Prized Possessions (45 page)

‘Aye, aye!' said Jackie, grinning, and skipped eagerly into the hall.

*   *   *

‘I've one question for you,' Polly said, ‘one question to begin with: how long did you intend to let my mother go on paying?'

‘Until you no longer had need of my protection,' Dominic said.

‘Oh, that's rich,' said Polly. ‘That really is rich.'

‘It is, however, the fact of the matter,' Dominic told her. ‘How shall I put it? I inherited not only your father's debt—'

‘There was no debt.'

‘All right, I accept that,' Dominic said, placatingly. ‘I inherited what I thought was a genuine debt from my father and with it a certain obligation to look out for your welfare.'

‘You sound like a damned politician,' Polly said. ‘Trust me, pay your taxes, and I will protect you. You may not like it but I know what's best.'

‘That is a very harsh judgement on our system of government.'

‘Never mind the government,' Polly said. ‘What are you going to do to make amends? You won't be getting your monthly screw from us from now on, that's for sure. A few shillings may mean nothing to you, Mr Manone, but it means a lot to us.'

‘Polly, my business is built on shillings.'

‘Some business!' Polly said.

She wasn't angry with him. In spite of having consumed a substantial lunch she was clear-headed and sharp, enjoying the thrust and parry, gratified to be standing up to a man who had had such a shadowy existence on the periphery of her awareness for so long, who had had such an influence on her life and whom she had blamed, willy-nilly, for every bad thing.

‘I will tell you this,' Dominic said, ‘for it's no great secret: it is not my business at all. It is still my father's business. He keeps a close watch on what I do here in Scotland. He also takes a lion's share of our profits.'

‘How is that done?' Polly asked.

‘By credit transfer,' Dominic said.

‘I mean, why do you do it?'

‘What choice have I?' said Dominic. ‘He is my father. Everything I have I owe to his enterprise, his industry. He gave me everything.'

‘And takes most of it back,' said Polly.

‘Well.' Dominic shrugged. ‘Since the market crashed he needs every penny just to keep his head above water.'

‘Is he a gangster?'

‘No.'

‘Are you a gangster?'

‘What do you think?' Dominic said.

‘My daddy was – only they didn't call it that back then.'

‘Not everything I do is strictly within the law,' Dominic admitted. ‘You know that already, of course. Walsh must have told you.'

‘I didn't need Patsy to tell me,' Polly said. ‘I've
been
to the Rowing Club. I've
met
O'Hara. I'll tell you something, I used to hate you. Really. I used to loathe and detest you.'

‘Used to?'

It was far into the afternoon now. Clamour from the streets had quietened. In an hour or so men would come pouring into the city from the football grounds, pubs would open and Glasgow would be possessed by other Saturday sounds, all raucous and belligerent. Within Goodman's the tables had begun to empty, waitresses were clearing and re-setting for dinner. On the table in front of Polly nothing remained of the meal except a heavy silver coffee pot, little cups and a dish of sugar cubes.

‘I don't know what to make of you,' Polly said quietly.

‘Is that why you are so reluctant to ask me for what you want?' Dominic said. ‘Or do you not really know what you want?'

‘Oh, I know what I want,' Polly said. ‘I want money.'

He frowned and nodded at the same time, as if the banality of her request had disappointed but not surprised him. ‘How much?'

‘One hundred and fifty pounds, in cash,' Polly said.

He nodded again, but said nothing.

‘And,' Polly went on, ‘final settlement of the debt that never was.'

‘The hundred and fifty,' Dominic said, ‘is that by any chance your estimate of what your mother has paid to my family over the past dozen years?'

‘No,' Polly said. ‘I'm prepared to write that off.'

‘That is very generous of you.'

‘I take it you're not quibbling?'

‘No, I'm not quibbling,' Dominic said. ‘But I am curious about the exactness of the sum.'

‘All I need,' Polly said, ‘is enough to settle our debts and to be free and clear of any further obligation to you or your family.'

‘Ah!' Dominic said. ‘And then what will you do?'

‘I think,' Polly said, ‘my mother intends to get married again.'

