Winters & Somers (19 page)

You mean, you
never listened!
Cíara's conscience pricked. But she couldn’t shake off a
lifetime of anti-Henley training – Good Lord, Granny Somers had even used the
Henleys in place of wicked witches and big bad wolves in the bedtime stories
she'd read her infant granddaughter!

            But even so, maybe
there was a kernel of something she should look into further. But later. Later,
after she sorted out the day's business, and later still, when she dealt with
Jonathon Winters, got him out of her life, and maybe stuck a poultice on her
bruised and battered heart.

            Right now she was going
to play good fairy to a good friend, and she hoped he wouldn't punch her out
for her generosity. You never could tell with Harry.

            She drove into the
forecourt of the ramshackle garage and beeped her horn. All she could see was
Harry's coveralled backside sticking up from under the raised hood of a car,
but a hand waved at her – two greasy fingers raised.  She hoped it just meant
he'd be with her in two minutes and wasn’t some rude sign that suggested she
should go away.

            She'd only just poured
herself a mug of coffee in Harry's office when the man himself came in; looking
no less disgruntled than he'd looked on her last visit. But he managed to crack
a smile for his favorite customer.

 “Morning,
Cíara. You're bright and early today, sweetheart.” He wiped his hands with a greasy
rag before grasping the coffee cup she offered him and taking a deep drink. “So
what brings you out this way? The red devil playing up again, is she?”

            “No, Harry, I've a
little scheme I want to bring you into…”

            And she told him what
she had in mind, then handed him the envelope she'd had in her pocket.

            “Oh, my God – you can't
be serious! I wish you'd never found out about this! Girl, you can't do this!”

            “Oh, yes I can and I
will, Harry. Just watch me. But you keep up your end of the bargain, and everything
will be okay.”

            Harry was silent for a
few minutes. When he looked at her again, he was all business.

            “Man, Cíara, that
little MG was just purring as you drove in – a lovely piece of work. Keep that
body in tiptop condition and you'll always have something valuable to trade.
Money in the bank, that is, girl.”

* * *

            Winters had managed to
get close to the open window of the office and hear the end of the
conversation. His fingers curled into his palms as he heard Cíara threatening
the middle-aged man who sat at the desk. What was she threatening him with?
“…keep
up your end of the bargain and everything will be okay.”

            A Dublin bus roared by
and he missed a chunk of the conversation, hearing only the end. “…. a lovely
piece of work. Keep that body in tiptop condition and you'll always have
something valuable to trade. Money in the bank, that is, girl.”

            Was the mechanic trying
to pimp for Cíara? That would explain why she was threatening him, a desperate
attempt to stay out of the clutches of a seedy low-life? He slipped back into
the shadows of the garage as the door opened. She stepped out into the
sunshine, the light bouncing off her black leather jacket and glimmering like
fire through her hair.

Lord, but she
was beautiful. And was that a tear she'd just wiped away?

            He waited until she'd
climbed into her sports car –
where did the woman get the money for a car
like that?
Then he silently entered the office. The sight of burly Harry
the mechanic, slumped on the desk with his hands over his eyes, shoulders
heaving, met him.

 
Good God,
what had she done – or threatened to do – to this man?

            “Look, I know about
Cíara and I know she's threatening you. Why don’t you tell me all about it, and
I'll see there's an end to it,” he said into the silent room.

Harry jumped up,
leaving black streaks across his face where he knuckled away tears. “Who on earth
are you? And what the hell are you yammering about?” The man demanded
aggressively.

            “I know about Cíara 's
little sideline. You're right, she does need to keep that body in good shape.
But I want her to give it up. And I know you've been trying to muscle in on her
scene, trying to profit from it, and she's threatening you. Whatever she's
holding over you, we can fix it. And turn the tables on her – make her give up
the streets.” Winters was using police techniques.
Sound like you know the
whole story, even if you don't, and make 'em crumble and confirm.

            But Harry stared at him
open mouthed, as though confronted by a total lunatic. Then he leapt across the
space between them, moving incredibly fast for such a heavy man, and pinned
Winters against the office wall.

