and you type those names in, what if we disappear, like he said?'
Corrigan laughed. 'I thought it was only cokeheads got paranoid?' He turned back to his typing. He'd finished the first name. His finger moved to the send button. It hovered.
He looked across at Stirling.
'Just a thought,' Stirling said.
Corrigan sat back. 'You know,' he said, 'if you think about it, drug barons must have conventions. They must do. It stands to reason.'
Stirling shrugged. 'Suppose so. They have to make deals, just like any other business. Find out what's new. I don't think there's like a Drug Dealers' Quarterly or anything, is there?'
Corrigan snorted. His finger reached for the button again.
'Y'know,' Stirling said, 'if you want, we could check it out ourselves. Pretty easily. Just take a walk down to the Skylon Brock, ask a few questions.'
'You're serious?'
'Partly.'
Corrigan sat back from the screen. 'I suppose we can't do anything with Pongo until he settles himself a bit. We can't let the press see him like that or they'll tear him to shreds.'
'That's not our responsibility.'
'I know, but it's only fair.'
'What's fair got to do with it? We're police.'
'So what will we do? He doesn't even want us to phone his lawyer.'
'I don't know. I suppose we could walk down there, get some proper coffee, have a look round.'
Corrigan pulled at a lip. 'As long as we don't tell anyone.'
Stirling smiled. 'God, who could we tell?'
Corrigan erased the name from the computer screen. He could check them out later.
They took a walk along the river. It was bitingly cold.
'Must be difficult,' Corrigan said, 'being that young, having all that money. Women throwing themselves at you.'
'I could live with it.'
'Could you?'
'For a couple of weeks anyway. Then I'd go home.'
They arrived at the Skylon and pushed through the doors into reception. It was busy. There was a sign saying: SKYLON WELCOMES INTERNATIONAL HORTICULTURAL CONVENTIONEERS. There were four or five carts full of flowers, and behind them babes in various national costumes giving out samples to conventioneers.
Corrigan didn't know what he was looking for. He had attended a thousand conventions. Niagara was that kind of a town. Conventions turned up every conceivable type of person. If you were looking for someone suspicious or studious or creepy or high-flying or nerdy or anything, you'd find them. There were guys who prompted a nudge from Stirling, guys who looked like drug dealers, kind of smooth and bejewelled, but they might as well have been flower dealers into daffodils.
Corrigan accepted a complimentary red rose off a girl in a red skirt and red t-shirt. 'So,' he asked her, 'much crack cocaine available today?'
She smiled and said something in Spanish and moved on. Corrigan shrugged at Stirling. They approached the desk.
The receptionist – her name was Connie; it said so on her badge – smiled up at him. 'Inspector Corrigan,' she said, 'good morning.'
He nodded and said: 'So, how's the convention going?'
'Just fine, thank you.'
'You have a programme, something like that? List of guests?'
'Sure thing. There any problem, sir?'
Corrigan smiled. 'No trouble. Except with weeds.' He winked.
She handed him a programme.
'Most of them staying here?' She nodded. 'Usual, high-spirited crowd?'
'Yeah, I guess. Most of them are just so sweet.'
Corrigan passed the programme to Stirling, who began to flick through it. There wasn't a lot of detail. Layouts of the hotel and the casino next door. A list of the seminars and their locations. Titles like: 'Floral Marketing in the Digital Age', 'Preserving as Fresh: Cryogenics in the Greenhouse', 'The Future's Bright, the Future's Tulip: from the Bulb Fields of Holland'.
'There can't be that much to say about fucking flowers,' Stirling observed.
They walked next door to the casino, then took the elevator to the top floor where all the high rollers hung out.
'Thing is,' Stirling said, 'if there are drug dealers, they're not
Corrigan laughed. 'I thought it was only cokeheads got paranoid?' He turned back to his typing. He'd finished the first name. His finger moved to the send button. It hovered.
He looked across at Stirling.
'Just a thought,' Stirling said.
Corrigan sat back. 'You know,' he said, 'if you think about it, drug barons must have conventions. They must do. It stands to reason.'
Stirling shrugged. 'Suppose so. They have to make deals, just like any other business. Find out what's new. I don't think there's like a Drug Dealers' Quarterly or anything, is there?'
Corrigan snorted. His finger reached for the button again.
'Y'know,' Stirling said, 'if you want, we could check it out ourselves. Pretty easily. Just take a walk down to the Skylon Brock, ask a few questions.'
'You're serious?'
'Partly.'
Corrigan sat back from the screen. 'I suppose we can't do anything with Pongo until he settles himself a bit. We can't let the press see him like that or they'll tear him to shreds.'
'That's not our responsibility.'
'I know, but it's only fair.'
'What's fair got to do with it? We're police.'
'So what will we do? He doesn't even want us to phone his lawyer.'
'I don't know. I suppose we could walk down there, get some proper coffee, have a look round.'
Corrigan pulled at a lip. 'As long as we don't tell anyone.'
Stirling smiled. 'God, who could we tell?'
Corrigan erased the name from the computer screen. He could check them out later.
They took a walk along the river. It was bitingly cold.
'Must be difficult,' Corrigan said, 'being that young, having all that money. Women throwing themselves at you.'
'I could live with it.'
'Could you?'
'For a couple of weeks anyway. Then I'd go home.'
They arrived at the Skylon and pushed through the doors into reception. It was busy. There was a sign saying: SKYLON WELCOMES INTERNATIONAL HORTICULTURAL CONVENTIONEERS. There were four or five carts full of flowers, and behind them babes in various national costumes giving out samples to conventioneers.
Corrigan didn't know what he was looking for. He had attended a thousand conventions. Niagara was that kind of a town. Conventions turned up every conceivable type of person. If you were looking for someone suspicious or studious or creepy or high-flying or nerdy or anything, you'd find them. There were guys who prompted a nudge from Stirling, guys who looked like drug dealers, kind of smooth and bejewelled, but they might as well have been flower dealers into daffodils.
Corrigan accepted a complimentary red rose off a girl in a red skirt and red t-shirt. 'So,' he asked her, 'much crack cocaine available today?'
She smiled and said something in Spanish and moved on. Corrigan shrugged at Stirling. They approached the desk.
The receptionist – her name was Connie; it said so on her badge – smiled up at him. 'Inspector Corrigan,' she said, 'good morning.'
He nodded and said: 'So, how's the convention going?'
'Just fine, thank you.'
'You have a programme, something like that? List of guests?'
'Sure thing. There any problem, sir?'
Corrigan smiled. 'No trouble. Except with weeds.' He winked.
She handed him a programme.
'Most of them staying here?' She nodded. 'Usual, high-spirited crowd?'
'Yeah, I guess. Most of them are just so sweet.'
Corrigan passed the programme to Stirling, who began to flick through it. There wasn't a lot of detail. Layouts of the hotel and the casino next door. A list of the seminars and their locations. Titles like: 'Floral Marketing in the Digital Age', 'Preserving as Fresh: Cryogenics in the Greenhouse', 'The Future's Bright, the Future's Tulip: from the Bulb Fields of Holland'.
'There can't be that much to say about fucking flowers,' Stirling observed.
They walked next door to the casino, then took the elevator to the top floor where all the high rollers hung out.
'Thing is,' Stirling said, 'if there are drug dealers, they're not
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