Read Online The Price of Blood by Declan Hughes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Declan Hughes
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Ireland, Loy; Ed (Fictitious character), Horse Racing, Dublin
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get a look at her companions before she saw me, but she was restless, laughing quickly and nodding impatiently and chewing her gum and smoking and drinking and casting her gaze about the bar as if she expected me.
When our eyes met, her face turned to stone for a second and I thought she would start to scream; instead she turned her lamps full on, mouthed "Darling" at me and beckoned me over with the hand she held her glass in, flicking some of its contents over a fat red-faced man of sixty or so with a wispy strawberry-blond comb-over who affected to find this as hilarious as he appeared to be finding everything else. A well-preserved, shrewd-looking blonde in her fifties turned around to take an appraising look at me as the barman brought me the pint of Guinness I’d ordered. I had to remind myself that none of them, and nobody else here in this opulent Christmas melee, none of the lush young women or their overweight, red-faced partners in candy-stripe shirts and blazers or the older horsey types in tweed and corduroy and their sleek beige-and-ivory women groomed within an inch of their lives, not one of them had paid a cent for me, and I owed them nothing in return.
I carried my pint across to Miranda. Her party had grabbed banquette seats around a small table. Miranda kissed me on both cheeks, and in the ear farthest from her friends, said, "Sorry about that earlier. I
do
want you to find Patrick. I can pay you."
"I’m already getting paid," I said. "But thank you."
We were cheek to cheek, the room a clamor of laughter and jostling voices. Her bathroom had been full of Chanel No. 5 and I could smell that on her now, but faintly; her own scent overpowered it. Deep salt with a tang like oranges, it had gotten under my skin in her house; now I almost felt like the sole reason I had trailed her here was to breathe it again. She smiled at me, and opened her mouth; she still had lipstick on her teeth and I could see her tongue shift her chewing gum to one side. I laughed, and took a drink of my beer.
"What’s so funny?" she said.
"You are," I said. "Is there any situation in which you don’t chew gum?"
"That would be for you to find out," she said. "Mr. Private Investigator."
The shrewd-looking blonde, who was wearing cream and gold and the slightest hint of leopardskin, said something pointed to the comb-over and he exploded in a fit of convulsive laughter, his hair slipping in a long unruly strand down his face. She looked at him pityingly, like a mother would glance at her obese child when no one else was looking, then raised an appraising gaze, and her glass, to me; I saluted her in the same fashion and we both drank.
"Jackie Tyrrell," Miranda said quietly. "It’s our works do. The fatso is Seán Proby."
"The bookie?"
"The father. The son, Jack, runs the day-to-day now. Seán is the figurehead, on TV telling war stories. He was a great comrade of F. X. Tyrrell’s. They made a lot of money for each other. Then they fell out."
"Over what?"
"Whatever came to hand. F.X. falls out with everyone sooner or later. You can be my date, if you like. We’re going to the Octagon for supper."
"Did you not have a date?"
"Are you worried he might show up and want to fight you?"
"I only like fighting in the morning. At least then there’s a chance the day might improve."
"Scaredy-cat."
"Are Proby and Jackie an item?"
They were cackling with each other on the banquette, hand in hand. Miranda did an eye-rolling silent laugh at my question and shook her head at me.
"Oh dear God no. Seán bats for the other side, darling."
"Despite being someone’s father. This is all getting a bit too sophisticated for me. Why did you go to pieces when you heard Father Vincent Tyrrell’s name?"
Jackie Tyrell, who had been giving a very good impression of a drunk, stood bolt upright and apparently sober.
"We can’t be late," she barked in a highly polished accent with a trace of Cork in it. "Gilles will sulk. What’s his
When our eyes met, her face turned to stone for a second and I thought she would start to scream; instead she turned her lamps full on, mouthed "Darling" at me and beckoned me over with the hand she held her glass in, flicking some of its contents over a fat red-faced man of sixty or so with a wispy strawberry-blond comb-over who affected to find this as hilarious as he appeared to be finding everything else. A well-preserved, shrewd-looking blonde in her fifties turned around to take an appraising look at me as the barman brought me the pint of Guinness I’d ordered. I had to remind myself that none of them, and nobody else here in this opulent Christmas melee, none of the lush young women or their overweight, red-faced partners in candy-stripe shirts and blazers or the older horsey types in tweed and corduroy and their sleek beige-and-ivory women groomed within an inch of their lives, not one of them had paid a cent for me, and I owed them nothing in return.
I carried my pint across to Miranda. Her party had grabbed banquette seats around a small table. Miranda kissed me on both cheeks, and in the ear farthest from her friends, said, "Sorry about that earlier. I
do
want you to find Patrick. I can pay you."
"I’m already getting paid," I said. "But thank you."
We were cheek to cheek, the room a clamor of laughter and jostling voices. Her bathroom had been full of Chanel No. 5 and I could smell that on her now, but faintly; her own scent overpowered it. Deep salt with a tang like oranges, it had gotten under my skin in her house; now I almost felt like the sole reason I had trailed her here was to breathe it again. She smiled at me, and opened her mouth; she still had lipstick on her teeth and I could see her tongue shift her chewing gum to one side. I laughed, and took a drink of my beer.
"What’s so funny?" she said.
"You are," I said. "Is there any situation in which you don’t chew gum?"
"That would be for you to find out," she said. "Mr. Private Investigator."
The shrewd-looking blonde, who was wearing cream and gold and the slightest hint of leopardskin, said something pointed to the comb-over and he exploded in a fit of convulsive laughter, his hair slipping in a long unruly strand down his face. She looked at him pityingly, like a mother would glance at her obese child when no one else was looking, then raised an appraising gaze, and her glass, to me; I saluted her in the same fashion and we both drank.
"Jackie Tyrrell," Miranda said quietly. "It’s our works do. The fatso is Seán Proby."
"The bookie?"
"The father. The son, Jack, runs the day-to-day now. Seán is the figurehead, on TV telling war stories. He was a great comrade of F. X. Tyrrell’s. They made a lot of money for each other. Then they fell out."
"Over what?"
"Whatever came to hand. F.X. falls out with everyone sooner or later. You can be my date, if you like. We’re going to the Octagon for supper."
"Did you not have a date?"
"Are you worried he might show up and want to fight you?"
"I only like fighting in the morning. At least then there’s a chance the day might improve."
"Scaredy-cat."
"Are Proby and Jackie an item?"
They were cackling with each other on the banquette, hand in hand. Miranda did an eye-rolling silent laugh at my question and shook her head at me.
"Oh dear God no. Seán bats for the other side, darling."
"Despite being someone’s father. This is all getting a bit too sophisticated for me. Why did you go to pieces when you heard Father Vincent Tyrrell’s name?"
Jackie Tyrell, who had been giving a very good impression of a drunk, stood bolt upright and apparently sober.
"We can’t be late," she barked in a highly polished accent with a trace of Cork in it. "Gilles will sulk. What’s his
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