Danny Dempsey and the Unlikely Alliance (8 page)

Though Harry doubted that the stranger dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a Man United shirt was one of them. He eased himself off the bench and went over to the counter where Bradford was scanning the cartoon page of a tabloid, smiling at the antics of Hagar the Horrible.

‘I smell a pigeon, Baldy,' Harry whispered in his ear. ‘Stake me for twenty euros, and I'll let you have double back before you know it.'

Baldy eyed the prospective pigeon pottering around the table, shooting nine-ball by himself. While he didn't look exactly like a millionaire, Baldy was of the opinion he wasn't as down on his luck as Harry was. He was in his early twenties, about an inch over six foot, well-built, but with an innocent look about him, despite the day-old stubble adorning his chin.

After forty years running the pool hall, Baldy considered himself an infallible judge of human nature. In his opinion, Harry couldn't go wrong. Baldy slipped his hand in his back pocket, fumbled about before extracting two tens, then slid them across the counter into Harry's waiting hand. Harry winked at him, straightened up and headed off to perform one of the missions he'd been specifically born to carry out.

‘Not much fun playing on your own,' Harry remarked, leaning his backside against an adjoining table. ‘Not for someone who shoots like you do.' He smiled warmly to draw the sucker in. ‘I've been watching you for a while. You seem to know your way around a pool table.' He nodded towards where Baldy had resumed his reading of the tabloid. ‘Old Bradford there reckons so too. Fancy a few racks?'

Harrington shrugged indifferently. ‘Why not,' he replied, taking some of the balls he'd already potted out of the pockets and racking them up with the ones remaining on the table, ‘A bit of competition is what it's all about, isn't it?'

‘You said the words, pal,' Harry answered, smiling like a Cheshire who'd finally discovered that elusive bowl of cream. 'What do you say to five euros a rack?'

‘Suits me,' Harrington told him, not finding it at all surprising when he won the first two racks comfortably, nor that Harry was acting as though he wasn't one bit pleased to be on the losing end of both, shaking his head in disgust as he deliberately missed balls he could have potted in his sleep.

‘Looks like I'm out of my depth here,' he sighed, as Harrington sank the nine ball of the second rack. ‘I guess I should have stayed where I was sitting on that bench. Where did you learn to play like that?'

‘Here and there,' Harrington told him casually, finding it hard not to smile at the way Harry was playing him like a fish with a beautifully controlled performance, which would have won him an Oscar had someone nominated him for one.

He wondered what Harry would have thought of the
here
and
there
he'd referred to as being the Garda Social Club, where he'd eventually learned to pot the odd ball without ripping the cloth and making a show of himself. He also wondered how long it would be before Harry stopped practically rolling the balls over the pockets for him, before getting down to plucking his feathers. Before he had time to wonder any further, the answer was on its way.

‘Ah, what the hell!' Harry exclaimed, doing his best to look like a condemned man on his way to the electric chair. ‘Let's make it interesting.' He took the second ten euros out of his pocket and looked at it as though he were donating it to charity. ‘You want to double the stakes?'

‘Why not,' Harrington responded, taking a leaf out of Harry's book, and trying to look bemused that Harry was prepared to be so generous after the first two racks. ‘It's your money.'

‘Or what's left of it,' Harry replied dismally. ‘But it's almost worth it to learn a few finer points of the game.'

Which was what Harrington did over the next hour or so. Harry made it look so easy making it appear difficult to scrape through the following rack, Harrington almost felt like applauding him. The balls just weren't running for him, Harry moaned, in between hitting the cushions about fifteen times with some of his shots to make them look like pure flukes, though the ball always managed to somehow trickle into a pocket after its geometrical journey.

It was a masterful performance, added to by the fact that Harry gasped every so often at his good fortune, and on two occasions held up his hand in a show of apology to Harrington to acknowledge the luck he was enjoying. When the nine ball finally disappeared, he actually went so far as to take a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe away non-existent sweat from his brow.

‘Would you believe it?' he said in relief, after successfully clearing the table. ‘After that, I might invest in a Lotto ticket. That's if I've still got any cash left after another couple of racks.'

