Not after all that planning!

Then everything went pear-shaped altogether. He was picked up like a child and tossed in the direction of the two old ladies, both of whom had turned to catch him as he flew through the air. This wasn't happening, he kept telling himself. I'm still in bed. From what he could make out as he sailed towards them, one of the old ladies had a moustache. He hadn't time to get a look at the second one, but learned afterwards at his trial that he was a Garda officer, as was the one with the moustache. And he could vouch for the fact that as both of them held him in grips of steel before his hands were cuffed behind his back, that neither of them had ever been old ladies in their lives.

And the kid was now getting in on the act. Laurence definitely knew now that it was all just a bad dream, that he'd wake up shortly and have a nice cup of coffee to start the day. He saw his twin brother, Steve, trying to make a run for it. He hadn't been able to get his shotgun out of the case fast enough before the security guard kicked it out of his reach, so he was doing the sensible thing, heading for the door and freedom.

Once he reached his wheelchair parked around the corner, they'd have no chance of catching him. But before Steve got to the door, the kid had opened his knapsack, said a few words in Latin or something, and a hooded cobra slid out to block his path. The kid muttered some more gibberish, the cobra hissed threateningly, then herded Steve into the waiting arms of the security guard, who promptly cuffed him before giving the kid the thumbs-up. Danny then muttered more nonsensical words to the cobra, and Charlie crawled back into the haversack, coiled himself up comfortably before settling down to having a well earned nap.

‘Just tell us one thing, copper,' Steve asked the Superintend as they were being bundled into the back of a squad car. ‘How did you find us? Not a snitch in the country knew where we were.'

‘A little bird told us,' the Superintendent advised him, making Danny grin and wonder what Madam Noseybeak would have to say about being referred to as a little bird.

He knew that as far as she was concerned, she considered herself to be a very
big
important member of the feathered species. ‘Little bird, indeed!' he could imagine her saying had she heard the Superintendent. ‘Why, the very
idea!'

A
s Superintendent Clifford had feared, what he'd recently briefed Danny about was all over the papers a few days later. Matthew Dawson, Governor of the Central Bank, and his seven-year-old granddaughter, Lily, had been kidnapped in a joint operation which had been carried out with military precision.

They'd been spirited away without fuss or commotion, Lily by a woman who visited her school, the Governor from the bank's underground car park as he was opening the back door of his Mercedes to be driven home after a difficult day overseeing important financial matters. When he uttered his usual greeting to his chauffeur, all he received in return was a guttural grunt. He thought this strange. Gerald was usually the essence of politeness. Maybe he was getting a cold. Before Matthew Dawson had time to ask him, he was shunted from behind into the back seat, and a gun was jammed into his ribcage.

‘Not a word!' Needles hissed. ‘Not a single, solitary word!'

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, another man rose up from the front passenger seat beside Gerald. ‘Now, here's the deal,' Dapper Desmond said, turning to look straight into Matthew's face. ‘When we reach the security barrier, you smile like your life depended on it. Any awkward questions from the guard, we're business clients. Got it?' Matthew Dawson nodded his head in understanding. ‘Needles hears so much as a squawk of anything else from either of you, we whack you both, then the guard. Okay, Gerald, let's get this show on the road.'

Of course, all the security guard did was raise the automatic barrier from inside his hut on the approach of the Governor's Mercedes. He knew it on sight, and it wasn't unusual for the head of the bank to be bringing influential people off to dinner in some luxurious hotel to round off a successful transaction, so the guard thought nothing on seeing the other passengers. He did notice that Gerald seemed tense looking as the car pulled away up the ramp. In fact, he looked as though he'd eaten something which hadn't agreed with him. The guard grinned to himself. Maybe Gerald had another bad day on the gee-gees.

‘Nice jalopy, Gerald,' Dapper said, when the car pulled into the main stream of traffic. ‘I think I might invest in one of these when this is all over. What you reckon, Needles? You fancy one, too?'

‘Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, sure!' Needles replied nervously. ‘Whatever, whatever, whatever!'

‘Relax, Needles,' Dapper told him. ‘Everything's going like clockwork. That right, Pops?'

Matthew Dawson didn't bother to reply. He'd turned seventy only four days ago, and was looking forward to his retirement when he was seventy-one. He'd planned to give up his post on his seventieth birthday, but had agreed to carry on for a further year after being requested to do so by the Minister of Finance until a suitable replacement could be appointed. Financial experts of the calibre of Matthew Dawson weren't too easily replaced. Without thinking, he made to put his hand in his jacket pocket. Needles reacted immediately, grabbing his wrist, then sticking his own hand into Matthew's pocket. They came out holding a phial of pills.

‘They're for my heart,' Matthew said coldly, determined not to give these thugs the satisfaction of showing the slightest sign of fear, ‘I need to take one now, if you don't mind.'

