Fanahan had to admit
that Gerry had tidied it up, and gave the place a lick of paint. He
was unsure about the big framed painting of Milo R.I.P. Rot in
Pogutary. Does that place exist any more? Does Limbo either? It
was hanging at the back, behind the counter above the mirror, it
looked like he was smiling down at the punters!
A new, different
clientele...if you could call toss-pots and drunkards clientele,
were now coming into the Saloon Bar. The plonker changed the name as
well. Fanahan knew that late on a Saturday night, in this location,
after watching TV and engaging in iPhone betting on the nags all day, the boys
would act like cowboys in a saloon brawl.
“What cha say to
her, me gurlfrien'?”
“Nuttin'.”
“Well that's it
then - just say nuttin' or ya'll be picking up yer teeth – wan by
wan.”
But a couple of new
customers were dropping in for a few. Scoping the place out no doubt.
Shay was missing the old crowd – even the Prick – you could get a
rise out of him. Now, it seemed, he had reverted into Georgie, cast
off the cloths of his granny the duchess, and was on the lam.
I
need a diversion, from me problems. Wind yer man up.
“Would you like a
drink pal?” The suited, if shabbily suited, gentleman on his right
turned and looked Shane up and down.
“No thank you,
pal. I'm fine and on my own: enjoying my own company.”
“Oh! La de daw,
pal and it's detective to you, Detective Inspector Fanahan, to be
exact. Who are you?”
Flustered at such a
direct approach, cautiously he replied. “Church Willmore is my
name.”
“Church? After
Churchill, it's no wonder you shortened that. What do you do,
Church?”
“I'm retired.”
Fanahan was starting
to enjoy himself, interrogation was something he enjoyed,
particularly when it served his purpose of upsetting someone.
“What did you do
then? How would you describe yourself? Mr. Retired.”
“I would say I was
a former editor at the Irish Press Newspaper Group.”
Fanahan wanted to
reply and I'm a former schoolboy but instead continued twisting the
knife. “Sure that went out of business in 1995, didn't it. Connie
was the only journalist in that rag, the rest acted like stringers.
The mouthpiece of De Valera. He founded it. Didn't he?”
“So they say
detective.”
“Hop it then back
to your own company, I'm tired engaging with you.”
Fanahan remembered
the note he had picked up in the hospital: the one Georgie left for
him, after he hanged the auld dear to pretend it was himself as the
duchess. He fished it out of his pocket, opened the envelope and
glanced at the message.
I've
changed my drink to a Brandy and Port, Shay. Suppose you are still a
pint and a ball o' malt chaser man.
See
you soon and we can reminisce.
Jees.
He is back, and I bet he is as evil as he ever was. More evil? Bloody
psychopath.
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