Never underestimate the ego of a self-published poet. Boogie Wilson, brigadier general of the Ulster Volunteer Force, safe in his east Belfast stronghold, couldn’t resist the temptation to travel outside his comfort zone to read at a poetry slam event held upstairs in the Errigle Inn on the Ormeau Road with not a bodyguard in sight.
Boogie was one of dozens of poets who stepped up to the mike. Success at a slam has more to do with performance, projection and personality than actual content, and at this at least, Boogie Wilson was an old hand. He was well used to addressing large groups of people, although they generally wore balaclavas. By all accounts, he went down extremely well, although to be fair, who was going to heckle a man with such easy access to death and destruction? Afterwards, he stood his round and talked iambic pentameter with the other poets. When he was leaving at the end of the night, slightly tipsy but elated, someone stepped up to him and blew his head off. Those critics, they’re lethal.
Maxi McDowell was still laughing about it when he ambled into the Singing Kettle. He sat down and poured himself a cup of tea from the waiting pot. We didn’t have to regurgitate the facts. It was sufficient for me to say, ‘Any wild guesses?’
‘The Millers were at the movies,’ said Maxi. ‘They have stubs.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Something like that. The stupid, stupid bastard should have known better.’
‘So is this a coup?’
‘Could be. What’d you call that . . . y’know . . . when Hitler took out all his enemies?’
‘The Night of the Long Knives.’
‘That’s it. They might want to be taking out every rival while they’re at it, or they might be working the phones, see where people are going to stand. Either way, you’re not going to be their major concern.’
‘Well that must be good.’
Maxi raised his cup and sipped. He made a face and added more sugar. ‘Thing is, I’ve known them since they were wee lads; shit, I was kicking their dad up the arse when he was a wee lad’n all. So I don’t doubt I can get you in to see them, get you in safe and out safe, but with everything on their plate, they’re not going to give you much time.’
Maxi was a big guy, with a corrugated forehead. He had that older-man thing of appearing to struggle for breath.
I said, ‘I appreciate you coming alone.’
‘You don’t like him much, do you?’
‘It’s not him so much as his boss, Springer.’
‘Springer? How do you know him?’
‘They came to see me at my office.’
‘About what?’
‘Bobby Murray.’
Maxi nodded to himself. ‘He didn’t tell me that. Not that he has to. What’d you make of Springer?’
‘He was doing the bad-cop thing.’
‘Yeah, that would be him. Don’t know him well, don’t want to. Bit of a cold fish. What’d you tell him?’
‘As much as I’ve told you.’
‘That much?’ Maxi smiled. ‘So he tried to turn the screws.’
‘Sticks and stones.’
‘Yeah, I think you’ll find he’s only getting started.’ Maxi set the cup down, and slowly turned the saucer. ‘They’re very keen to get your boy.’
‘They were trying to say he might have set the fire himself. That’s shite, right?’
‘It’s not impossible, Dan. Do you know where he is?’ I stirred my Coke. The ice clinked. ‘Okay, fair enough.’
‘I’m just trying to sort it out.’
‘His family paying you?’
‘Nope.’
‘What do they call that in America, when you do something for nothing, like a public service? Bleeding heart, is it?’
‘I think you mean pro bono.’
‘Really?’ He smiled. ‘Dan. What are you really up to?’
‘What I say. Just trying to help the wee lad out.’
‘It’s your call, but if you really want to help him, help him out of the country, because this place is all fucked up.’ He pushed his cup into the centre of the table. He raised his hand and rubbed two fingers together for the waitress to bring the bill. ‘God knows, I’ll be glad to be out of it.’
‘How long now?’
‘Hours rather than days.’
‘You’ll miss this place.’
‘Like a hole in the head.’ He laughed. ‘Yeah.’ And then he looked almost wistful. ‘There are good people on the Shankill. They just don’t get much of a chance to blossom.’
‘Because of the Millers.’
‘There have always been Millers.’ He glanced up at the waitress, puzzling over the correct change, and then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘Dan,’ he said, ‘Jack Caramac is right, of course he is, it’s obvious to anyone with half their head screwed on. We go softly, softly so the war won’t start again. It’s policy, from on high. But this much I know: those Millers, they don’t give two figs about politics or religion; they care about their own power and they care about money. If you rip them off, if you challenge them, they will put you down. They were evil kids, and they haven’t changed. Bobby Murray is just another fly caught in their web; don’t you get stuck there with him, because the Millers will devour you too. If I can’t talk you out of it, then fair enough, I’ll get you in to see them. But don’t go appealing to their better nature. They don’t have one. If you go in, go in with something they value, or don’t go in at all.’