‘So she told me,' Dominic said.

‘You disapprove?'

‘On the contrary,' Dominic said. ‘What about you?'

‘What about me?'

‘Will you marry?'

‘I might,' Polly said, ‘if someone asked me.'

‘Someone, not just anyone?' Dominic said.

‘No, not just anyone.'

‘So you have no one particular in mind?'

Polly said, ‘Aren't we drifting off the subject, rather?'

‘The money? That is not a problem. I will see to it that you have your hundred and fifty pounds in cash no later than Monday afternoon. I will have it delivered to you personally at the Burgh Hall. I take it you do not want your mother to know where the money comes from?'

‘That's right,' Polly said. ‘And our so-called debt to the Manones?'

‘Written off,' said Dominic.

‘In that case,' Polly said, ‘I doubt if we'll see each other again.'

‘That,' Dominic said, ‘is my one regret.'

‘I can't believe,' Polly said, ‘you've grown so attached to us that you'll miss us for one moment. Surely you've enough “obligations” to keep you occupied without bothering about some scruffy lot from Lavender Court.'

‘If,' Dominic said, ‘if we do meet again, Polly, neither one of us will be in debt to the other or under any obligation.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It would be just you, and me.'

‘I still don't see what you—'

‘I think you do,' said Dominic.

‘Dear God!' Polly said. ‘Don't tell me you only agreed to my terms because you think I'll—'

‘No obligations,' Dominic said. ‘None.'

‘Am I supposed to feel grateful?'

‘I was hoping for something other than gratitude.'

‘Huh!' Polly could think of no other reply, no honest reply. ‘Huh!'

Dominic said, ‘If I happened to be waiting outside your office next Saturday at one o'clock would you ignore me?'

‘Of course not. I'm not that impolite.'

‘Would you have lunch with me again?'

‘I – I might.' Even to Polly's ears, it sounded lame; worse than lame, it sounded coy. She had never thought of herself as a flirt and had no intention of letting Dominic Manone put her into that position. She squared her shoulders. ‘What would be the point?' she said. ‘Look, what do you want from me?'

‘I think I want to marry you,' Dominic said.

‘What?'

‘I would, however, be prepared to settle for another lunch engagement.'

‘Are you … is this the beginning of a courtship?'

‘Probably,' Dominic said. ‘Lunch? Next Saturday?'

And Polly, without hesitation, said, ‘Why not?'

Chapter Twenty

Late night in the parlour of the house beside the park, the room lit only by the rays from a standard lamp and the embers of the coal fire in the grate, a thick, ectoplasmic haze of cigar smoke concentrating the light in the region of the hearth where Dominic and his uncle were seated, one in a Georgian armchair, the other, less at ease, on the sofa.

Guido had removed his waistcoat and shirt. He was clad only in trousers and an undervest, his long, skinny arms fungus white, his chest shrunken, his throat criss-crossed with turkey-neck wrinkles. More frustrated than angry at Dominic's recalcitrance, he had been wheedling away at his nephew for the best part of an hour and he was tired now and wanted only to go to bed.

Dominic had also shed his waistcoat and had unbuttoned his shirt. He lay in the armchair, somnolent as a drunkard, still as a snake, watching his uncle, waiting for it to dawn on the old man that he, Dominic, was master of his own destiny and that he, Guido Manone, had finally met his match.

‘For the last time, Uncle,' he said, ‘I am not going to feed Walsh to the coppers. I have no intention of making an anonymous telephone call to some detective in the CID to inform him that Patrick Walsh fled the country on the night that McGuire was murdered. In any case, the coppers don't know Walsh from Adam. Patsy has no record of arrest.'

‘But the set-up—' Guido protested.

‘There is no set-up. There is only coincidence,' Dominic interrupted. ‘The case is dead, closed – or soon will be. If the coppers were sniffing around the Rowing Club or had O'Hara or Tony under surveillance then I might be tempted to divert their attention to Patsy Walsh, but there's no need. Do you not understand? No need.'

‘What if he comes back to Glasgow?'

