The Devil I Know Read Online Free

put down the pint. Unknown read the screen.
    ‘Yes, M. Deauville?’ I called him Monsieurandhe pronounced the Saint in my name as San, though generally he just called me Tristram. Hickey flicked the tip of his eager tongue over his moustache of foam and tried to earwig. I turned my back and retreated to a quiet corner.
    ‘No, M. Deauville. I’m, ahm . . . I’m still in Dublin. I’m waiting for, ahm . . . for my luggage.’ I checked my watch again – habit, habit. I didn’t give a damn about the time.
    ‘You mean, this minute?’ I looked around the pub. ‘This minute, I’m in the Summit.’
    I lowered my head. ‘Yes,’ I admitted, ‘that is the name of a bar.’
    I listened to him touch-typing on his keyboard, tocka tocka, tocka tocka . He was seated at his control panel watching his monitors, firing off instructions from his executive chair. That is how I pictured M. Deauville. A face illuminated blue by a bank of computer screens.
    Tocka tocka . ‘The Church of Ireland hall? Yes, I think I know which one that is.’ So many churches on our little peninsula. So many shots in the dark at salvation.
    ‘Do, please, yes,’ I said to his offer to book me a taxi. Tocka tocka . ‘Five minutes?’ I checked my watch and only then registered that it was still set to Eastern Standard Time. ‘ Perfect . I’ll be waiting outside.’ ‘Thank you,’ I added as the sheer gravity of the episode began to sink in. I had almost fallen and there was so very far to fall. M. Deauville had plucked me from the jaws of Hell. Again. Relief was followed by euphoria. ‘Thank you, M. Deauville. Thank you so—’ but he had already hung up.
    I turned back to Hickey. He was alone now and perched sullenly on a bar stool. I returned the phone to my jacket pocket and offered him my hand. ‘Good seeing you again, Mr Hickey, but I’m afraid I must leave immediately. I have to take an important conference call.’
    Hickey looked at my hand without accepting it. ‘It’s five to eight on a Friday evening,’ he pointed out flatly.
    I withdrew my hand. ‘Not in New York, it isn’t.’ I raised a palm in farewell to Christy and headed for the exit. Hickey sighed and laboured off the bar stool. I pushed the door open onto rose sunlight. A yacht race was disappearing around the back of Ireland’s Eye and fishing boats were setting out for the night catch. Hickey joined me on the top step, a fresh pint in his paw, no doubt the one I’d put back on the counter. He kept his eyes on the view as he spoke.
    ‘I have something to show you,’ he muttered out of the side of his mouth. That was Hickey’s idea of discretion: act as suspiciously as possible. ‘A business proposition,’ he added when I didn’t bite.
    I smiled perfunctorily. ‘Next time, Dessie.’ He made eye contact then. Both of us knew there would be no next time.
    A taxi drew up at the gate piers. Every order issued by M. Deauville was carried out to the letter. That’s what money does. I picked my way across the sprawled dogs and opened the door to the back seat. ‘St Lawrence?’ The driver nodded.
    I sat in and turned to reach for the handle. A hand held the door rigid. I looked up. Hickey was standing on the kerb.
    ‘Tristram, you’re a fucken dry shite,’ he said before slamming the door shut. That’s me, I agreed grimly as the taxi pulled away. I fixed my eyes on the road ahead and did not look back at the Summit. That’s me, yes, that’s who I am now and let no one forget it, least of all myself. I am Tristram the Fucken Dry Shite, Thirteenth Earl of Howth.
    The taxi smelled not of youth and beer and summer, but artificial pine. I was sealed into the sterile safety of a moving body once more – M. Deauville had seen to it. I jammed my fist into my mouth and tasted the pint. I suckled the knuckle the stout had doused, the taxi driver eyeing me in the rear-view mirror all the while as we retreated back down to the bottom.
    *
    A brief note on how that