Crusher by Niall Leonard Page A

hoping the guy on the entryphone would think I was with the gardeners. And he did.”
    McGovern shook his head, chuckled quietly. He turned and looked at James.
    “I’ll have a word,” said James.
    “More than a word,” said McGovern. “What am I paying those pricks for?”
    James said nothing.
    “Anyway, Finn, you’ve got balls. You a boxer?” He jerked his chin at me.
    “I’ve done a bit,” I said.
    “I can always tell. Any good?”
    “I get by,” I said.
    I was trying not to babble or sound nervous, and now I worried about going too far the other way. But McGovern didn’t seem displeased with my terse responses. He sat back, stretching a beefy arm across the back of his sofa.
    “Let’s get to the point, all right? What were you doing wandering around my house? I mean, you weren’t here to rob the place. You don’t look that stupid.”
    “I need a job.”
    “A job?”
    For the first time McGovern looked surprised. I was kind of surprised myself. I’d had no idea what I was going to say to McGovern if I met him, but without consciously figuring it out I’d become convinced that direct questions would get me nowhere. It was a lucky break—for me—that I’d found his son drowning, and I had to press home my advantage, make the most of the favour he owed me, right now. Accusing him to his face of having my dad killed would just piss him off and squander whatever goodwill I’d earned. If I could just get on the inside, get closer to people who worked for him, maybe I could work my way towards the truth. Besides, I really did need a job, and it was tough enough to find one without being a dyslexic, freshly-fired dropout.
    “Do I look like the bloody DSS? Or your parole officer?” I wasn’t sure if McGovern was amused by my cheek, and I couldn’t tell from looking at James, whose sneer never seemed to leave his face.
    “I don’t mean anything heavy, or dodgy, you know, Mr. McGovern. But I heard you owned some restaurants, nightclubs, that sort of thing, and … I’ve worked in catering.”
    “What, as a chef?”
    “More front-of-house sort of thing.”
    “Where?”
    My face was burning now. “Max Snax, near Kew Bridge.”
    “You what? Fried fucking chicken? Hear that—kid thinks I’m fucking Colonel Sanders.”
    This was directed at James, whose smirk had blossomed into shoulder-shaking laughter, unsuccessfully stifled by his hand over his mouth. McGovern looked amused, but vaguely insulted too.
    “Mr. McGovern, I’m sorry, I’m pretty desperate. I’ll do anything, wash dishes, scrub out bogs—I just need the work. My dad died …” Now I was blinking. Ashamed at myself for pleading with a psychopathic criminal for the privilege of cleaning out his toilets. Pleading for sympathy from the man who might well have had my father killed. Why the fuck hadn’t I just asked McGovern straight out to tell me the truth?
Because he’d have lied to you
, said the voice in my head,
and then he might well have killed you too
.
    “I don’t have much money,” I went on. “I can’t read that well, and I have … form. For dealing.” That sparked his interest, I noticed.
    “Grass?”
    “Cocaine.” I didn’t mention I’d got busted almost before I started. “Somebody— I heard you had, youknow, fingers in lots of pies. I thought if I could get in to see you, face to face, you might give me some credit just for … having the bottle.”
    McGovern looked thoughtful. “When did he die? Your old man?”
    I looked right at him. “Two days ago. Someone broke into our house, hit him over the head. Took his laptop, and all the notes for the story he was writing.”
    I looked over at James. He was looking at me, his face as neutral and unreadable as that of his boss. McGovern was rocking his jaw from side to side, thinking.
    “That’s a shame,” said McGovern. “I’m sorry for your trouble.”
    “Thanks.”
    He looked at James. “What about the Iron Bridge?”
    I’d heard of the