‘What if he does?' said Dominic. ‘There is no possibility of him doing work for us again. Walsh is well aware of that. He's not one of your hooligans with fewer brains than a grasshopper. If and when he comes back here, he can work for Flint, or for Deasy over in Possil. We have nothing to do with these gentlemen. We are above that now.'

‘If that is what you think why did you deal with McGuire?'

‘I dealt with McGuire because he overstepped the mark. I had him taken out because of the children.'

‘Children?'

‘Tommy's children.'

‘None the less…'

Dominic spoke softly, using the same seductive tone that he might have used to Polly. ‘No one is gonna grieve for Charles McGuire, Uncle, not even his wife. Flint will see to it that she continues to get her share, and that will be the end of it. Do you not remember my father's golden rule? No trouble, make no trouble, and the police leave you alone. How long have you been in this country, Guido? Twenty-four, twenty-five years?'

‘More.'

‘How many times have you been in a court of law? Never. Not once. Do you think that is because we are lucky? No, it is because we are clever, clever and unassertive.'

‘McGuire had to be got rid of.'

‘I know it,' Dominic said. ‘That is why I made it happen.'

‘Because of the children?'

‘Yes, mainly because of the children.'

‘And this other thing?' Guido asked.

‘What other thing?'

‘Concerning the girl.'

‘If you mean my liking for Polly Conway,' Dominic said, ‘I have no reason to explain myself to you.'

‘Your aunt and I are…'

‘I have respect for both of you,' Dominic said, ‘but when it comes to marriage it is up to me to make the choice. I am not going to be herded into the bridal bed like some bovine girl from a Tuscan hill village.'

‘She is not Italian. She is not a Catholic.'

‘Am I?' Dominic said. ‘I have never set foot in the old country. And you know where I stand on religion.'

‘What is it about this girl that attracts you?'

‘I want her.'

‘Then take her. You do not have to talk of marriage.'

‘I want her for my wife.'

‘You hardly know her,' Guido said.

‘I know her well enough,' Dominic said. ‘I thought you were keen for me to marry and settle down?'

‘But this girl…' Guido shrugged. ‘Not to this girl.'

‘Because she is Lizzie Conway's daughter?'

‘She is…' For an instant it seemed that the old man would let that sentence trail off too. He was riled by his nephew's refusal to listen to sense, though, and snapped, ‘She is beneath you.'

‘Beneath me?' Dominic said. ‘Is she any more beneath me than the girls that Teresa has been throwing in my direction? Those poor, bewildered immigrants with their family connections trailing behind them like withered vines? I will tell you what the attraction is: I am not required to feel pity for Polly Conway, that I am favouring her. Quite the contrary, in fact.'

‘Then you do not understand what it is to be a Manone.'

Dominic stubbed out the little cigar that had been smoking in his fingers. He ground it thoroughly into the big glass ashtray on the carpet beside the chair. He looked up at his uncle, studying him, still waiting for that moment when frustration would change to apprehension.

He said, ‘I understand what it is to be loved.'

‘Loved? She does not love you.'

‘Perhaps not yet, not quite yet. But it will come.' Dominic straightened and sat upright. ‘You would not be making this fuss if I told you that I was interested in Lina Pirollo, would you?'

‘She is a nice girl. She would suit you well.'

‘And, of course, if I married his daughter we would soon be able to get our hands on Pirollo's business?'

‘Which is something that your father would be grateful for.'

‘I am sure that is so,' said Dominic. ‘But what good would the pretty Miss Pirollo be to me afterwards?'

‘She would bear your children and look after your house.'

‘But would she
understand
?' Dominic said.

Guido looked up, his chin tilting away from his chest. ‘Understand?'

‘What I am? What I do?' Dominic said. ‘I do not want a wife who lives in the kitchen and keeps her mouth shut. I want a wife I can talk to, a wife from whom I don't have to keep secrets.'

‘I am tired,' Guido said. ‘We will talk of this another time.'

‘No, we will talk of it now,' Dominic said. ‘We will talk of it now so that you may have an opportunity to prepare Aunt Teresa for what is about to happen. And to cook up your excuses.'