Lenny’s bottom lip hangs out, his eyes wide. He assumed Keating would intimidatingly tower over him. But here he was, standing two feet from Ireland’s most notorious gangster; Keating’s nose at Lenny’s nose’s height. And Lenny’s only five foot seven.
Keating’s infamy has painted him as a bigger presence than he actually is. In fact, Keating – in the flesh – reminds Lenny of his late uncle Arthur. And Arthur was the most gentle of souls Lenny had ever known. Keating doesn’t look like a gangster at all; not with the cute little side parting in his thinning hair and his bulbous purpling nose. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt with grey trousers that are pulled up way too high over the waist; above his belly button. Ol’ uncle Arthur used to do the exact same thing. Most men in the later years of life do; they lose their hips and their trousers don’t have much to cling on to, so the roundest part of the gut has to do.
‘I’m eh…’ Lenny hesitates, his eyes blinking. ‘I’m Lenny Moon. Private Investigator.’
Keating’s eyebrows arch, then he breaks out a little smile. Or is it a grin? Lenny’s unsure. He’s watched a lot of gangster movies over the years; is a big fan of Guy Ritchie flicks and knows gangsters mostly smiled when they were being menacing. Yet Keating didn’t look menacing. He just looked like good ol’ uncle Arthur. Harmless.
Keating doesn’t speak. He just keeps the grin on his face; inviting Lenny to continue talking. The rain’s falling heavily now, but Keating’s certainly not offering Lenny the chance to stand inside his doorway.
‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Betsy Blake.’
Keating laughs. Then stares at Lenny, still not saying anything; still waiting to learn why this weird looking fella with the kiddish Sherpa hat and God-awful yellow jacket has had the audacity to ring this doorbell.
Lenny jumps backwards as the roaring barks of Keating’s dogs echo from behind their owner. They both sound as if they’re eager to get outside, eager to confront Lenny on their owner’s behalf. Lenny glances down, sees one of them through Keating’s legs; foam dripping from its mouth.
Keating stays still; doesn’t even blink at the sound of the barking. He just stares straight ahead, eyeballing Lenny and welcoming him to keep talking.
‘I eh… have been hired by Gordon Blake to eh… to see if… are they Rottweilers?’
Keating nods his head, squats down to his hunkers, grabs each dog by the collar.
‘This is Bernie,’ he says, speaking for the first time. ‘And this one here, this is Barbara.’
Being held by their owner hasn’t calmed Bernie and Barbara down; they’re still barking, still foaming at the mouth.
Lenny holds the tips of his fingers to Keating’s car as he stands back, anticipating he may have to leap upon it should one of the Rottweilers break free from their owner’s grasp.
‘Get your fuckin’ hand off my car,’ Keating snaps, standing back up.
Lenny swipes his hand away, places it inside the pocket of his puffer jacket and then stands still, as if he’s frozen. Keating yells ‘release’ and the dogs shut up barking, swivel and go back down the hallway.
Lenny gulps, then almost mouths a ‘thank you’ to Keating, such is his relief.
Keating steps outside, the heavy rain not a bother to him.
‘Betsy Blake… you were saying…’
Lenny gulps again, then holds a blink closed for a few seconds, taking the time to remind himself that he should grow some balls, man the fuck up, be an investigator.
‘Gordon Blake is dying. Could be dead by the evening. He’s in Tallaght Hospital right now. He’s hired me as his last chance to find out what happened to his daughter.’
‘Shit. Poor ol’ Gordy. What’s wrong with him?’ Keating says, looking genuinely concerned.
‘Heart problems. He has to have emergency surgery this afternoon at three o’clock. Doctors are only giving him a fifty per cent chance of making it through.’
Keating bites his bottom lip, shakes his head.
‘He’s only young. Must be twenty years younger than me… What’s he – fifty?’
‘I’m not entirely sure of Gordon’s age, Alan. But—’
‘The poor fucker.’
Keating seems ashen-faced by the news Lenny has just shared with him, even though he hasn’t worked with Gordon Blake for seventeen years – not since Betsy went missing.
‘As an associate of Gordon’s at the time of Betsy’s disappearance, I wouldn’t mind asking you some questions, Alan.’
