Lenny touches a button on his phone, just so the screen blinks on and he can see the time. Bang on two o’clock. One hour left. He clicks into call history, brings up Gordon’s name and presses at it.
‘Ah for fuck sake,’ he says as he pushes at the glass doors of Independent House and walks out into the rain.
He stops, fidgets at his phone to recall Gordon, then looks up to the grey sky upon hearing the dead tone again.
‘Please tell me they haven’t taken him down to surgery already,’ he says to the clouds.
He stands in against the wall of a newsagents as if that’s going to protect him from the rain as he contemplates his next move. He knows he’s taking a taxi to Clontarf, but he needs to let Gordon know what’s going on. The whole point of finding out something new is so he can secure the million euro house. He tries calling one more time. Same frustration – dead tone.
He places the phone back inside his jacket pocket, zips it up and then paces towards Amien Street in search of a taxi. He bounces shoulders with one young woman, holds a hand up in apology as he walks away, then slaloms through two umbrellas coming towards his face.
‘Ah for crying out loud,’ he yells out as a woman stops in front of him, causing him to walk around her. The woman stares at him, shock at his over-the-top outburst evident on her face. Lenny doesn’t react, doesn’t apologise. He just continues to walk at a swift pace, head down, sheltering his face from the rain.
His mood has changed swiftly in the past three minutes. He had ran down the three flights of stairs of Independent House feeling elated at the thought of giving Gordon something new in the investigation. But now his blood was slowly coming to the boil; the thought he may never be able to communicate this news with Gordon settling in his mind as a high probability. He can’t bear the thought of being that close to earning a million quid and losing it all.
‘Taxi,’ Lenny shouts out, holding his hand up as if he just leaped off a pavement in New York City. A silver Ford Focus screeches to a stop and Lenny – his clothes soaked right through, his woollen Sherpa hat heavy on his head – jumps in.
‘Head for the Clontarf Road,’ he says.
The taxi man eyeballs Lenny in the rear-view mirror as he resets his meter, then pulls out and sets off.
Lenny removes his hat, unzips his puffer jacket to allow him space to breathe, then lays his head back on the rest. He chews on his bottom lip, stewing. Blinks his eyes rapidly, stewing. Then brings the phone to his mouth and begins to chew on the butt of the cover, stewing. He remains in the same position, head back, as the taxi man finally drives out of the city centre and towards the coastal road.
‘What’s the number when you don’t know a number,’ Lenny says, shooting himself back into an upright seating position.
‘Huh?’ the taxi man says.
‘Y’know when you don’t know a phone number and there’s a number you can ring that’ll give it to you?’
‘Jaysus,’ says the taxi man. ‘Who uses that shite anymore, sure can’t you just search for any number on your phone?’
‘Don’t have Wi-Fi on this,’ Lenny says shaking his mobile in the air. Then he leans forward. ‘Can I eh… any chance you’d give me a loan of your phone for a minute? Need to get the number for Tallaght Hospital.’
The taxi man eyeballs his passenger in the rear-view mirror again, then removes his phone from the cradle and hands it back. As soon as Lenny has the phone in his hand, the sound of the doors locking sounds out.
‘You’re a star, thank you.’
Lenny scrolls through the phone, into the internet browser and types ‘Tallaght Hospital’ into the search bar.
The hospital’s information flashes up straight away; address, phone number, fax number, an About Us page, visitor information.
‘Gotta get me one of these,’ Lenny whispers to himself. Then he picks up his own phone and begins to punch in the number.
As he’s handing the phone back over the shoulder of the taxi man a friendly voice answers his call.
‘Tallaght Hospital, how may I help you?’
Lenny double taps the bicep of the taxi man after handing back the phone, his way of thanking him.
‘Yeah, I eh… I need to speak with a patient please. A Gordon Blake. He was taken in last night, has to have heart surgery today and eh… yeah, can I speak to him?’
‘Sir, patients don’t have phones in their rooms.’
Lenny falls silent, then blinks rapidly.
‘How can I get a message to him?’ he asks.