Harrington felt a bit like a member of the Saint Vincent de Paul Society after a while. Every time Harry
fortunately
won another rack by the skin of his teeth, he handed over another ten euros. This continued until Harry had one hundred and twenty stashed away in his back pocket. He felt like Christmas had come early for him this year.

Then he let Harrington win forty back, just to show the whole operation wasn't a total scam, also enabling him to up the stake money, without appearing to do so merely because he was on a winning roll. The guy seemed to have an endless supply of cash. Every time he had to pay up, he produced a roll of notes big enough to choke a whale, peeled the necessary off, then let it flutter to the table close to Harry's eager hand. So Harry had let him win four racks on the trot, both to boost his confidence and fed his recklessness. At thirty a rack from here on in, Harry didn't intend to let him win too many more. Just a few here and there until the guy had no more stake money left to play with.

Harrington had to keep running his hand across his mouth to prevent himself from laughing outright. After all, it wasn't his money, and watching Harry's performance at close range, especially when Harrington was the one who was pulling the strings, was pretty funny. The Superintendent had supplied the cash out of what he called
the special snitch slush fund,
explaining to Harrington upon giving it to him that it didn't really exist, just as he'd told him the secret team he was now part of didn't exist, either.

Harrington was thrilled at the thought of this covert stuff he was now engaged in. He was excited by every minute of it, though like the dedicated lawman he was, he never lost sight of the fact that an old man's and a little girl's welfare depended on him finding out what he had been sent to this seedy poolroom for. He even deliberately missed a nine ball on two occasions Harry had set it up conveniently for him, just so he could reach his real objective as soon as possible.

Harry shook his head in disbelief when the nine balls twice came back off the angle of the pocket. The poor guy, he thought to himself, as he slotted each opportunity home, what's the point in stringing him along any longer? His nerves are shattered. I've got almost his complete stash. Why bother with the measly twenty he's got left?

But Harrington was insistent. He wanted a last stab at making a comeback. And Harry let him break, poor slob. Nothing down, then Harry couldn't resist a bit of showboating. Harrington could only watch in admiration as Harry knocked them in like clockwork. Then sent the last nine ball on a breathtaking trip around the table before it trickled into the side pocket with practically the last rotation it seemed capable of performing. It took Harry all his time not to bow as it disappeared from view.

‘Just about made it, pal', Harry observed as seriously as he could manage with all that lovely money safely tucked away in his pocket. ‘I guess this is my lucky day. You feel like a bite to eat? It's the least I can do after relieving you of your roll.'

Harrington couldn't have put it better himself. The Superintendent certainly knew what he was about. He'd predicted exactly what Harry was proposing, having already told Harrington to expect to be invited back to the hall tomorrow to try to recoup his losses. Harry operated that way, just to show what a big heart he had.

Baldy Bradford was only trotting after the Superintendent when it came to judging human nature. Of course, the Superintendent had the advantage of knowing everything there was to know about Harry the Hustler, before Harry came to the conclusion that he wasn't cut out to be a real criminal. He'd been arrested at least fifteen times after bungling one caper after another. And had always ended up in the loving arms of the Superintendent's squad, who ensured he did a few months behind bars for each of his errors.

But Harry finally got sense. There was no law against pool hustling to earn a crust. None that he knew of, anyway. And there had always been enough suckers willing to try their luck against him when he'd started out. But the well had run dry after a few years when word spread of his prowess. So the Superintend forecast Harry would view Harrington as an easy mark, and try to string him along for as long as possible.

And the fact that Harry knew so much about what was going on in the underworld he once was part of was the reason he was now richer by three hundred and forty euros from the Superintendent's supposedly non-existent
snitch slush fund
. But he had to slip forty of that back to Baldy before himself and Harrington left to feed their faces in one of the local Fast Food outlets. Still, three hundred was very nice indeed for a few hours playing the game he loved. Harry was going to insist the pigeon had a second helping of whatever he fancied.

