TWENTY-EIGHT
ONE
They say lazyboneitis is in the blood. It isn’t in James ‘Ructions’ O’Hare’s blood. Not when it comes to robbing banks.
At RJ’s gym, on Belfast’s Boucher Road, Ructions watches his childhood friend, Billy Kelly, set down dumbbells on the weight bench and inspect his bulging biceps. He likes what he sees.
A female fitness trainer yells at her aerobics class, exhorting the masochistic faithful to spill even more sweat. A middle-aged Arnold Schwarzenegger lookalike, in a tight pair of latex shorts, with clenched fists in black fingerless gloves, strolls across the floor. Mini-Arnold’s eyes inspect the pot-bellied and the over-the-hillers. Chesney Hawkes’ ‘The One and Only’ blasts over the loudspeakers as Mini-Arnold grins at himself laciviously in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. He sees Billy, winks and strolls over towards the pull-up bar. Billy, the pocket-sized champion weightlifter, opens his bottle of water and puts it to his lips.
Ructions – forty-five years old, blond hair, full lips, thin Roman nose and athletic build – lies on the bench, breathes deeply and prepares to start his set of bench-curls with the dumbbells. After only five bench-curls, Billy’s upside-down face appears above him.
‘One hundred and fifty large? Before the move? That’s what you said. You’re going to give me—’
Ructions sets down the dumbbells, sits up and wags his finger. ‘Ah, ah, ha, Billy.’
‘Let me get this right …’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘You’re going to give me one hundred and fifty—’
‘I’m not giving you anything, Billy.’
‘Now,’ Billy says, ‘your client—’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Who we both know well—’
‘We know a lot of people well, and any of them could be the person to whom you are referring.’
Billy ignores Ructions’ provocations. ‘Let’s call this person to whom I am referring Robin Hood.’
Ructions feigns surprise. ‘You’ve guessed my client’s name.’
‘So, Robin Hood is going to give me …’ Billy looks about, making sure he will not be overheard, ‘one hundred and fifty thousand pounds before the job is done?’
‘Yes.’
Billy’s foxy eyes try to read Ructions’ face. ‘Nice bait.’
Ructions does not disguise his ire. ‘Nice bait? Nice fucking bait? Are you serious?’
‘There’s a catch,’ Billy says, pointing to Ructions’ chest. ‘C’mon, amigo. This is your best mate you’re talking to. What is it?’
Ructions puts his arms on Billy’s shoulder. ‘You and me – we joined the Immaculata Boxing Club together, didn’t we?’
‘We sure did.’
‘And I taught you how to swim in the Falls Baths, didn’t I?’
‘No,’ Billy says. ‘I taught you.’
Ructions is reminded that Billy will be a controversialist to the day he dies. ‘Take my word for it, Bill, there is no catch. Once the money is in your hands, it’s yours. So, if the move goes ahead, you get paid the big bucks. If, at the last minute, it gets called off, you still get paid the big bucks. If your boys get knocked off by the cops, they eventually come out of the nick to the big bucks.’
Billy strokes his black moustache. ‘I see.’
‘And remember this – you’re the boss man. You pay your employees what you think they’re worth.’ Gone is the frivolity as Ructions whispers in Billy’s ear. ‘Billy, believe me, it doesn’t get much better than this.’
‘Robin’s no philanthropist.’
‘I never said he was.’
‘So, for him to claw back his money – and get the wages he’s used to – this thing has to work.’
‘Bingo.’
‘Ructions O’Hare,’ Billy says, beaming, ‘you must be one hundred and ten per cent.’
‘Aren’t I always?’
‘I’m in. You knew that anyway. You knew that before you came to me.’ Billy inspects his biceps in the mirror and sings, ‘I am the one and only …’ He falls silent for a few seconds and then turns to Ructions. ‘You fellas must be expecting a heavy haul.’
‘I’m an optimist, Billy. I always expect a good result.’ Ructions had anticipated that Billy’s greed would kick in sooner or later, and he is not disappointed.
‘Can we say two hundred, Ructions? Our pal, Robin, he can do that, can’t he?’
‘No.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
Billy nods. ‘Be thankful for small mercies, eh?’
‘Small mercies can be plenty costly.’
‘Yeah. Well, as I say, I’m in.’ Billy lifts his towel to go, and then stops. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask – how many players do I need?’
‘Five max, maybe less – if you’d a mind to do the prep work yourself and go no-frills.’
‘Hey! You’re looking at “No-Frills Kelly”.’
‘And one more thing.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I might need you to do some overtime. I probably won’t, but if I do, I’ll look after you.’
‘Time-and-a-half?’
‘Double-time.’
‘I’m your man.’
Seamus McCann is a man who thinks the world of himself. Lanky and thin, and with a sombre disposition, this former commander of the South Down IRA Brigade looks more like a door-to-door Mormon missionary than someone who has spent the best part of his life plotting to kill British soldiers and police.
The