‘Let me see… do you know what ward he’s in?’
‘Floor three eh… what is it, oh yeah – St Bernard’s Ward.’
‘Hold on one moment, Sir.’
Lenny clenches his fist, gives the air a little jab as the sound of elevator music pierces down the line. He stares out the window as he waits, taking in the greyness of the day. The taxi is splashing up rain spray, pedestrians are wobbling around with either umbrellas held high or hoods clenched tight. He begins to whistle along to the elevator music, his mood suddenly shifting. He’s certain Gordon doesn’t know that Guus Meyer was another suspect in Betsy’s disappearance; feels confident that this information is enough to trigger the will he had been shown back at the hospital. He begins to imagine Sally’s face when he finally tells her they have the keys to a new million euro gaff. Then he sits upright, chuffed with himself for picturing his wife smiling for the first time in God knows how long. He offers the air an uppercut this time, not just a jab, then beams a huge smile of his own, stretching it right across his face.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, nobody seems to be answering up at St Bernard’s Ward. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
Lenny lies back in the chair, his smile disappearing.
‘I need to get a message to Gordon Blake, can you deliver it for me?’
The man on the other end of the line offers a subtle laugh.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, but there is no way I would be able to do such a thing; the front desk here at the hospital is constantly busy. I can eh… can keep trying St Bernard’s Ward for you… I do know the staff up there are extremely busy, but when a nurse finally sits at the nurses’ station they will answer.’
‘Yeah, yeah… keep trying,’ Lenny says, bowing forward out of frustration, his head hanging through the gap between his knees.
The elevator music sounds again and Lenny lets out a deep sigh.
‘Rough day?’ the taxi man asks. Lenny looks up, meets the eye of his driver through the rear-view mirror.
‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘Odd is the word I’d use for it. Could turn out to be rough, could turn out to be one of the best days of my life.’
The taxi man creases his brow in confusion.
‘How’s that then?’ he asks, tilting his head.
‘Putting you through now, Sir,’ the man on the other end of the line says. Lenny raises his index finger, holding it up for the driver to signal that he will return an answer in time.
‘St Bernard’s Ward,’ a woman says.
‘Hey, I’m looking to speak to a patient there – a Mr Gordon Blake. I’m a eh… an associate… a friend of his.’
‘We don’t have phones in the rooms themselves, I’m afraid. But if you are looking for updates on Mr Blake’s health, I can see if I can find his nurse – Elaine Reddy – to speak to you about his current condition.’
Lenny sits up straight in the back seat, reaches a calming thumb to massage his temple.
‘He hasn’t gone down for his surgeries yet, has he? Please don’t tell me they’ve taken him down.’
‘No… not yet. But soon. I think he’s due to go down at three p.m. Again, Elaine would be the one to give you all of the details of Mr Bl—’
‘Can you please enter his room, let him know Lenny Moon is on the line for him and that I’d like him to call me back on his mobile as soon as possible. Tell him I have news for him.’
‘Eh… hold on one minute.’
There’s no elevator music this time. No sound at all except for distant murmurs of a functioning hospital; muffled footsteps down hollow corridors, the odd beep.
He looks back up at the taxi man while he waits.
‘I’m eh… I’m holding out for news on a house,’ he says. ‘I’ve either got it or I haven’t… Still hasn’t been made clear to me.’
The taxi man’s brow creases again. He looks totally miffed.
‘It’s kinda complicated,’ Lenny says, his attempt at straightening his driver’s brow lines. He knows how ridiculous that sounds, especially as the taxi man is well aware that he is on hold at a hospital. Lenny turns his face, stares out at the greyness of Dublin again. He takes in the big terraced Victorian houses on the Fairview Road, imagines the faces of the happy families that must live in such comfort within them.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, but Mr Blake said he’s not able to make or take any more phone calls today, he’s preparing himself for surgery,’ the woman’s voice says down the line.
Lenny feels his heart pinch a little. He hangs his mouth open, then folds himself right over – his head hanging well below his knees this time.
‘Fuck sake!’ he yells.