Keating looks behind him, stares at his door as if that was going to remind him of what happened when Betsy Blake disappeared.
‘Gis a sec,’ he says, before pushing at the door and walking back inside.
Lenny’s eyes flick from left to right, his pulse quickening. He holds his blink closed again, reminding himself that he is an investigator; that there is no need for him to be intimidated; that he’s only doing his job. But he’s finding it difficult to convince himself. He leaps when a high-pitch beep sounds behind him; the lights of Keating’s Merc flashing on, then off.
‘Get in,’ Keating says, walking back out the door and banging it shut behind him.
Lenny turns, stares down the row of houses, contemplating whether or not he needs this job, whether or not it’s all worth it. He blinks repeatedly again, for so long that Keating is already inside the car before he has re-adjusted his eyes. Then he grabs at the handle of the passenger door and pulls it wide open. As soon as he gets in, he removes his hat. He stares at it, realises immediately what Keating must have been thinking when he saw him; that he looks like a kid with this blue and black chequered tartan piece of shit atop his head. It has the same pattern of an eighties’ Christmas jumper. It’s okay for going incognito to spy on unsuspecting insurance claimants, but not ideal for confronting the country’s biggest criminals.
‘I don’t deal with pigs,’ Keating says, taking Lenny’s gaze away from his hat.
It takes a couple of seconds for Lenny to realise what Keating’s saying.
‘Oh no; I’m not a cop. I’m—’
‘You’re investigating, aren’t you? You’re questioning me over the disappearance of a little girl, right?’ Keating sniffs sharply in through his nose three times. ‘Well that means I smell bacon.’
‘Alan – I’m not investigating you. I’m just… it’s just… you were a close associate of Gordon Blake at the time of Betsy’s disappearance and I’d just like to ask you if you were aware of anything out of the ordinary that was happening in or around the Blake family in 2002. Anything at all. Lenny has asked me to beg you – it’s his last chance.’ Lenny says all of this so quickly that his intimidation is blatantly obvious.
‘Lenny Moon, that your name, yeah?’
Lenny nods.
‘Well, Lenny Moon. Let me finish this investigation for you in the next two seconds, huh? Betsy Blake is dead. She was hit by a car and whoever hit her with the car disposed of her body.’
Lenny coughs into his hand. Clears his throat. He doesn’t want to sound intimidated, doesn’t want his voice to crack.
‘Gordon Blake doesn’t believe the findings of the Gardaí. He’s certain somebody kidnapped his daughter,’ he says, slowing down his pace.
‘Lemme guess… he thinks Barry Ward kidnapped his daughter on my orders?’
Lenny coughs again. Then blinks; not one long blink, repeated blinks, as if he’s readjusting his eyes to a bright light. He’d love nothing more than to chew on the rubber case of his mobile phone right now, but is already aware he has come across as inexperienced to Alan Keating in the four minutes they’ve been talking.
‘This isn’t news to me,’ Keating says before Lenny has a chance to reply. ‘Sure that’s what he told the cops in 2002. And sure poor ol’ Gordy has even been hanging around outside Barry’s house over the years; as if one day Barry’s gonna walk out holding his daughter’s hand. He’s a brave man, doing that to Barry. But Barry doesn’t mind. Neither of us do. We feel sorry for Gordy.’ Keating uses his hands as he talks; it’s another reminder to Lenny of ol’ uncle Arthur. But he shakes his head of his thoughts, tunes backs into Keating’s words. ‘Listen, Lenny Moon; there are two truths you need to face up to. One; Betsy Blake is dead. And two; Gordon Blake is as deluded as a flat-earther. He went mad. Listen, it’s understandable,’ Keating says, shifting in his seat to face Lenny. ‘I’ve two daughters. If one of them was killed and I never got answers, I’d go fuckin mental meself.’
Lenny shifts in his seat too, mirroring exactly what Keating had done moments prior, but not to talk, just to listen.
‘I liked Gordon Blake. As I said, I feel sorry for him. Always have. In fact, I sent my lads out to help look for Betsy. We put sounders out, came back with nothing. I tried to help Gordy. My heart has always gone out to him and his wife. It’s the only reason I’m sitting here talking to you now. Otherwise, any fuckin pig knocks on my door, I don’t hold the dogs back, ye get me?’
