ear.
Ructions can still remember how he had shuddered at the sight of The Devil on horseback. The lapels of his grandfather’s ankle-length brown overcoat had been pulled up to meet his black, crumpled hat. The only visible facial feature was his eyes, which, in the child’s vivid imagination, seemed to be glowing red. The Devil glanced down at Granny Mary, touched his hat with his riding crop, and steered Phantom to the left, breaking into a trot in the direction of Raglan Street. Granny Mary saluted her husband by raising her pipe, a lipless smile spreading on her sallow face. To this day, Ructions could recollect how he burned with envy as twelve of The Devil’s disciples followed their principal down the street on their way to the docks, where the animals would be shipped to England for sale.
The sound of an approaching engine catches Ructions’ attention. Panzer, with Geek alongside him, drives around the side of the Big House in his four-seater golf buggy, a golf bag set in the back of the vehicle.
Stopping some way from Ructions, Panzer turns to Geek, ‘And how is Apple?’
‘It’s not much more than a scratch,’ Geek says. ‘He’ll survive.’
‘I know Apple. He’ll remember this. I should talk to him.’
‘You should talk to Finbarr.’
‘Sure.’
‘I mean it, boss. The lad has a shotgun temper.’
‘I hear you. Now, how’s he coming along otherwise?’
‘You asked me a year ago to prepare him to take over the hands-on side of the business …’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Well, he’s almost there.’
‘Almost?’
‘Almost,’ Geek says. ‘Besides his short fuse—’
‘Yes?’
‘He can be a bit chilled out, you know?’
‘Okayyy.’
Geek chops the air with his hand. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he has only to be told something once and he gets it. Like, this kid is … he’s laser-sharp. For example, your bar isn’t making money—’
‘It hasn’t for years.’
‘Finbarr has an idea to turn that around.’
‘He has?’
‘Yeah. He thinks you should lease it out at a reasonable rate and do a deal with the lessee on the profits from the gaming machines. That way, instead of losing dough, the bar makes you a few quid, and you still own the licence and the property.’
Panzer tilts his head thoughtfully and strokes his ear. ‘That’s not bad, not bad at all.’
‘If, if you were of a mind to lease it out,’ Geek says, ‘I’d like a rattle at it. I’ve been in business before.’
‘I know. If I remember right, your taxi business was flying until—’
‘Until that cunt Tiny Murdoch decided to close me down.’
‘Remind me again.’
‘He sent the ’RA to warn me to close down my taxi depot and when I didn’t, he had it burnt.’
‘And then he broke your leg?’
‘Yes. The cunt. With a breeze block.’ Unconsciously, Geek reaches down to rub his right leg.
‘When was that?’ Panzer asks.
Geek responds immediately. ‘Six years ago – 12 October 1998.’
Panzer raises his left eyebrow. ‘If I were you, I’d be careful about calling Murdoch a cunt. You’re right, he is a cunt, but he’s an IRA cunt, and that makes him dangerous.’
‘The fucker had my leg smashed with a breeze block – for nothing.’
‘I know he did,’ Panzer says, his voice trailing off. ‘Now, back to Finbarr.’
Geek is not ready to return to the subject of Finbarr. He must make sure that the idea of him leasing Panzer’s pub is firmly fixed in his boss’s head. ‘You’ll keep me in mind, though, if you do decide to lease the pub?’
‘Sure,’ Panzer says. ‘So … Finbarr.’
Geek runs his tongue around his parched lips. ‘He can be off-piste, if you get my meaning.’
‘Will he be able to run this place?’ Panzer asks pointedly.
‘He’s not quite there yet but yes – yes, he will.’
Geek glances suspiciously at Panzer. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, boss? Why’s it suddenly so important that Finbarr gets involved?’
‘You’ve had him for a year now, so it’s hardly sudden. Look, he’s turning out to be a pain in the ass, if you must know,’ Panzer says, barely able to disguise his exasperation. ‘He needs the discipline of responsibility.’
‘Don’t all kids? I’ll take him down to Dublin with me next week, shall I?’
‘Good idea. But make it clear to him that he’s there only as an observer. These druggies are dangerous hombres.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Geek says, walking away. He turns back. ‘This Dublin thing …’
‘What about it?’
‘Are we getting into the drugs business, permanently, like?’
‘No. This is a one-off.’
‘Good. I don’t like drugs.’
Seeing Geek move away, Ructions approaches Panzer and gets into the passenger seat of the golf buggy. Not for the first time his attention is drawn to his uncle’s startling weight loss. What’s going on with you, Panzer? What are you not telling me? You’re looking more like The Devil every day. Has his errant spirit transferred to you? ‘It’s a good day for mountaineering,’ Ructions says.
‘I need to catch a dog trial first,’ Panzer says, driving over behind the stables to his dog track.
The oval-shaped, sandy track is 660 yards in circumference, but the trial distance is only 525 yards – the length of an average greyhound race. Private greyhound trials have always been a nice earner for Panzer; his discretion is celebrated, and owners throughout Ireland know that whatever times their dog records, it never leaves his track.
Panzer speaks to a middle-aged man in a duffle coat. He has a hugely impressive Salvador Dali moustache and a lanky teenage sidekick. Ructions takes out a fifty-pence piece and twiddles it from one finger to the next. Down at the starting stalls, the handlers put two yelping dogs into the traps. One handler speaks into a two-way radio. The artificial hare is released. The stall doors open as the hare flashes past, and the dogs bolt after it.
