32

The Traveller took a seat at the bar. There was plenty of choice; he was the only one here. Apart from the barman, Tom Mooney.

Mooney put down his newspaper. ‘How’re ya?’ he said, his head tilted, his eyes taking in every detail.

‘I’m grand,’ the Traveller said. He gave Mooney a wide smile.

‘That’s a bad-looking eye you’ve got there,’ Mooney said.

The Traveller’s fingers went to the heat above his cheek, stopped just short of touching the inflamed eyelid. ‘Infection,’ he said. ‘Stings like a fucker.’

‘You should see a doctor.’

‘Probably should. Probably won’t.’

Mooney stared for a second or two. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Pint of Smithwick’s,’ the Traveller said.

Mooney took a glass to the pump. The beer swirled cream and brown as it poured. He placed the drink on the bar. The Traveller put a ten next to it.

‘You’ve not been in here before,’ Mooney said as he wiped the bar with a damp cloth. ‘We get mostly regulars here, a pretty tight crowd. Not a lot of passers-by just drop in, if you know what I mean.’ He looked up. ‘Unless they’re after something, that is.’

The Traveller smiled. ‘Is that right?’

‘That’s right,’ Mooney said. He didn’t drop his gaze when the Traveller returned it. Bit of fight in him, by the look of his stance.

‘You think I’m after something?’

Mooney’s hands slipped beneath the bar counter, where the Traveller couldn’t see them. He wondered what the barman had under there. A baseball bat, most likely.

‘Yeah, I sort of got that notion,’ Mooney said. ‘Tell me straight what you want, and we’ll see how we go. I’ve had enough fucking about to do me for a right while, and I’m not in the mood for any more today. All right?’

The Traveller nodded. ‘All right. I’m looking for Patsy Toner. He drinks here sometimes.’

Mooney straightened. He tried to hide his surprise at the Traveller’s words, but failed. ‘He hasn’t been in here for a while.’

‘No? Where else does he drink?’

‘Different places,’ Mooney said.

‘There’s a lot of different places,’ the Traveller said.

‘This is the only place I pull pints in,’ Mooney said. ‘Can’t tell you much about anywhere else.’

The Traveller watched a thin film of perspiration form on Mooney’s forehead, the tensing of his forearms, the clenching of his jaw. ‘I’m not the only one’s been asking for him, am I?’

Mooney said nothing, just stared back.

‘Was it a cop?’ the Traveller asked.

‘Drink up,’ Mooney said. ‘Door’s over there.’

‘Big broad fella,’ the Traveller said, feeling a warm trickle down his cheek. ‘Sandy-coloured hair. Nice suit.’

Mooney grimaced. ‘Jesus, your eye.’

The Traveller pulled a tissue from the bundle in his jacket pocket. He mopped the wetness from his cheek. It left a mix of pale yellow and red on the paper. He sniffed and something cloying and tangy slipped down the back of his throat. ‘Give us some water, will you?’

Mooney hesitated, then filled a tumbler. The Traveller soaked a wad of tissue and dabbed his eye, wincing at the sting. The sodden paper came apart as he worked.

Mooney produced a bar towel from somewhere. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s clean.’

The Traveller dipped a corner of the towel into the water and again dabbed his eye. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Listen, you seem like a decent sort of a fella. You say you don’t know where Patsy Toner is, no problem. But tell me straight: was there a cop in here asking after him?’

‘Yeah,’ Mooney said. ‘And I told him as much as I told you. Fair enough?’

The Traveller folded the towel as he studied the barman. Working in a place like this, he wouldn’t, couldn’t tell the cops anything substantial, even if Patsy Toner should happen to turn up dead. He must have kept some fierce secrets in his time. ‘Fair enough,’ the Traveller said. He indicated the towel. ‘Can I have this?’

Mooney shrugged.

‘And I was never in here, and I never asked you anything about Patsy Toner, right?’

Mooney said, ‘Like I told that cop, I hear nothing, I see nothing. Now, you going to finish that pint or what?’

The Traveller was about to answer when his mobile rang. Instead, he said, ‘See you around.’

He left the bar and answered the phone as he walked to his car.

‘You made an awful bollocks of things last night,’ Orla O’Kane said.

‘He got—’

‘I’m not interested in why you made a bollocks of it, I just want to know what you’re going to do about it.’

The Traveller unlocked the Merc and got in. ‘I’m going to kill the hairy-lipped wee fucker, that’s what.’

‘Make sure you do it today,’ Orla said. ‘Things are moving along, now. There’ll be a development within the next forty-eight hours, and you better be ready to do the needful.’

‘What sort of development?’ the Traveller asked.

‘You’ll know soon enough. Now for Christ’s sake, sort Patsy Toner out. And just to make life a little easier for you, I’m going to tell you where to find him.’