Mothers and Sons Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mousey wore a sad look, like a priest disappointed by the amount of sin in the world.
    ‘The Dutch,’ he said, ‘are different. They listen to what you say and they think that you’ll do what you say, down to the letter. That’s the Dutch. They have no imagination.’
    ‘When are they coming back?’ he asked Mousey.
    ‘It will take a lot to get them back,’ Mousey said.
    ‘What will it take?’
    ‘And don’t underestimate them either,’ Mousey said. ‘One of those gentlemen yesterday could kill you in one second with his bare hands. He’s the best in the business.’
    ‘Which of them?’ he asked Mousey.
    ‘That’s the problem,’ Mousey said. ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘And who’s the other?’
    ‘He’s the art expert and he wasn’t too impressed with the art you showed him. It was worth fuck-all.’
    ‘How do you know these guys are straight?’
    ‘Because they’re Dutch,’ Mousey said. ‘If a Dutch guy is going to stick a knife in your back, he’ll let you know a few weeks in advance, and there’s nothing you can do because on the day his knife will meet your back. That’s the Dutch. If they say Monday they mean Monday, if they say they’ll pay then they’ll pay and if they want to see theRembrandt, then there’s no need for me to spell it out, is there?’
    ‘Who wants the painting?’
    ‘One of the top men in the drugs trade wants to be the only person in the world, barring a few close friends, who will ever lay eyes on it,’ Mousey said. ‘That’s the Dutch. They are not like us. They want this painting the way one of us might want a week in the Canaries or a great big ride or a hacienda in Baldoyle.’
    T WO DAYS before he was due to present the Rembrandt to the Dutchmen, he had his weekly meeting with Detective Inspector Frank Cassidy. He noticed, as he watched him approach, that Cassidy had more bounce in his step than usual. He was carrying a briefcase.
    ‘Have you been promoted?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to drive the Taoiseach around his constituency?’
    ‘Are you sure we’re safe here?’ Cassidy asked.
    ‘You’re the cop,’ he said. ‘I’m just a poor criminal.’
    Cassidy walked into the flat.
    ‘You’re in trouble,’ he said.
    ‘They found Shergar?’
    ‘I mean trouble,’ Cassidy said. ‘There’s a tout in your camp.’
    ‘I don’t have a camp,’ he said.
    ‘You do,’ Cassidy said and took a small cassette player from his briefcase. He looked around for somewhere to plug it in.
    ‘You remember Mansfield?’ Cassidy asked as he plugged out the television and plugged in the cassette player.
    ‘The fellow who thinks he doesn’t look like a cop? The chap who looks like a cop trying to look like a North Side hippie?’
    ‘Yeah,’ Cassidy said. ‘Him.’
    ‘What about him? He’s been fiddling his expenses again?’
    ‘No, he has a new friend, a drinking companion.’
    Cassidy fiddled with the tape.
    ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
    ‘He’s been drinking a lot with his new friend,’ Cassidy said.
    ‘Malcolm MacArthur?’
    ‘No.’ Cassidy stood up and looked at him evenly. ‘Mansfield has been drinking with your mother.’
    Immediately, his mind fixed on some point in the distance, something both remote and precise. He smiled for a moment.
    ‘I hope he’s paying, because I’m broke.’
    ‘Yeah, he’s paying,’ Cassidy said.
    He had shot a few guys and, once, stabbed a man who later died, but he had never strangled anyone. He wished now he had learned that skill.
    ‘Do you want to hear it?’ Cassidy asked.
    ‘That’s what I pay you for.’
    ‘Sit down so.’
    At first there was nothing, the sound of static and something hitting against the microphone and then complete silence broken by the waves of the cassette going around in the cheap machine.
    ‘Turn it up,’ he said.
    Cassidy put his hand out signalling to him to be quiet. Slowly, a voice could be heard, a woman’s voice, but hecould not make out any words. Then it was