Little Criminals by Gene Kerrigan Page A

now, and grabbing your share and a bit of the other fella’s.’
    People had become more efficient at getting revved up. A few pints, maybe into the jacks to do a couple of lines, then another few pints and everything’s faster, louder, closer to the edge. For the detectives at Turner’s Lane, there was increased business in the form of black-and-blue women, tanked-up kids driving cars into walls, and young men determined to assert their individuality by kicking the shite out of anyone who looked crooked at them.
    The case now being adjudicated in the Circuit Criminal Court was the kind that in the old days would have been marked down as an assault causing bodily harm. These days, that kind of thing often developed into a homicide, with consequent long hours of boredom for gardai waiting for a jury to come back.
    Facing a long stretch in the Joy, Mr Big Shot was fighting the charge, just on the off chance that his mouthpieces could bring off a miracle. His defence – that he was merely protecting himself against an unprovoked attack – might have stood up if most of his punches hadn’t been delivered when the victim was unconscious.
    Dolores’s husband, one of the nicest, most obliging junkies in the North Strand, went down in one of the Aids waves that culled the city’s heroin addicts. Her boyfriend, the argumentative Mr Big Shot, was also HIV positive, as was Dolores’s aggressive brother and his girlfriend and their eldest daughter, aged six. Dolores and her two kids had escaped the virus. To John Grace, Dolores might be technically a habitual criminal but in truth she was a decent sort who did her best with one of the few income-producing options open to her. To add to her shoplifting revenue, she occasionally earned some extra money selling information to the police.
    The young garda came back for another bite at Dolores. He said something about public decency.
    ‘Christ,’ Nicky Bonner sighed, and hauled himself up to his considerable height. He crossed to the young policeman, hands in the trouser pockets of his grey suit, looking every inch the nightclub bouncer he’d been when he needed to boost his wages during his early years on the force. He smiled as he approached the skinny young garda and took the paragon of law and order by one elbow. Nicky leaned over and said something in his ear, then turned, nodded to Dolores and walked back towards his seat. The young garda stood there for a few seconds, his face flushed. He looked over towards John Grace, then he ostentatiously looked at his watch and quickly headed down the corridor towards the jacks.
    Sitting back down, Nicky said, ‘It’s a good sign, four hours.’
    John said nothing. He was the same height as Bonner but lacked the bulk. Although he was in his mid-forties, his face had a placidness that made him look younger. Since his earliest years on the force, he disliked the impression of sensitivity that his soft features created. These days, his short-cropped hair was almost totally white, adding a fatherly air to his good-natured features. It could be, he concluded, that it helped with the more gormless criminals that he had a face that implied more sympathy than he felt.
    ‘They’d have done it by now,’ Nicky said, ‘if they were going to acquit. You reckon?’
    ‘The tank is empty in America?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Three, two, three. The tank is empty in America?’
    ‘Give me a break.’
    John lowered his crossword. ‘Juries are like next summer’s weather, you know that. Predictions are for fools. It’s always fifty-fifty. Jury’s out for days, it might be bad or it might be good. They come back after ten minutes, it might be good or it might be bad.’
    ‘I reckon the longer the better.’
    ‘You might be right. You might be wrong. Fifty-fifty.’
    Waiting for a jury to come back had no upside. The joys of coffee in the local pubs soon faded. Then it was down to mooching around the court corridors, accumulating dead time. Even if