Lenny nods. Then he blinks again, repeatedly, until he finds – somewhere deep within his blinking – an ounce of courage.
‘It’s just Gordon insists you threatened him just before Betsy went miss… he said you guys fell out.’
Keating laughs. Again, Lenny isn’t sure if it’s a sinister laugh or whether or not he actually found what was said funny.
‘What did he say exactly?’ Keating grunts as the rain falls heavier on the car.
Lenny allows a silent exhale to seep through his nose.
‘Nothing much. Just that you were pushing him to do things with the money he was handling for you. And when he refused, you held him up against a wall; told him he shouldn’t be fucking with you.’
Keating laughs again.
‘That’s not how I threaten people, Lenny Moon,’ Keating says, the laughter disappearing from his face abruptly. ‘That’s just how I deal with people who work for me. I just wanted to get as much out of Gordy as I could. And I did. He was great for me. Y’know… I actually haven’t had somebody cook my books quite like him ever since I lost him.’
Lenny nods at Keating, then forces his lips into a sterile smile.
‘Thank you for your time, Alan. I eh…’
‘Ah don’t go. Is that it? You come knockin’ on my door telling me ol’ Gordy Blake is on death’s door and desperately wants to find out what happened to his daughter before he dies and now… and now, what, you’re just leaving me?’
Keating stretches his finger towards his door, clicks a button. Lenny instantly feels panicked at the sound of all car doors locking simultaneously. He reels back in the passenger seat, holding his hands up as if he’s being robbed at gunpoint; the strings of the Sherpa hat he’s holding dangling over his face.
‘Alan, I don’t know anything more than you do at this—’
‘What did Gordy Blake say about me; tell me!’ Keating says, the creases on his forehead wedging deeper, the tone of his voice demanding. It’s striking to Lenny just how instantaneously ol’ uncle Arthur can turn into Scarface and vice versa.
Lenny’s breaths grow sharp, not just with fright, but with uncertainty. He doesn’t know what to tell Keating, doesn’t know how he’s going to get himself out of this situation.
‘I only spoke to Gordon for five minutes. He rushed me out of his ward… told me to get on with the investigation. To do what I could in the few hours he has left. He gave me a thousand quid up front, told me if I found anything new – anything he hadn’t heard before – that he’d leave me his house in his will.’
Keating relaxes his brow, but his eyes still burn through Lenny.
‘His house?’ He clenches his jaw as he says it. Then continues. ‘He musta said more than that. Why are you here? He obviously told you to pay me a visit.’
‘He… he… gave me a list. A list of people he suspected might’ve had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance.’
Keating sits back in his chair, rests both his hands on the steering wheel, then laughs to himself. Lenny sits upright too, just to stare through the windscreen at the image of the houses blurred by the rain. He’s well aware of Keating in his peripheral vision, anticipating any movement. Then it comes. Movement. Keating holds his hand out, palm up. Lenny gulps, then reaches inside his jacket pocket and takes out the note. Keating eyeballs Lenny as he places the paper atop his palm and then, almost in slow motion, he holds it up in front of him and begins to read; his laugh growing louder as each second passes.
He crumples the note up and throws it back at Lenny.
‘I’ve been called worse,’ says Keating. Then he turns his key in the ignition and rolls the car out of his driveway and down the street past Lenny’s little Micra.
‘Where we going?’ Lenny asks, not bothering to hide the fear in his voice.
‘Do you believe everything I said to you, Lenny Moon?’
Lenny nods his head. ‘Yes, yes, Alan – everything. I believe you. I don’t think you had anything to do with Betsy Blake’s disappearance.’
‘Good. Then you can scratch me off the list.’ Keating drives under the archway, back out of his estate and turns left at the roundabout. ‘So open up your note again there, Lenny Moon.’
Lenny picks the note up from his lap, uncrumples the paper and then stares back at Keating.
‘Who’s the next name on the list?’
‘Eh… Barry. Barry Ward.’
Keating turns to Lenny, winks.
‘Good – let’s go have a word with him then, shall we?’