Wolf Tickets (11 page)

"Fella called O'Brien. You know him?"

"Oh aye," said Orville, grinning at Farrell with the cigarette clamped between his teeth. "He owns that sandwich shop in town."

"Not that O'Brien. This one just got out of Frankland."

"Then I don't know him. I don't hang out with criminals, Jimmy."

"Aye, you do."

He looked at me. "What's he done?"

"You know him or not?"

"I'm straight as, me." He held up the magazine. "I'm too busy with a galaxy of stars to bother with your ex-con marras, know what I mean?"

"Right y'are, Orville." I held up the cans, took one and gave the rest to Farrell. I popped an Ace, took a drink. It was piss. "Sorry to bother you. We'll get on and leave you to it."

Orville's eyes were shining. He was Pavlov's dog, all slavers at the
pish-coff
of the opening can. He looked parched all of a sudden. "Eh, hang on there, Jimmy-son. I don't know him, but I never said I couldn't find
out
about him, did I? You want to find him, we go back, y'know, the
least
I could do is have a scout around."

"Nah, y'alright, Orville. Me and Farrell, we can do the donkey work. I wouldn't want you scuffing your good trainers over nowt." I pointed at the magazine with the can. "Besides, you're busy, aren't you?"

"Busy? Like fuck I'm busy. Look at us, man. I've never been busy a day in me fuckin' life."

"Alright." I looked around like I was thinking it over. "Tell you what, you've got my number, right?"

"Aye."

"You have a dig around, see what you find. Anything good, you give us a ring."

"Sound," Orville said to the can in my hand.

I gave it to him, took the others from Farrell and put them down by the Lidl bag. Something in there smelled dead. "Have a ball, mate."

I motioned to go. Farrell kept looking behind us as we walked. "What, that's it, is it? Your half-mad alco mate's going to put the finger on O'Brien for us, is he?"

"Maybe. Orville doesn't piss about when there's cans on offer."

We reached the car. Farrell put his hands on the roof. "But you gave him the cans."

"Yes, because I'm a nice person, and because he knows he'll get more if he turns anything up. Besides, good deeds do wonders for your karma." I pulled open the driver's door. "You should give it a try sometime."

"You're full of shite."

"Aye," I said, getting into the car, "but I'm still going to heaven when I die."

Farrell got in the passenger side as I took out my menthols. Put one in my mouth and felt around for a lighter. Sure I had it on us a couple of minutes ago. Looked up, and Farrell was smiling.

"He twocked my fuckin' lighter, didn't he?"

Farrell nodded.

I put the tab back in the box, started the engine, and wondered what the world was coming to.

If Cobb thought I was going to leave the whole hunt in the hands of a lighter-thieving alco, he was wrong. It might have been clutching at straws, but I made him stock up on cans and do the rounds of any halfway houses he knew. By the time we finished, it was getting into the late afternoon and all we had left was the bottle of Bushmills. The cans had all gone to the local drinkers, and all of them treated Cobb like an old pal, which was a bit worrying. I had to admit, though, given a certain angle and a certain light, it was easy to see Jimmy on the streets. Sad truth of it was, he wasn't much without me.

We swung by the flat again. The police car was still there. Cobb cruised us past and shared a look with the copper behind the wheel. If the copper clicked on to who we were, he didn't show it. Maybe Cobb was right. Maybe O'Brien hadn't called the guards on us. Mind, it bothered me that they were still there.

"Jimmy, we can't keep driving around like this. I need to sit and think. Besides, I've got a throat on me. Let's find a pub and get settled in."

Cobb shook his head. "Nah, mate. It's doing you no good. You been out of the game too fuckin' long. You're a lightweight. Get yourself pie-eyed, that's your revenge out the window. Even if you manage it, you won't remember it."

"I'll be fine."

"Plus you said this O'Brien bloke was dangerous. So you want to be on top of your game if he ever shows up, don't you?"

"I'm just jacked, Jimmy."

"You've done fuck all. I'm the one done all the driving."

"Okay then, let's find somewhere to kip out for a while."

"We'll sleep in the car."

"You might be a fucking tramp, Jimmy, but I want a proper roof."

Cobb tapped the steering wheel. "Time was, you were man enough to kip in a ditch if it was free."

I opened my Dunhills, picked out a cigarette and pushed the lighter in the dash. "Times have changed, James. I'm a man of taste and distinction now. All this driving around, it's not accomplishing anything but make us look desperate." I puffed smoke at him. "We need a break."

"What about Nora?"

"What about her?"

"Where'd she stay? She got relatives over here?"

"I don't know." I tried to remember, and felt the start of a headache because of it. "I don't think she ever told me stuff like that."

"You fucked her long enough."

"Hey," I said, warning him. "Ease up. I'm still in mourning over here."

"Then stop mourning and get thinking. You're the one knew her, so give us an idea of where she was, where she'd be, because O'Brien's not going to be far from there, is he? In the meantime, I've done my bit. I've sowed the seeds. He turns up at a halfway house, I'll know about it."

"You got a mobile?"

"No."

"Then how the fuck is your man going to call you?"

"Home phone."

I blinked. He just wasn't making the connections here. "There's police outside your flat, Jimmy."

"Give it until two o'clock and they'll be gone."

"Why two?"

"Shift change. If they've sent out uniforms, it's not going to be important enough to straddle shifts. They won't send any more once these two have clocked off."

I went for the Bushmills and took a long, hard swallow. I wiped my mouth and said, "Okay, well, Nora didn't mention any family to me. It was a job enough getting her relationship with O'Brien out into the open."

My gut protested at the whiskey and I thought for a second it was going to come back up. I pulled the leather jacket back onto my lap until the nausea went away. I put my finger through the bullet hole.

