Smithy tried to calm his nerves as he followed Luke out of the lift. He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans. He was useful. That was him, all right. And he would be now. Let Luke do the charm and he would do the trick.
He could see the glass door and partition at the end of the hall, the company logo and Balor’s title inscribed on the door. They made their way down the hall, Smithy noting the doors on either side. Offices? Meeting rooms? Toilets? All were locked, so who knew. He’d never had any desire to be a part of this kind of world, so his ignorance showed with a big “I haven’t a clue”.
They opened the outer door of Balor’s office and a lounge area greeted them, with the PA’s desk just around the corner, the edge of it in sight. Beyond that lay another glass door which presumably was Balor’s private office. Smithy motioned to Luke that he would linger in the lounge area, out of sight of the PA, while Luke did his “Jack the lad”.
Luke sauntered on ahead, his demeanour changing, the lazy, slouchy, persona appearing and Smithy nearly laughed with it all – could almost see the board shorts, the sun bleached shaggy hair, the leather bracelet filled wrists that were in truth gone except for one. He was once again the person in that photo he’d taken from Luke’s house of him and Mon, two dudes catching waves.
That dude approached the PA, asked her name and began the chat. The banter. She was older than the receptionist downstairs. Smithy didn’t have to see the woman to conclude that. He could hear it in her voice, her manner and her words. Professional, but with a touch of the friendly that increased once Luke told her he was Balor’s nephew. Nephew. Ha. Smithy supposed he would put what distance he could from Balor and still have some impact. And nephew Luke certainly was getting somewhere. Nephew Luke was having her check his schedule. He was asking her if he could stay here and do a little work handling fan mail, while he waited for his fellow “band members” to finish sorting the car rental for their next gig. It was a slick pitch and Smithy found space to admire this lad, your man. He was such a lad, all get and go go. Though a sense of wariness still lingered in Smithy, because charm was charm and could be used on anyone, in any situation, with such a one.
The PA (now Nancy to Luke), woven into the fabric of Luke’s story, a story that became more musician than surfer, the wave taking him to that story, where a band member was writing lyrics and she became the centre of songs after a “did you know” that took him through several old ballads that had fair haired and blue-eyed Nancy at their centre. That same Nancy offered him a cup of coffee, a muffin and the use of Balor’s office and your man with the proper bashful refusal, eventually agreed. Smithy finally was able to put Nancy’s name to her face when she walked through the lounge and out the door and found that blond meant, dirty blond and blue eyes were hard to see behind the glasses, but a neat trim figure in a suit gave the poet some credence. It was a brief glimpse only, because he was tucked in an alcove and once she’d disappeared through the door he was at the entrance to Balor’s private office. Luke was already inside, scanning the room.
“You were determined to have no use of me,” said Smithy in a low, joking voice.
“Ah, you know. Your one was easy enough.”
“You just got lucky with her.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. Still, with two of us, we can make fast work of it.”
Smithy shrugged and made his way to the window, besides which a locked press stood. It was modern in design with pale blond wood that matched the press on the other side of the window. Beside this press was a low long drinks table which contained bottles of Jameson’s and other specialty brand whiskeys from Ireland, as well as a few other types of spirits, and some Waterford crystal glasses. Smithy focused on the locked press and drew out his tools, working quickly. The press opened. There was nothing of interest at first glance. Some local artefacts that looked like arrow heads, a clay pot, some silver jewellery. Did Balor have an interest in Native American culture?
He closed the press and relocked it when he could find nothing else of interest. Luke was going through the rest of the room, which mainly comprised plush chairs, a sofa, bookcase and a desk. The desk, though modern, had a few drawers and that’s where Luke focused his attention. Smithy turned to the other press and made quick work of the lock. Once opened he reached for the files that were piled there, wondering if any of them would shed a clue on the location of the spear and slingshot. He flicked through them quickly, noticing once again that Native Americans were the subject. He saw “Osage” on one of the labels and “oil licences”, “wind turbines” on the other two. Looking inside, he found photocopies of wills, deeds, and photos of people and places. It looked strange and wrong and something in Smithy made him lay these files down and quickly take photos of the first few pages of each with his phone. He glanced at Luke. He was working on the computer, quickly reviewing its contents.
“Anything?” Smithy asked as he shoved the files back in the press.
Luke shook his head. “Not really. Except I have a better idea of the security system at his house. He has the contract and specs on here.” With a shake of his head, he tapped on the keyboard a bit longer, slammed down the lid and nodded to Smithy. “If there’s nothing more, you should go before she gets back.”
Smithy nodded, gave the room one last glance before he slipped out and made his way through the outer door and headed towards the stairwell, out of sight from Nancy when she returned. He sat on the steps, waiting for Luke, took out his phone, pulled up the photos and began to study them. There were private emails, old ones and then some notations on the side. He would bet they were Balor’s notations. He studied the documents more closely. It took him a little while to piece together what he was reading. They were fragments of a story. A story that was dark and evil. A story perfect for Balor. Nothing like a seanchie tale, here. There was no hero that fought battles, no little laugh, or twist or nod to the justice of someone’s downfall. This was dark. Dark like famine, dark like greed, dark like murder with no consequence.
The darkness made Smithy look up, take a breath, a breath so deep it made him wonder that he had the lungs to manage it. Holy feck and then some. But what to do with this knowledge? It gave him more reasons to want to kill Balor. But was that enough? He sighed and put his phone away. He would have to think on it. Because now that he found he’d been useful, he wanted that usefulness to matter more than just being a lock pick.