Annie didn’t reckon. The very idea of having him in the same house, sleeping, living, was bad enough. Having him in the adjoining room – that would be torment.
‘Suit yourself. Goodnight,’ she said with as much dignity as she could manage, and she tore out the door and up the stairs, not looking back. Not once.
Next day, the Carter and Barolli boys returned mob-handed to Partyland. There were twinkling lights that flickered and Mexican-waved like a mini Vegas all along the front of the place. Boy George’s ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’ was blasting from the speakers – an appropriate choice, given the circumstances. There were big brightly lit clown cut-outs all over the place, vividly coloured bumper cars in a smooth-surfaced little pen, polished and ready for the day’s entertainments. And cowering in the midst of them was a terrified manager who went the colour of putty when he saw the big men striding in. The only other employee was a teenage girl, doling out change to the kiddies from a booth. No evidence of Rufus Malone, anywhere.
The boys emptied the place of punters, gave a mouthy dad a warning slap, then took their baseball bats to the machines, pushing the gaily coloured money-guzzlers over like so many heavyweight dominoes, smashing the glass cases, until all the pops and whistles and toots and flashing lights fell silent and dark and were finally dead. Suddenly Partyland didn’t look much fun any more.
After the job was accomplished, Steve and Jackie drew the manager to one side. He was quivering with fear. Jackie was blowing cigar smoke in his face, turning him a sickly shade of green. Steve loomed over him, a wall of solid muscle, his face an implacable mask.
‘You see Rufus Malone around here,’ said Steve, tucking a small scrap of paper into the manager’s shirt pocket, ‘you phone me. Got that?’
The man nodded, apparently unable to speak.
Steve patted his cheek. ‘Good,’ he said, and the boys left.
Rufus was starting to wonder what had happened to Dickon. A couple of days ago he’d vanished; no one had seen him in any of the crappy pubs he usually hung around in. But no matter. He’d seen all the men heading out and he’d got word that Partyland had been smashed up. Good job he’d fed that lie to Benny, thrown them off the scent. All those years of ducking and diving and dodging Big Don Callaghan had taught him everything there was to know about covering his tracks.
Thankfully, Big Don seemed to have given up trying to find him. Not because he’d finally accepted that Rufus hadn’t intended that Pikey should fry that way. No, according to Rufus’s contacts back in Ireland, the old man had forgotten about trying to avenge his nephew because he had bigger troubles to contend with. The big C – pancreatic, terminal. So instead of hounding Rufus to death he was preparing for his own demise. Too bad the bastard hadn’t kicked the bucket years ago, before he dragged Rory into all this.