laughing into mobile phones. In one picture a BMW X5 deposited a smiling blonde toddler into the open arms of a smiling blonde childcare worker at the proposed crèche. A Maserati made its exit from the proposed underground car park with a surf board strapped to its roof in the next. Along a glittering limestone avenue with Ireland’s Eye in the background a man walked a bichon frise.
‘Who’s this prick?’ said Hickey. ‘He looks bent.’
Morgan leaned in to consider the photo. ‘With apartment developments in wealthy areas, our firm find it’s advantageous to include a representation of at least one member of the gay community. It’s a sector of the population with a high disposable income.’
‘Keep him so,’ Hickey decreed, ‘but no lezzers.’ He passed me the offending image. It was a man in a pair of calf-length shorts and a polo shirt. The man looked neither gay nor straight, he just looked preposterous. They all looked preposterous. Every last one of them was dressed for a Mediterranean summer. Sunglasses and shorts and sandals. This development promised another climate. Presiding over it all were these green glass towers, the sun glinting off their elevations in every shot. Despite their height, they cast no shadow at street level, as if they themselves were the source of the light, and very possibly of the heat too, a nuclear power station.
Hickey turned to me. ‘Whatcha reckon?’
‘Smashing,’ I told him. ‘You’ve really outdone yourself.’ I handed back the photos and the woman covered up a smile. I knew her. I knew that face from somewhere.
*
‘So who’s the girl?’ I asked Hickey when we were back out in the yard, having seen Morgan off in his little silver TT bullet. The red Merc was still parked next to Hickey’s truck. I was confused when she hadn’t stood up to join the architect as he took his leave but instead poured herself another glass of champagne. I had presumed that she was part of the design team.
‘What girl?’ said Hickey, and then, tilting his head at the prefab, ‘oh, you mean the wife?’
Is that a trick question?
Is that a trick question? I don’t understand this game. Where do you think we got the money? Where does anyone get money, after all? We got it from a bank. Not Castle Holdings – M. Deauville only financed the purchase of the site – but from an Irish bank. You remember, Fergus: they were throwing money at people at the time, forcing it down their throats. Hickey said I knew the very man and my heart sank. Here we go. Ray the bottom feeder. ‘No, no, no, you muppet,’ he said. ‘Not Lawless – another head. An you know him, not me.’
‘What other head?’
‘Another head who knows a third head, who knows a whole rack a heads, who between them know every head worth knowing in this country, an once we’re in, we’ll be laughing, so we will.’ And then he reeled off a list of names, Public Enemies numbers one through to six six six. Builders, bankers, financial regulators, county councillors, even the serving Taoiseach.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘them.’ It would have been difficult not to have rubbed up against at least a few of them in a country like this if you were from a family like mine – you know how it is yourself, Fergus. I sighed at Hickey. ‘What’s it going to cost?’ Everything cost. Everything was about money with the class of individual on his list. It was how they measured themselves.
Hickey shook his head. ‘That’s not how the Golden Circle works.’
The Golden Circle. I had to laugh at that. They had rebranded. In my day, they had called themselves the Bills, as in, the Billionaires. Long live the Bills! they shouted down in Suttonians after matches. They were the sons of wealthy men, but nowhere near as wealthy as they wanted to be. The Mills, technically. Their moniker betrayed the terrible hunger in them, the insatiable drive to acquire.
M. Deauville requested that I supply him in advance of the meeting with
‘Who’s this prick?’ said Hickey. ‘He looks bent.’
Morgan leaned in to consider the photo. ‘With apartment developments in wealthy areas, our firm find it’s advantageous to include a representation of at least one member of the gay community. It’s a sector of the population with a high disposable income.’
‘Keep him so,’ Hickey decreed, ‘but no lezzers.’ He passed me the offending image. It was a man in a pair of calf-length shorts and a polo shirt. The man looked neither gay nor straight, he just looked preposterous. They all looked preposterous. Every last one of them was dressed for a Mediterranean summer. Sunglasses and shorts and sandals. This development promised another climate. Presiding over it all were these green glass towers, the sun glinting off their elevations in every shot. Despite their height, they cast no shadow at street level, as if they themselves were the source of the light, and very possibly of the heat too, a nuclear power station.
Hickey turned to me. ‘Whatcha reckon?’
‘Smashing,’ I told him. ‘You’ve really outdone yourself.’ I handed back the photos and the woman covered up a smile. I knew her. I knew that face from somewhere.
*
‘So who’s the girl?’ I asked Hickey when we were back out in the yard, having seen Morgan off in his little silver TT bullet. The red Merc was still parked next to Hickey’s truck. I was confused when she hadn’t stood up to join the architect as he took his leave but instead poured herself another glass of champagne. I had presumed that she was part of the design team.
‘What girl?’ said Hickey, and then, tilting his head at the prefab, ‘oh, you mean the wife?’
Is that a trick question?
Is that a trick question? I don’t understand this game. Where do you think we got the money? Where does anyone get money, after all? We got it from a bank. Not Castle Holdings – M. Deauville only financed the purchase of the site – but from an Irish bank. You remember, Fergus: they were throwing money at people at the time, forcing it down their throats. Hickey said I knew the very man and my heart sank. Here we go. Ray the bottom feeder. ‘No, no, no, you muppet,’ he said. ‘Not Lawless – another head. An you know him, not me.’
‘What other head?’
‘Another head who knows a third head, who knows a whole rack a heads, who between them know every head worth knowing in this country, an once we’re in, we’ll be laughing, so we will.’ And then he reeled off a list of names, Public Enemies numbers one through to six six six. Builders, bankers, financial regulators, county councillors, even the serving Taoiseach.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘them.’ It would have been difficult not to have rubbed up against at least a few of them in a country like this if you were from a family like mine – you know how it is yourself, Fergus. I sighed at Hickey. ‘What’s it going to cost?’ Everything cost. Everything was about money with the class of individual on his list. It was how they measured themselves.
Hickey shook his head. ‘That’s not how the Golden Circle works.’
The Golden Circle. I had to laugh at that. They had rebranded. In my day, they had called themselves the Bills, as in, the Billionaires. Long live the Bills! they shouted down in Suttonians after matches. They were the sons of wealthy men, but nowhere near as wealthy as they wanted to be. The Mills, technically. Their moniker betrayed the terrible hunger in them, the insatiable drive to acquire.
M. Deauville requested that I supply him in advance of the meeting with
Similar Books
