Now, I admit women are the stronger sex and the nail-polish comment is something a sexist prig might say. But a lad’s got to say what a lad’s got to say to get these shite-for-brains talking.
And they do.
“Lowballed her during negotiations and tried to rob her blind.”
“That arrogant Irish fuck ignored the signed agreement they’d made. Tore the paper up in Mrs. O’s face then tossed it in the air.”
I snort. “Throwing shapes, was he?” I imagine O’Brien, red-faced and breathing fire, getting his jollies from taking the piss out of Mrs. Ogdenhayer.
“I gather this is about revenge.”
They don’t say anything. Answer enough, which I seize on. “Vindictive, is she?”
“Very. Mr. Ogdenhayer would never tolerate this petty bullshit.”
“And he’s home in . . . Cape Town?” I ask, guessing wildly at where Hayden might be able to find this lovely couple and their nefarious business.
“Yeah.”
I grin. Africa’s a huge continent, South Africa an enormous country. Cape Town might be a large city, but Hayden will still be pleased our search has narrowed.
I decide to throw them a bone then deal with the repercussions later. “Tell her an order is an order.”
Reenter the fight scene. Earn O’Brien’s interest. Get rid of the reporter. Yeah, orders are orders, but some take priority over others.
“Told you he’d do it.”
“Good call,” says the bloke whose been beating on me. He pats the envelope pressed against me stomach. “Tit for tat, right?”
Now it might be the drink or the enlightening news about Cape Town, or it might be the devil inside, but, whatever it is, it doesn’t stop me from slamming my fist into the gobshite sitting next to me kidney.
He folds over clutching his side.
I shove the other man out of me way and exit the car.
“Tit for tat, right. Be seeing you around, fellas.”
Blood burns me eyes from Vidal’s savage assault.
The minx would be horrified. Another blessing she’s on the sunny side of England by now.
Whack. Whack.
O’Brien asked for a show. O’Brien got it.
And I’m getting what I deserve.
Five. Whack. Four. Thump. Three. Two. Bugger me blind.
Bell.
I glare at Vidal through a veil of red. The bastard’s grinning, so feckin’ confident. Blissfully unaware of the danger staring him down. I shake me head like a dog, sending fluids everywhere.
He jumps back, cursing like the amateur gobshite he is.
I walk away as the ten-minute intermission begins. Everyone but O’Brien’s men are lined up at the betting table. Irish or not, bets are changing in favor of the South African. Country before money in the ol’ pocket? Not a bleedin’ chance with these disloyal wankers.
If they’d only stop long enough to take a gander at the smug faces around them. The South Africans. O’Brien’s men.
If they linger long enough after the fight, they’ll see half of those same smug faces drop.
Even a crafty fella like yours truly can’t win and lose a fight.
I’m handed a white towel to wipe me face. A bottle of water to quench me thirst. A pat on the ol’ back for a job done well. Do I feel a profound sense of accomplishment? The sweet swell of victory feeding me ego?
Feck no. I’m hungover and bloody miserable. Missing me partner in crime, me beour.
Jaysus. Not even a savage beating can out-hurt me aching heart. I’m struggling with making amends—a plan already in play—because, if I have to let her go, I’m hell-bent on leaving the minx with something.
I search the room for Fiona, who’s unknowingly helping me with this poor arse idea. The boss won’t be so understanding, if he ever figures out what I’m doing.
Right now, he’s pleased as punch with me. The information about Cape Town has that mind of his fast-forwarding to the next steps of the game—locating the supplier then eliminating him.
Or her—Mrs. Ogdenhayer won’t be spared.
In a few days, I’ll be far away from this scene and this country.
Lorries will be arriving at the warehouse during the next three days. The boss says O’Brien is worried the bribes paid to the garda won’t silence the rumors of mob shenanigans, especially when lorries begin arriving from other parts of Ireland. He gave the buyers an ultimatum, get in and out quickly or don’t come at all.
O’Brien’s like a dog rounding up sheep, baring his teeth and barking orders. Neatly gathering the bleating and baaing herd, oblivious to the wolf, Hayden, in the pen.
My eyes connect with the South African from last night. He nods, reminding me I best prepare an exit plan or I’ll be missing