In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

sob now, fat tears, snotty sobs. "Could I have a drink? God's pity, let me have a drink. My hand's broken."
     
     
"One bleeding finger, and he's crying like a lass." On a huff of disgust, Brian heaved himself up and fetched the bottle of whiskey from a table, poured some into a cloudy glass.
     
     
"Here then. Fucking slainte to you."
     
     
Wrapping his good hand around it, Grogin brought the glass to his lips, gulped down the whiskey. "He's dead now, you know. Paddy's dead, so what does it matter? It's him that done it," he said to Roarke. "You know how he was."
     
     
"Aye. I know just how he was."
     
     
"And this night, well, he was drunk when he called me. Stinking. I heard the boy-heard you wailing away in the background, and him saying I was to come straight away, to cop a car and come. Well, you did what Paddy said you were to do in those days. You did it or you paid dear. So I boosted a car and came straight away. When I got there... I had nothing to do with it. I can't be blamed for it."
     
     
"When you got there?"
     

 
"Another drink, then? Just to ease my throat."
     
     
"Tell me the rest," Roarke demanded. "Or you won't have a throat to ease."
     
     
Grogin's breath wheezed. "She was dead already. Dead when I got there. It was a bloody mess. He'd gone crazy on her, and there was nothing to be done about it. Nothing I could've done. I thought he'd killed you, too, as you were quiet. But he'd given you something to put you to sleep, a bit of a tranq, is all. You were on the couch sleeping. He'd called Jimmy, too. Jimmy Bennigan."
     
     
"Give him another drink, Bri."
     
     
"Thanks for that." Grogin held out his glass. "So you see, you understand, the deed was done when I got there."
     
     
"What did you do with her? You and Jimmy and the one who murdered her."
     
     
"We, ah, we rolled her up in the rug, and carried her out to the car." He gulped at the whiskey, licked his lips. "As Paddy said. We drove along the river, as far as we could. We weighed the body down with stones, and dumped her in. There was nothing else to be done. She was dead, after all."
     
     
"And then?"
     
     
"We went back and cleaned things up, in case, and we put 'round that she'd dumped the boy and taken off. And how if anyone spoke of it, of her, they'd pay. No one lived in the neighborhood that wasn't scared of Roarke. He got Meg to come back, don't know how. Paid her I think, promised her more. And called her your mam, so everyone did."
     
     
He swiped his good hand under his dripping nose. "He could've killed you as well. Nothing to it. Bashed your brains in, smothered you."
     
     
"Why didn't he?"
     
     
"You had his face, didn't you?" Grogin continued. "Spitting image. A man wants a legacy, doesn't he? A man wants a son. If you'd been a girl, he might have tossed you in the river with your mam, but a man wants a son."
     
     
Roarke got to his feet, and whatever was on his face had Grogin cringing back. "His pocket cops went along with it?"
     
     
"Wasn't nothing to them, was it?"
     
     
"No, it was nothing to them." Just a girl, beaten to death and tossed aside. "They came looking for her, her family, some time after. Her brother, I'm told, was set on and laid into. Who'd have done that?"
     
     
"Ah... Of course, Paddy would've wanted to see to that matter himself."
     
     
A lie, Roarke thought. "As I recall, that was the sort of petty business he had you for."
     
     
In a lightning flash, Roarke had the man's head jerked back by a hank of dirty hair. And the knife at his throat.
     
     
"How do I know?" Spittle slid out of Grogin's trembling lips. "For pity, how do I know? I bashed heads for him. Too many to count. You can't do me for it now. You can't. It was years back."
     
     
One easy move of the wrist, Roarke thought. That was all it would take to have the man's blood flooding out on his hands. He could feel his own muscles trembling for that single, simple action.
     
     
He could hear ugly shouting on the street. A brawl brewing. He could smell Grogin's terror in stale sweat, fresh blood, in the urine spreading a new stain over the crotch of his pants. For a heartbeat, for eternity, the keen edge of the blade bit against flesh. Then he stepped back, slid the knife into his boot.
     
     
"You're not worth killing."
     
     
They left Grogin sitting in his own piss and sobbing.
     
     
"There was a time," Brian said as they walked, "back in the day, when you'd have done more than break his