Before they said their goodbyes after arranging the following day's rematch, Harry asked Harrington his name. ‘Brendan Bedford,' Harrington told him, thinking it sounded as good as any other, also assuring himself that telling a few white lies in the interests of justice wasn't at all the same thing as deliberately lying where matters of principle were concerned.

‘Mine's Harry,' came the reply as they shook hands. ‘I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘
What do you mean he's gone fishing?' the Chief of Police shouted into the mouthpiece, almost making Sergeant Neville's eardrum explode. ‘What on earth sort of an irresponsible thing is that to be doing at a time like this?'

‘I don't really know, sir,' Neville replied nervously, being as surprised at the Superintendent's departure every bit as much as the Chief seemed to be. ‘He left about fifteen minutes ago.'

‘Is he out of his mind, Sergeant?'

Sometimes Neville thought the very same thing himself. But had always been proven wrong in the past. Even with all his funny little ways, the Superintendent had a way of coming up with the goods in the end.

‘I wouldn't imagine he is, sir,' Neville replied, ‘He usually knows exactly what he's doing.'

‘Fishing!
' the Chief yelled just about as loudly as he could, making Neville hold the receiver well away from his ear to conserve his hearing. ‘I simply don't believe it! Radio his squad car immediately! Tell him to get in touch with me the second you contact him! This is a national emergency, Sergeant! I want to hear from him within the next five minutes!'

‘He didn't take a squad car, sir,' the Sergeant said, gingerly replacing the receiver back to his ear, having had no trouble hearing every word the Chief had been bellowing down the line. ‘He went in one of those jet-propelled wheelchairs we confiscated when we captured those twin bank robbers a while back. He said he was in a hurry, sir.'

Sergeant Neville gritted his teeth, preparing for the barrage he expected to follow. He eased the receiver away from his ear once more, looking at it as though it were a hand grenade which might explode at any second. But there was no immediate response. That's if he ignored the peculiar gurgling sound, which made him think there was someone on the other end of the line gargling their throat with thumbtacks.

‘Are you telling me, Sergeant,' the Chief finally managed in strangulated tones, so that Neville had to replace the receiver to his ear to catch his words. ‘That Superintendent Charles Clifford, one of my highest ranking officers, has taken himself off fishing in a
wheelchair
?' There was a pause for breath, in which Neville could practically see the Chief drawing in great draughts of air to avoid total suffocation. ‘That
is
what you're conveying to me, isn't it?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And am I correct in assuming that you've no idea where he's taken himself off to to carry out this – this fishing?' the Chief continued, sounding much calmer now, and speaking in a relatively normal voice.

‘Indeed you are, sir. He didn't tell me.'

‘But surely you have some means of communication between you? His mobile phone! You must be able to reach him on that!' the Chief went on, and Neville could discern in his quivering tones the fact that it wouldn't be very long before he was screeching into his ear once more when he received the negative answer.

‘He switched it off, sir. He told me before he left there was no point in my ringing him. He made it very clear he didn't want to be disturbed by anyone.'

The expected explosion wasn't immediately forthcoming. In fact, the Chief's voice descended to a controlled growl. ‘And would I by any chance have been included in the
anyone
, Sergeant?' he asked sarcastically.

‘Not that I recall, sir,' Neville replied, tensing himself for the onslaught. ‘He didn't mention specific names.'

‘Now listen to me, Sergeant Neville! This is urgent! Urgent! Urgent! Urgent! I want Superintendent Clifford, and I want him
now
! You do whatever it takes to find him, do you hear? Whatever it takes! Otherwise, Sergeant, I'll hold you personally responsible! If I don't hear from him in record time, you'll find yourself on the dole queue before you know it! Understand?'

When Neville put down the phone, his ear was ringing. What a time he was having! Ever since Harrington had disappeared from the station without a word of explanation, young Garda

Jackson had been assigned to the reception area. And every time someone came in with a complaint or a query, Jackson hadn't a bug's notion how to deal with them.

