the last shall be first – Matthew 20:16,’ Panzer says sternly. ‘Ructions, make no mistake about it, nobody – but fuckin’ nobody – will be beyond suspicion after this little set-to.’
Ructions nods. ‘You’re right.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I know I am.’
Close by, barking dogs distract Panzer at the top of his backswing. This results in his golf ball slicing to the left. Panzer turns to Ructions. ‘Fuckin’ mongrels,’ he says in disgust. ‘Who else knows about this?’
Ructions clamps his lips shut in case his thoughts tumble out. Who else would know about it, Panzer? I’ve been working on this robbery for over two years – on my own. Know why I’ve worked on my own, Panzer? Because I won’t fuckin’ tout on myself to the cops. ‘You, me and Eleanor,’ Ructions says cordially.
‘We’ll need somewhere to dump the loot after the job.’
‘I’ve a camel’s hump sorted.’ Ructions whispers into Panzer’s ear, telling him the location of the dump.
‘I like it.’
Ructions can sense a dangerous scepticism in Panzer’s tone. It’s as if Panzer has yet to be convinced of the robbery’s bona fides. He reckons that a spot of flattery and a pledge of allegiance might ease the situation. ‘Boss, I want to be clear about something: this is your job, not mine. If you want to pull it, that’s fine with me.’
‘It’s our job,’ Panzer says, grinning. He pats Ructions affectionately on the cheeks. ‘You’re a thoroughbred, kiddo, a fuckin’ thoroughbred.’ Panzer embraces Ructions. ‘It’s you and me, Ructions, all the way. Fifty-fifty – that’s it.’
‘There’s one good thing …’
‘Only one?’
‘The cops will think the wrap-the-green-flag-around-me boys are behind it.’
Panzer hesitates before replying. ‘That’ll hold up, but it’s difficult to say for how long. Remember this – irrespective of what the cops think, the IRA will know they didn’t do it and if they find out that we did do it, they’ll have Tiny Murdoch up looking for his fifty per cent tax.’
‘Aye. Like we’d give it to them too! Fuckers!’ Ructions replies with a sneer.
‘The Provos can be a right pain in the dick when they want to be,’ Panzer says, grim-faced. ‘We can’t afford one loose word. No outsiders.’
Ructions coughs delicately. ‘Boss, don’t take this the wrong way—’
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘I’d prefer if—’
‘If Finbarr is shut out.’
Ructions winces. ‘Does he know about the job?’
Panzer lies. ‘No, he doesn’t. And if he did, would it matter?’
Ructions pretends to clean the face of his golf club with a cloth in order to avoid Panzer’s stare. ‘I think it would.’
‘Why? Why would it matter if I were to tell my son about the job? He’s a smart kid.’
‘I know that, but he’s unpredictable and we can’t afford unpredictability.’
‘I don’t accept this unpredictability bullshit,’ Panzer says. ‘You’ve a bee in your bonnet about Finbarr.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘I would.’
Ructions decides that, on this occasion, silence is better than confrontation.
Panzer sets a ball on top of a tee and lies again. ‘My son doesn’t know anything about the job and he won’t find out from me.’ He sweeps the horizon in front of him with his driver, addresses his ball and smashes it down the mountainside. ‘That’s more like it,’ he says.
The vital concession secured, Ructions knows to move on. ‘I swear to God,’ he says, ‘I’ve had sleepless nights going over the people I’d pick to do this heist. Who’d cover our backs if there’s a shoot-out? Who’d be blabbermouths in the cop shop? Who’d have the wit to keep their traps shut after the job, when the money’s in their pockets and the IRA starts beating the bush for answers? Never mind Finbarr. I don’t think we should involve any of our own boys in this.’
‘Not even Geek?’
‘Not even him.’ Ructions grimaces and, for emphasis, taps the air in front of him with his clenched fist. ‘What Geek and the rest of the boys don’t know, they can’t tell – even if they’re taken away and tortured by the paramilitaries – which is very possible.’
‘There’s a lot of sense in that.’
‘Panzer, I’ve put the deal to the farmers and they’ve accepted the terms – subject to your final approval, that is.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? You know, Ructions, my hands are so far into my pockets here, I can count the goosebumps on my balls.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a second. But the return will be phenomenal. We should be looking at tens of millions. Not only that, but what we don’t want is for the farmers to come away from this feeling like they’ve been cut up.’
‘If that’s the way it has to be. Who are the farmers?’
‘We’ve used them before: Kelly and McCann.’
‘Good choices.’
A police helicopter approaches and hovers about one hundred yards in front of them. A plain-clothes police photographer leans out of the helicopter and takes photographs of the two gangsters. Ructions puts down a golf ball and aims it at the helicopter. He misses. Both men turn their backs and bare their backsides. When they pull up their trousers and turn around, the police photographer gives them the one-finger salute.
THREE
A pink stretch limousine, with music blaring from in-car speakers, pulls up outside Robinson’s bar in Belfast’s city centre. A window comes smoothly down and a vortex of smoke spirals into the air.
A chauffeur opens the limousine door and helps a young lady in a white dress and wedding veil out of the vehicle. Tucked under her arm, the bride-to-be has a blow-up male doll with an enormous penis. Behind her, fourteen scary ‘schoolgirls’ in stilettos and loud make-up emerge from the limousine, their ages ranging from seventeen to sixty-four. The women form a conga line and sing and slither towards the doors of the bar, passing by Finbarr O’Hare, three bouncers and at least twenty smoking revellers.
Well-juiced and well-groomed in a blue Armani suit, a grinning Finbarr joins the end of the conga line, which penetrates the packed bar as a passage is made to an elevated, reserved area in a far corner. The schoolgirls take their seats. Some pull out make-up bags. Others look to see who they know in the bar. Finbarr