            Unprepared, he fell
backwards and found himself held against the cold cinder block with an oily
smelling arm across his throat.

            “I don’t know who the
hell you are, buster, but I don't like what you're saying about Cíara. That
angel girl is one of the sweetest little things on the planet, and you're
suggesting that she….” And a meaty fist was raised. Winters managed to duck,
and Harry stopped before he hit the wall.

            “Hey, slow down – talk
to me. I'm Cíara's partner and I'm worried about her,” he yelped. Harry
stopped, looked him up and down, and then went and sat back at his desk, chair
tipped backwards and his feet on the cluttered steel surface.

            “Sit down. Tell me
what's eating at you – but no more nasty stuff about my friend, Cíara, okay?”

            Winters sat down,
feeling absurd. His gut was screaming at him that somehow, somewhere, he'd
missed something important. “What was she doing here? Whatever it was, it left
you pretty distraught.”

            “Course I was
distraught, man, the woman just saved my life. The corporation's buying up the
land this garage stands on, for redevelopment. The owner's going to do all
right, fat bastard that he is, but I've only a lease that's nearly up, and I'd
never find another place at a price that would let me still buy groceries and a
pint at the end of the week.

            “Then Cíara walked into
my office just now, and slams one hundred and fifty grand on my desk and says
she'll come up with more. That'll get me into a place of my own, and well
equipped, too. Do you know how long I've dreamed of having me own place? With
the kids growing up, and the wife has acute diabetes, she can't work, we've
found it hard to make ends meet sometimes even when the business has been
booming. Then the Celtic Tiger arrived and property prices flew out of the
reach of an ordinary man. Getting a lump sum together to make a down payment
would have taken a miracle.”

            “And what does Cíara
want for her generosity?” Winters' voice was hard.

            “Ah, now, isn't it just
like the girl? She wants me to promise lifetime care for her little sports car!
It’s cost me a pretty penny at times, but, sure I love that car almost as much
as she does, and I'd look after it for free if I had to!”

            “Her sports car?”

            “Yeah, would you
believe she did all the body work on it herself? Rescued it when it was nothing
but scrap, and put the thing together herself, with me rebuilding the engine
for her. Every spare penny she's had for years went into that car. And it’s a
little beauty now. The envy of half of Dublin, that car is. I was just telling
her, you know, it's a lovely piece of work, and if she takes care of that body
she'll always have something to trade if she wants to change to another vehicle
later. Money in the bank, a car like that is.”

            Harry stopped suddenly,
looking aghast at the man in front of him who was rocking backwards and
forwards on his hard wooden chair, laughing like he was fit to burst.

* * *

Cíara drew a
deep breath.
So far, so good.

The trip to the pawnbrokers had
gone well – Sly Stevie, mindful of her friendship with his daughter, had
offered her a good price with a full six weeks for redemption; by that time, he
said, he'd have sounded out some quality jewelers to see if he could get her a
better deal.

No, no, he'd
insisted, he wouldn't take a fee, not for old time’s sake. Didn't she come to
play with his Breege when they were both knee high to a grasshopper? And
wouldn't she be sure and tell Breege about what a good deal he'd cut her
friend…

Short Eddie and
Smokey had promised they'd be out of her hair by evening, and her little chat
with Winters seemed to have gone off well enough, too. Meeting Anton had been a
shock, but she'd carried it off well, she thought; no sign of Winters to muddy
the waters and stir up memories in both men's minds though she did think that
Winters looked kind of cute with that purple and green bruise on his cheekbone.

And so long as
she could continue to keep both men apart, things would be just fine. Men, she
had discovered long ago, had short memories, especially for humiliating moments
in their lives. But Anton had asked for her phone number, wanting to see her
for dinner, perhaps, and she had foolishly given him her business card.

 The one with
the real number on it, not the night number of the local Chinese takeway.