‘Be my guest,' Needles said, handing him the phial. ‘For a minute there I thought you might be carrying.'

‘Good old Needles!' Dapper laughed. ‘Always looking out for spanners in the works! You wanna to be careful he don't have a couple of derringers strapped to his ankles, or you could wind up as mortuary meat.'

Needles watched Mathew Dawson slip a pill into his mouth, roll it around to mix with his saliva, then swallow it. He hated going on jobs with Desmond. Needles was always on edge until everything was successfully completed. And Dapper was forever ribbing him about it. Needles was five foot nothing, built like a refill for a biro, and had a face akin to an enraged ferret. In contrast, Dapper Desmond was six- three, had the well-toned body of a professional athlete and, just to rub it in as far as Needles was concerned, looked like Brad Pitt's brother, only better looking. And he hated the way Desmond insisted on talking as though he'd stepped right out of some American gangster movie.
Here's the deal! Pops! Got it!

Sometimes Needles found himself slipping into the same way of talking, and when he thought about it later, he always wanted to kick himself for unconsciously imitating someone he both envied and disliked so much, the man who'd been responsible for giving him the nickname he detested.
Needles!
Dapper had pinned it on him about two seconds after he found out how easy it was to get under his skin.

Gerald Casey kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead. He was feeling a little guilty for the part he'd played in his boss's kidnapping. But only a little, especially after he found out he'd no other option. He'd been made an offer he couldn't refuse.

*

When he'd been approached some months ago one night as he was having a drink in his local public house, he initially refused point-blank to have anything to do with it. He was sitting at the bar, reading the racing results. Two men came in and sat either side of him on the high stools running the length of the counter. He didn't pay either of them much attention, being more interested in seeing if
Flapjack
had won the four-thirty at Kempton.

It was the favourite. Gerald had fifty Euros on him to win at odds of six to four. Just his luck
Flapjack
had had an off day. Not only had he not won, he hadn't even finished the race, unseating his jockey a furlong from home, before trailing in riderless after the rest of the field. Sometimes Gerald wondered why he bothered. And swore to himself he was going to give up the gee-gees as a bad job, though knew in his heart he'd be into the bookies tomorrow as usual, trying to recoup his lifelong losses.

Gerald was addicted to gambling. He was a devout member of the bookmaker's benevolent society, someone who'd never be satisfied until he'd passed over the last of his money to ensure those gentlemen continued to live in large houses and enjoyed an opulent lifestyle. Not that Gerald ever thought about it in those exact terms. He just loved the excitement of gambling, and would never for a second admit, even to himself, much less anyone else, that he was an addict.

He folded up the newspaper in disgust and placed it on the counter, picked up his drink and finished the last of it. Gerald was about to ease himself off the barstool, when he was tapped gently on the arm by the man sitting to his right. Gerald looked at him quizzically. He'd never seen him before in his life. Nor was he in humour of being engaged in conversation by some stranger right now. He was still brooding over his most recent loss, and annoyed that he hadn't enough money left to buy himself another drink.

‘Gerald Casey?' Myles Moran enquired politely in a refined voice, pretending he didn't know exactly who Casey was, despite the months of research he'd instructed some of his people to engage in to find out every detail about him. ‘Would I be correct in that assumption?'

Gerald was taken aback somewhat. He wasn't accustomed to being addressed in such beautifully modulated tones in his local public house. Granted, his boss, Matthew Dawson, spoke in much the same manner, but Gerald certainly wasn't expecting to hear that accent replicated by anyone else when he was off duty, especially by those who might happen to wander into his local in the housing estate where he lived.

‘Who wants to know?' Gerald Casey asked, frowning, hoping it wasn't someone representing anyone he might be in debt to.

‘I'm your fairy godmother,' Myles replied, smiling into Gerald's face, ‘and I've come bearing tidings of good fortune for you in the future.'

Dapper Desmond, sitting on the other barstool, turned his face away and put his hand to his face to smother a smile. The Boss always knocked him out the way he talked. Dapper loved working for him. The man was a genius. He could see Gerald Casey's face in the mirror behind the counter, and it was an absolute hoot. He only wished he'd brought his digital camera with him. He was sure the shot would win first prize in a photo competition confined to startled looking goldfish.

‘I'm sorry, I haven't time for this,' Gerald said as evenly as he could manage, thinking that the distinguished looking gentleman with the silver locks and beautiful accent must surely have escaped from some lunatic asylum. ‘I've just remembered I'm supposed to be somewhere else in about five minutes.'