The Sergeant found himself being called out to assist on each and every occasion. There was a dog barking half the night and the owners couldn't care less!
What to do about it, Sergeant
? The man next door was burning rubbish in his back garden and ruining his neighbour's washing every time she hung it out!
What to do about
that,
Sergeant
? Mrs. Hennessey's cat has gone missing!
What -
-.

When Neville had asked the Superintendent where Harrington was, and when he would be coming back, all he got for his troubles was a mysterious wink. Neville tried exchanging Jackson with another junior, but with no better results. He felt like a yo-yo with all the back and forth traipsing he had to do. He hadn't realised how competent Harrington had been until he wasn't there.

Sergeant Neville liked a nap in the afternoons in his office, but that was out of the question at the moment. He knew the second he lay back in his chair to have a snooze, his services would immediately be called on. More than likely to explain to someone the police really didn't have the power to put a weather forecaster in jail just because it rained when it wasn't supposed to.

And now this! There was nothing for it, he supposed, but to get in a squad car and start searching the countryside. He was just about to get ready to do so, when his phone rang again. He was half-afraid to pick it up, but more afraid not to. He couldn't believe who was calling.

*

Superintendent Clifford put his mobile back in the pocket of his lumberjack's coat. Sergeant Neville had told him he was never so glad to hear anyone's voice in his life before. Then relayed the Chief's order that he get in touch with him right away. The Superintendent didn't comment on that one way or the other. The only reason he'd phoned Neville was to ask him the time. He'd forgotten to put his wristwatch on that morning.

*

He was to meet Danny and Harrington at the deep pool at four, but the wheelchair had run out of aviation fuel halfway to his destination. It had been working brilliantly up to that, flashing along like a rocket, responding perfectly to the special controls. The Superintendent was having a thrill a second on the way, when it suddenly came to complete standstill. Just like that. Jet propelled, then stationary all in the space of the blink of an eye.

And when the Superintendent glanced at his watch, it wasn't there. He stashed the wheelchair in amongst a crop of bushes well in off the road, wondering what whoever might stumble across it would make of the discovery. Then he called ahead to Danny and told him he was going to be delayed. And no, he didn't want Charlie transformed into a winged goat to come and pick him up. He'd be there just as soon as possible, thank you very much! Then he phoned the Chief of Police.

*

‘I'm the one who's nearly always late,' Danny told Harrington, who was sitting on the bank of the river beside him.

‘Did he say what's delaying him?' Harrington asked, not looking at Danny, but staring in fascination at Charlie every time he surfaced from the depths of the pool with what looked like somebody's leg clenched between his jaws. ‘Or how long more he's going to be?'

‘No on both counts,' Danny replied, ‘He'll probably phone again shortly.'

Harrington was hardly listening. Charlie was now balancing the leg on the tip of his snout and tossing it into the air like a seal, then catching it neatly between his fearsome looking teeth. Danny hadn't even warned him Charlie was lurking in the pool when they'd met there as per the Superintendent's instructions. Even though he'd been told of Charlie's existence at his briefing with the Superintendent, seeing him unexpectedly surface for the first time with the leg in his jaws almost caused Harrington to faint.

‘You might have warned me,' he'd said peevishly. ‘I thought it was the Loch Ness monster there for a minute.'

‘I didn't want to spoil the surprise for either of you,' Danny said, grinning impishly at him, ‘Charlie loves to see people's reactions when they first meet him.'

‘Thanks a lot!' Harrington said. ‘All he was short of doing was giving me a heart attack.'

The Superintendent had introduced them to one another the previous day, taking Harrington along in a squad car to Danny's compound. They'd immediately taken a liking to each other. Danny had given Harrington a tour of the compound and shown him the strays he'd taken in over the years, Harrington was impressed with how well looked after the animals were. He'd glanced around inquisitively for the odd tiger or gorilla after all the stories he'd heard about Danny and animals in general, but saw nothing unusual. There hadn't even been a sign of the famous winged goat in evidence.

Harrington, much to his relief, soon discovered the leg Charlie was showing off his tricks with wasn't a human one after all. It was made of some tough scaly material Harrington couldn't identify. When he got tired of impressing Harrington with his dexterity, Charlie swam over to the river bank and deposited the leg at Danny's feet. Harrington was fascinated after he'd recovered from his initial shock at the rapport between Danny and Charlie.