Still and all,
the jeweler
was
attractive and he
was
rich. His personality might
stink, but many a time a girl had to be satisfied with just two out of three
major attributes in a man.

Now she was at a
loss as to what to do with herself for the rest of the day. She debated. She
could go into the office, which probably meant being in close contact with
Winters for hours, being subjected to his infernal assessing, disapproving
scrutiny if anyone called for her special services –  why was the man so antsy
about what she did?

 It wasn't as if
she was selling herself or anything.
Oh, no, she made good and sure the
evening ended long before any of her victims reached even first base
. Maybe
he just didn't understand how important this work was to the women who hired
her. A thought, a memory, yawned and stretched at the back of her memory, but
before she could capture it a scruffy mongrel dog, hotly pursued by three
screeching little boys, ran into the path of her car.

She slammed on
her brakes and the little MG slewed hard into the curb. Winded, as she'd been
thrown hard against her seatbelt restraint, Cíara sat for a couple of seconds
taking in deep breaths. Then she got slowly out of the car and advanced towards
the green patch of ground on the canal bank where the boys were merrily chasing
the less than merry dog around.

Her already lit
fuse burst into flame as she saw why the dog looked so miserable – the brats
had tied a half brick to a rope around its neck, hampering its escape, and then
they'd tied tin cans on a rope to its tail. Now they were chasing it around,
laughing at the dog's attempts to free itself from the frightening monster
attached to its tail while it frequently fell over the brick and rope around
its neck.

“You dirty
little monsters! Leave that dog alone!” Cíara hissed quietly. Kids like this
paid no attention if you yelled, they heard yelling all the time. But speak
quietly, and you got their attention. Four pairs of eyes – three human, one
canine - swung in her direction.

 “Sez who?”
demanded the ringleader, dressed in what looked like his big brother's clothes,
pants at half-mast in the American rapper style and a big green booger hanging
from his nose. While Cíara watched, he absently wiped the snot off onto his
wrist, leaving a snail-trail halfway up his arm that glistened in the sun.

“Yeuk! Filthy
kid, don't you have a handkerchief?” she snapped.

“Don't you have
a handkerchief? Don't you have a handkerchief?” The other two kids started to
chant, jumping in a circle around this intruder and their buddy.

“None of yer
business, lady.” The boy turned and picked up a stone.

“Throw that
stone at that dog and I'll hurt you,” Cíara said. The boy looked at her over
his shoulder, grinned, and launched the missile directly at the skinny dog,
which appeared to have collapsed and given up all hope as it lay panting
desperately on the grass. It gave a yelp and jumped as the stone cracked into
its gut.

The boy turned
around to grin at Cíara again, but the grin faded as he found himself looking
down the barrel of a neat and ladylike handgun. “So, shall we see how you
behave when someone bullies you?” she said, her voice deadly.

There was a
rustling in the grass as the other two ran off, but the third stood in front of
her as though he was pinned to the ground by the gun. He sniffed, thrust out
his chest, and said: “Bet that's not a real gun!”

“You reckon?”

“I reckon.”

“Wanna find
out?” And she flicked her thumb over the safety and laid her finger tenderly on
the trigger. The boy gulped.      

“See that car
over there – the red one?” The boy nodded, his eyes still fastened to the gun.
“Well, see, I love that car. Right now it's up against the pavement and its
tire is all bent because I swerved to miss you. Wanna know why I swerved?”

Mesmerized, the
boy nodded, “I swerved because I didn't want to have the scrape something like
you off the tires of my car. But I'd have no such worries about shooting you.
D'you hear me? Shooting means I don’t get my hands dirty.”

The boy nodded,
swallowed again.

 “Is that your
own dog?”

The head with
its tough-guy shaved hair swiveled backwards and forwards.

“Well, much as I
love my car, you know what I hate?” The head swiveled from side to side. “I
hate little brats who get their fun torturing small furry animals. If I ever
see you at this again, I'll give you a free sample of bullets. Understand?” The
head nodded feverishly up and down, then the boy was gone in a jumble of
flapping pants and grubby sneakers.