Read Online Little Criminals by Gene Kerrigan - Free Book Online Page B

there.’
    ‘Sometimes I regret you’re not a bit more humdrum, drawing up wills for pensioners. We’d get to see more of you.’
    He got into bed. ‘You’d soon get sick of the sight of me.’
    ‘Never,’ she said, embracing him. They kissed. She let her fingers loiter on the back of his neck and brushed his lips with hers again. Justin returned the kiss, then he reached down for a green folder on the floor beside the bed. Settling back on the pillow, he opened the folder.
    Angela hesitated. The signal hadn’t been bare enough, and he was tired and distracted. She could make it more obvious, or leave it for now. She said, ‘Goodnight,’ and he murmured a reply, already skimming through a column of figures.

7
     
    They parked around the corner from Jo-Jo’s house.
    ‘What’s the worst he can say?’ said Martin Paxton. ‘No . He can say no , that’s the worst he can say. And how bad is that? I mean, it’s not like this town isn’t brimming with loose money waiting to be picked up.’
    ‘What’s wrong with that old bitch?’ Frankie Crowe was looking at a fat, middle-aged woman, her hair dyed jet black, who was backing her car out of the driveway of the house outside which they were parked. As she edged past, she glared resentfully at the two men.
    Martin smiled back at her. ‘We’re poking our grubby little motor car into her personal space, that’s what. People around here, they like their personal space.’
    ‘Fuck her.’
    Although the woman couldn’t hear them, she revved aggressively as she drove away, as though in response to Crowe’s remark.
    ‘I’m off,’ Crowe said, opening the door. After yesterday’s rain, the weather had swung round and the sun was bringing out the autumn colours in the trees.
    Paxton wound down the car window. ‘Don’t stay for tea and cakes, right? Remember I’m out here cracking my knuckles. And good luck.’
    Walking up the path to Jo-Jo’s house, Crowe pulled at the hem of his leather jacket, making it taut at the shoulders. He used both hands to tug the collar of his shirt straight. He recognised the gesture as one of nervousness and felt annoyed at his deference. No big deal. There was a way of doing things, a necessary display of respect, and that’s all this was.
    Jo-Jo’s place was a large detached red-brick, off the Howth Road. Lots of greenery around the outside, big gardens front and back, enclosing the house in a cocoon of privacy. When Crowe pressed the button, the bell played the first few notes of the theme from Star Wars .
    The bodyguard’s name was Christy something. Crowe had met him in company a couple of times, had a drink with him, but they’d never worked together. Christy was tall and solid. He wore jeans and a dark blue checked shirt, his sleeves rolled up over thick forearms. Unlike most men who shave their heads, Christy wasn’t masking the symptoms of encroaching baldness. The bald, hard look was more suitable for his position as Jo-Jo’s primary minder. He nodded a welcome and closed the door behind the visitor.
    ‘What’s the mood?’ Crowe asked.
    ‘You know Jo-Jo, mate. Take him as you find him. One minute he’s a cuddly bear, next minute he’s pulling your spine out through your ear.’ Christy grinned. ‘Relax, Frankie. He likes you. Always did. You need something?’
    ‘No, just keeping in touch, more or less. I don’t want to step on any toes.’
    ‘Always a good idea,’ Christy said. ‘Wait there, Frankie, back in a mo.’ He went out through the kitchen.
    The hall was wide and high, the floor was black marble, the walls were oak-panelled. Off to the right there was a games room and bar. There was a snooker table at one end of the room, at the other an array of PlayStation, GameCube and Xbox consoles. The bar came with optics for dispensing spirits and old-fashioned long wooden-handled pumps for pulling pints. It had high stools, beer mats, all kinds of glasses, little bowls for cherries and olives and slices