Danny picked up the leg and flung it into the pool, Charlie diving down after it, just like a dog chasing a stick. Which was exactly what he transformed into when he crawled out of the river after becoming bored doing the same thing over and over again. Harrington couldn't believe it. There'd been no zigzag flash of lightening, or anything like that. Danny had merely mumbled some sort of gobbledygook in Charlie's direction. And now, a beautiful Golden Retriever sat serenely beside Danny, gazing out over the river, admiring the scenery on the far side.

‘Er, what about what he was playing with?' Harrington asked, having gazed around, but finding no sign of the
leg.
‘Did he just leave it at the bottom of the pool?'

Danny laughed. ‘He doesn't need to do anything like that,' he explained. ‘Charlie can fashion anything he wants to from his own body. When he's finished playing with whatever it is, he does some self-surgery, then moulds it back into place.'

‘That's a joke,' Harrington said, though not exactly sure whether it was or not. The way the Golden Retriever turned its head and looked a bit frostily at him made him have his doubts. ‘Isn't it?'

‘Hard to believe, but it's true,' Danny assured him, scratching the dog's head with his fingers. ‘Isn't it, Charlie?'

If that dog answers, Harrington thought to himself, I'm out of here. This is really weird. But he needn't have worried. Charlie merely stretched himself out at Danny's feet and rolled over to have his tummy tickled.

Harrington was glad when the wader-legged figure of the Superintendent hove into view, tree branches snapping back into place as he barged his way past them, not looking as pleased with himself as Harrington had sometimes seen him in the past. He flung his fishing gear on the bank, took off his haversack, dumped it beside the gear, then sat down on the rock and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

‘Sorry I'm late,' he apologised. ‘They're not making wheelchairs like they used to. I had to walk the last two miles.'

Harrington knew better than to ask what he was talking about. He was just glad he'd arrived so they could get on with their meeting. Danny guessed the Super had been doing a little experimenting with one of the twin's favourite modes of transport. But he, like Harrington, decided not to ask any questions as to what had gone wrong with the vehicle. The Super didn't look in the mood for anything like that right now. And it wasn't long before Danny found out why.

‘I've just been speaking to the Chief,' the Superintendent told them, in between removing his waders, taking off his socks, and rising from the rock to dangle his bare feet in the water after sitting on the river bank. ‘And things are going from bad to worse. The kidnappers have finally put their cards on the table. They've been in touch with the Minister for Justice this morning. At the moment there's an emergency cabinet meeting in session. And Carter's on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. He's been threatened with dismissal. Not that he'd be much loss, but
that
seems to be his main concern. He hardly mentioned the old man and the little girl who've been snatched in broad daylight.' He kicked his legs in the water for a minute or two, sending silver sprays across the river; then stood up and resumed his seat on the rock, looking grim-faced. ‘They want a cool five hundred million in return for the hostages. Nothing more, nothing less. And they've set a deadline of fourteen days from now for the transfer to take place. Not a minute longer, otherwise - -.' the Superintendent couldn't find it in himself to finish the sentence, but instead drew on his socks, took a pair of shoes out of the haversack, kneeling down to tie up the laces, letting an ominous silence convey to Danny and Harrington what the consequences for the victims would be if the kidnappers demands weren't met. ‘So, have either of you found out anything we can go on yet?'

‘I've another meeting with Harry tomorrow.' Harrington told him. ‘He's taken me for a genuine sucker And he treated me to a bite to eat just like you forecast, sir. I think I'm gaining his confidence. I didn't want to push my luck with him just in case he smelled a rat too soon. But I'll start working on him in earnest tomorrow. And I'll need more stake money too, sir. You know, from the
special snitch fund
.'

‘It's in the haversack, Harrington. I'm aware of Harry's
modus operandi
from way back. But you'll have to move fast. Time is running out, and lives are at stake here. These are ruthless people we're dealing with. Got that? Eh?'