"Wish you'd stop doing that, man," said Cobb. "If you're going to wear it, wear it. But stop playing with it. Doing my fuckin' box in."

I decided to go through the pockets instead. Found my wallet in the inside pocket. I opened it up, went through the folds to make sure everything was still present and correct. My driving licence, a couple of credit cards. Some Euros and a wad of receipts that I should've chucked a long time ago. Closed the wallet and checked the other pockets.

"Owt or nowt?" said Cobb.

"She cleaned it."

"If she wore it."

"She would have."

Because she stole it to wear it. Because she knew I liked quality and it would mess with my head if someone else wore my jacket. She'd been messing with me every step of the way. It'd always been about scoring points.

And that was when it hit me. I opened up the wallet again. "Hang on a second. Pull over."

"Eh?"

I pointed out the window. "There, next to that phone box. I need to check something."

"What?"

"Just do it. And give me some change for the phone while you're at it."

***

"If you would like to check your balance, please press one ...

Cobb wasn't the only one who'd had rock bottom moments. After that fracas in Belfast when that petrol contact of mine turned out to be up to his nose in debt with the fucking Provos, I was so scared I considered the straight life. I actually went out and looked for civilian employment – went through the
Tribune
, the
Independent
, looking for anything that resembled a decent job-type job. And all I found were customer service positions, like a rash across the employment pages, phone monkeys all riding the Celtic Tiger. Cobb told me once that it was the same in Newcastle. With industry privatised and plundered, punted on to the lowest bidder with the best contacts, all that was left was the so-called friendliness of the Geordie accent. Same for the Irish, apparently. We were fucking trustworthy, apparently.

In the end, I'd had an attack of good sense and kicked the idea to the kerb. And a good job, too, because from the sounds of it, they didn't even have people on the other end anymore.

"If you would like to check your most recent transactions, please press three ..."

I pressed three.

As the computer rattled off the last five transactions, I listened and took note. The other card had already come up short, but there was still an itch at the back of my head that told me this was the way to go.

And then: jackpot.

I put the phone down, slapped my wallet closed and went back to the car. Cobb rolled down the window. "Well?"

"I've got something, but I need another couple of quid, just in case."

"Fuck's sake ..."

"It's sixty pence a call, Jimmy. And I don't have any of your funny money, do I?"

Cobb lifted one arse cheek, dug around in his jeans like he was searching for his balls, then slapped a handful of warm coins into my hand. "That's it. Don't ask us for any more, alright? I'm fuckin' brassic, and you're lending money off us like—"

I didn't hear the rest. I was already at the phone box. I dragged open the door, picked up the receiver and dialled the directory enquiries thing he saw advertised on the side of the box.

GOT YOUR NUMBER.

Turned out they didn't. They put me through to a halal pizza place where the fella on the other end lost his rag with me in three different languages before I hung up. Another pound down, and I finally got the right number.

"Good afternoon, Royal Station Hotel, this is Liz speaking."

"Hi Liz, this is Mr Farrell. I don't know if you remember me. I checked in last night with my wife?"

"What can we do for you, Mr Farrell?"

"Thing is, and this is terribly embarrassing ... We've been out shopping today, and I think I've lost our key."

"Oh dear."

"I know. I've looked all over for it, retraced our steps, the lot. I just can't seem to find it anywhere. Now there'll probably be a fine to pay, is that right?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

There always was. "I told her, you know, I said: 'Keep an eye on the key, darling, don't let it out of your sight.' And it turns out
I'm
the one with the bloody thing. Or not, as the case may be. Anyway, I'm really awfully sorry."

"Not a problem at all, Mr Farrell. If you want to pop by reception, we'll have another key card waiting for you there."

"That'll be grand, Liz. Thanks ever so much for your help."

I hung up and the phone refused to give change. I walked back to the car, where Cobb was waiting with his hand out.

"Ate it."

"You're fuckin' kidding."

"Nope."

Cobb slapped the side of the car. "Fuckin' BT, fuckin' bunch of pirate
bastards
."

"Everyone's got mobiles now, Jimmy," I said, getting back into the car.

"Wouldn't be seen dead, man. Shackles of the twenty-first century, I'm telling you. And the fuckin' contract phones, them smartphones with the GPS and all that? They're monitoring your movements. MI5 nosing around your life. Fuck that."

I stared at him. He looked as nuts as he sounded.

He cleared his throat. "Anyway, what's happening?"

"You know the Royal Station Hotel?"

"If it's the one I think it is, it's down by Central. Why?"

"Nora was staying there."

Cobb smiled. "Don't tell us she used your credit card."

"One of them, yeah."

"No offence to the dearly departed an' all that, but she was a daft cow if she didn't think you'd pick up on that."

"Oh, she knew I would." I took a Dunhill from the pack on the dash. "But this whole thing is a series of little fuck-yous, isn't it? She'd planned to be there one night, maybe two. Enough time to pick up the money and then she'd be gone."

Cobb started the engine. "So we go down the Royal Station and see where that leads us?"

"Not we, just me. You do what you need to do."

"If we split up, we're—"

"Jimmy, she's booked in with my credit card. And from the price of the room, I'm guessing this isn't a fucking Travelodge. So if I walk in there with a scruffy gobshite like you at my side, it's going to draw attention. God knows, I'm already pushing my luck by telling the receptionist that I lost my key, so I don't need you pushing it further. You drop me off outside, go by the flat and see if Orville and the rest of your degenerate friends have turned up anything on O'Brien. In the meantime, I'll search the room. With a bit of luck, she might've stashed my twenty grand somewhere."