‘Oh, please stay,' Myles said softly, but with such remarkable authority that Gerald found himself compelled to obey like some schoolboy being told to do something by his headmaster. ‘I assure you you'll benefit greatly from what you're about to hear.' Myles clicked his fingers in the direction of Dapper Desmond. ‘Mr. Desmond, where are your manners? Please be good enough to carry out your duties as host. Myself and Mr. Casey will be in consultation in that booth over there where we can have some privacy. Kindly do the needful. The usual for me and whatever Mr. Casey's heart desires.'

It wasn't long before Gerald Casey found himself snugly ensconced in the booth referred to, a double brandy sitting on a beer mat in front of him, sitting opposite this posh gentleman with the beguiling manner and impeccable dress sense. His fairy godmother. But there was a catch somewhere. There had to be. Men like this didn't materialise out of the blue when you were on your uppers and hand you an envelope containing a thousand Euros for no reason whatsoever. That only happened in fairytales. Which made Gerald smile when it came into his head. The man had alluded to the contents of the envelope as a retainer.

‘Fair enough,' Gerald said cautiously, despite the nice warm glow in the pit of his stomach the brandy was responsible for. ‘But I think maybe you've got the wrong person. I'm not a hitman or anything like that.'

Moran's face took on a look of offence at the very idea.

‘Oh, please, Mr. Casey, how could you dream I'd be requiring the services of such a person? I'm astonished you should bring up a reprehensible subject like that. I merely wish you to carry out something perfectly simple for me. And when it's been satisfactorily concluded, you'll be richly rewarded.'

Gerald Casey liked the sound of that.

‘Okay,' he said, ‘Shoot! What's so perfectly simple it's going to turn me into a Lotto winner?' The brandy on top of the pint of Guinness he'd had earlier was beginning to make him feel less in awe of the headmaster. ‘What do you want me to do, and how much do I get afterwards?'

Myles Moran smiled. ‘That's more like it, Mr. Casey.' He sipped from his glass of Ballygowan in which at least half a dozen ice cubes bobbed about. ‘A man after my own heart. But first another drink before we discuss our business proposal.' He snapped his fingers again, and Dapper appeared with another double brandy at the ready, which he placed on the table in front of Gerald after removing his empty glass. He was about to return to the counter, but Moran forestalled him. ‘Take a seat, Mr Desmond, if you'd be so kind. We're about to open proceedings. I'd like you to bear witness to the outcome.'

What a Boss, Dapper thought to himself for about the millionth time since joining Moran Enterprises. He's something else. Cracks me up every time.
Mr. Desmond
! Classy, or what? The only other times Dapper had been addressed as Mister was when he was up on charges and his free legal aid brief was pleading his innocence. Dapper had a record. A long-playing one. Funny thing, though, ever since Myles Moran had taken him into his employ, no charge had ever been proven against him. And that was because the most expensive brief in the country now pleaded his case whenever necessary, tying witnesses into knots and making them out to be people who shouldn't be let out on their own without a seeing-eye dog.

The Boss was magic. He snaps his fingers just like he did a minute ago, and people do things. Dapper had no idea how or why, all he knew was once you did what you were told, you were looked after. Good enough for Dapper Desmond.

Myles called everyone Mister in Moran Enterprises. Except himself. Boss was what he liked to be referred to as. Even Needles got the Mister treatment. His little ferret face almost managed to form itself into a smile the first time it happened. But didn't quite make it. Dapper was sorry he hadn't had his digital camera on hand that day too.

‘I'm sorry,' Gerald said after the proposal had been fully outlined to him. ‘I couldn't pull something like that on Mr. Dawson. He's an old man with a dodgy ticker, and he's been good to me. A hundred grand is tempting, but I just couldn't bring myself to - -'

‘Oh, dear,' Myles Moran interrupted him in no more than a whisper, carrying in it a trace of disappointment. ‘I was hoping our business meeting wouldn't transform itself into vulgar haggling. I really dislike horse trading. But I'm afraid that's my final offer. You take that, Mr. Casey, or perhaps you'd prefer to conduct further negotiations with Mr. Desmond instead.'

Dapper understood now why he'd been ordered to sit in on the meeting. The Boss thought of everything. Desmond casually unbuttoned his jacket and let it swing open, revealing his shoulder-holster, in which his Glock 9mm snuggled close to his chest. Dapper had checked immediately he'd entered the public house to ensure there were no CCTVs in evidence. There rarely were in watering holes like this one, but you never could tell these days. Gerald blanched, suddenly not feeling too well, despite the free brandy he'd been plied with. In fact, he felt terrible, and was having great difficulty tearing his eyes from the weapon, still staring fearfully at where it had been, even after Dapper had buttoned up his jacket again.

‘Well, Mr. Casey, are you sufficiently impressed with our Organisation now to reconsider my offer?' Myles Moran enquired, having given Gerald a few minutes to recover his composure. ‘I assure you, we're extremely efficient in what we undertake. I'm certain you won't be disappointed should you change your mind.'