Lynch.
Fuck off, you've got it!
He slipped out of the hospital through the basement so that no one would notice.
10
3.00 pm
Tommy Malone had spent most of the morning sitting at the breakfast table, deep in thought. Around his feet screwed up balls of paper lay scattered, all torn from a simple lined exercise book. By two o'clock he was left with only one page. On nine lines of the page he had written a name. A black felt-tipped marker scored out six. This left only three names and in his mind Malone had gone over as much of the personal details of each as he could remember. Finally, just before three o'clock he slowly stood up, stretched and gazed at the drizzle misting the view outside. He felt in exceptionally good form and a little hum hovered on his lips as he pulled on his raincoat. Checking that he had enough small change, he set off for the public telephone box beside the Esso garage. Malone never trusted private telephone lines, very much aware of their potential for bugging by the police. There's no doubt about it, thought Malone as he buttoned his raincoat tightly against the rain, there's nothing like planning a really big job to lift your spirits on a wet winter's day.
After a few false starts when the telephone numbers had been engaged or suspicious voices at the other end of the lines denied the existence of anyone by that name, Tommy Malone finally managed to contact all the members of his A-team'. It wasn't the 'A-team' he would have liked but the ravages of drugs, gaol, and a crack down by Gardai on organised crime had taken its toll on the Dublin underworld. The only people he knew would work with him had listened and finally agreed to meet the following afternoon. Each had been sworn to absolute secrecy and he knew they could be relied on to keep their mouths shut. That's why he'd selected them. They were tough and hungry. More importantly, he knew they were clean from drugs, vital in what he was planning. Experience had taught him one lesson in crime, never work with anyone on drugs. He knew full well all they thought of was the next hit. This job would require clear and experienced heads. After he ticked them off one by one he made one last call.
'Betty?'
'Is that ye, Tommy?'
'Aye. Listen, I won' be around for the next week or so.'
'Where are ye goin'?'
'I was thinkin' of goin' on a business trip.'
At the other end of the line he heard Betty snigger. 'Business me arse. I don' wanna know anyway, Tommy. Gimme a shout when ye're back.'
'Nah, Betty, I was wonderin' if ye'd come with me.'
'Where to?'
'I can't tell ye now. Could ye meet me in Mooney's pub in an hour?'
'What are ye plannin', Tommy?'
'Can't tell ye, Betty. See ye in Mooney's, righ'?'
'Righ'.'
Betty Nolan was Tommy's current girlfriend and one of the few women he'd ever allowed himself to get close to apart from his late long-suffering mother. She and Malone shared beds at weekends when he wasn't plotting or involved in some crime.
Betty was the widow of one of Dublin's petty criminals, dead many years previously, but not by natural causes. Her marriage was doomed from the start as her husband-to-be had to pull an off-licence robbery on the morning of the wedding to pay for the reception. They'd had one child, a girl called Sharon, before Betty became a widow at the age of twenty-three. A robbery planned to pay for a holiday in Spain went horribly wrong and her husband was shot dead trying to escape. Betty Nolan went back to scrimping and saving to make ends meet.
Tommy Malone muttered to himself as he walked towards the buses on D'Olier Street in the misty rain. This job's just gotta work out. This is the last chance for a really big wan. If I pull this off I'll clear off outa the country somewhere with Betty. It's just gotta work out.
Coat collar pulled up, drizzle misting his face, Tommy Malone waited for a bus to take him to Mooney's pub in the south Dublin suburb of Blackrock.
Tommy Malone
Fuck off, you've got it!
He slipped out of the hospital through the basement so that no one would notice.
10
3.00 pm
Tommy Malone had spent most of the morning sitting at the breakfast table, deep in thought. Around his feet screwed up balls of paper lay scattered, all torn from a simple lined exercise book. By two o'clock he was left with only one page. On nine lines of the page he had written a name. A black felt-tipped marker scored out six. This left only three names and in his mind Malone had gone over as much of the personal details of each as he could remember. Finally, just before three o'clock he slowly stood up, stretched and gazed at the drizzle misting the view outside. He felt in exceptionally good form and a little hum hovered on his lips as he pulled on his raincoat. Checking that he had enough small change, he set off for the public telephone box beside the Esso garage. Malone never trusted private telephone lines, very much aware of their potential for bugging by the police. There's no doubt about it, thought Malone as he buttoned his raincoat tightly against the rain, there's nothing like planning a really big job to lift your spirits on a wet winter's day.
After a few false starts when the telephone numbers had been engaged or suspicious voices at the other end of the lines denied the existence of anyone by that name, Tommy Malone finally managed to contact all the members of his A-team'. It wasn't the 'A-team' he would have liked but the ravages of drugs, gaol, and a crack down by Gardai on organised crime had taken its toll on the Dublin underworld. The only people he knew would work with him had listened and finally agreed to meet the following afternoon. Each had been sworn to absolute secrecy and he knew they could be relied on to keep their mouths shut. That's why he'd selected them. They were tough and hungry. More importantly, he knew they were clean from drugs, vital in what he was planning. Experience had taught him one lesson in crime, never work with anyone on drugs. He knew full well all they thought of was the next hit. This job would require clear and experienced heads. After he ticked them off one by one he made one last call.
'Betty?'
'Is that ye, Tommy?'
'Aye. Listen, I won' be around for the next week or so.'
'Where are ye goin'?'
'I was thinkin' of goin' on a business trip.'
At the other end of the line he heard Betty snigger. 'Business me arse. I don' wanna know anyway, Tommy. Gimme a shout when ye're back.'
'Nah, Betty, I was wonderin' if ye'd come with me.'
'Where to?'
'I can't tell ye now. Could ye meet me in Mooney's pub in an hour?'
'What are ye plannin', Tommy?'
'Can't tell ye, Betty. See ye in Mooney's, righ'?'
'Righ'.'
Betty Nolan was Tommy's current girlfriend and one of the few women he'd ever allowed himself to get close to apart from his late long-suffering mother. She and Malone shared beds at weekends when he wasn't plotting or involved in some crime.
Betty was the widow of one of Dublin's petty criminals, dead many years previously, but not by natural causes. Her marriage was doomed from the start as her husband-to-be had to pull an off-licence robbery on the morning of the wedding to pay for the reception. They'd had one child, a girl called Sharon, before Betty became a widow at the age of twenty-three. A robbery planned to pay for a holiday in Spain went horribly wrong and her husband was shot dead trying to escape. Betty Nolan went back to scrimping and saving to make ends meet.
Tommy Malone muttered to himself as he walked towards the buses on D'Olier Street in the misty rain. This job's just gotta work out. This is the last chance for a really big wan. If I pull this off I'll clear off outa the country somewhere with Betty. It's just gotta work out.
Coat collar pulled up, drizzle misting his face, Tommy Malone waited for a bus to take him to Mooney's pub in the south Dublin suburb of Blackrock.
Tommy Malone
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