Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) (18 page)

I dived for it.

I picked it up and raised it, and as The Colonel launched himself towards me I shot him once through the eye and he fell dead at my feet.

It was a good shot for an amateur, but a perfect one for a father.

Davie was lying flat on his back, The Colonel was dead on the ground, the AM had taken off like a jet, the smoke alarm had been activated by the shooting and there was several million dollars' worth of gold bars sitting in the next room. I had been in better situations. Also, I had been in worse.

'Will you stop day dreaming about the fucking state of the planet and help me?'

I turned to find Davie struggling up into a sitting position. Blood was flowing freely from his arm, which he was holding tight against his chest. I hurried across, took hold of his other arm and eased him to his feet.

I said, 'Are you all right?'

'Does it look like I'm fucking all right? Christ.'

It was a stupid question, but the kind we all ask. 'We need to wrap it in something. Let me tear a sheet or—'

'Leave it! Just get the gold.'

'What?'

'Dan, for crying out loud,
get the gold.
This place is going to be swarming in a minute.'

I hurried into the other room. I tried to lift the old suitcase, and where I hadn't quite managed it before, this latest rush of adrenalin added something to my strength and I was able to raise it almost to waist-level before the bottom of it gave way and the gold bars tumbled out; if I hadn't been feather-footed they would have broken my feet. I dropped the bag with a curse and ran to the wardrobe. I found The Colonel's case and heaved it out. It was good and sturdy. He too unpacked like an Ulsterman. I emptied out his clothes and then fitted the gold back inside the empty case. The good thing was, it was on wheels. If we walked out of the hotel with it we would just look like a couple of tourists, although one of us might be bleeding to death.

Davie wrapped a small towel tightly around his arm, then took a larger bath towel and threw it over his shoulder as if he was heading for the beach. It covered the smaller towel, which was already soaked in blood.

Davie nodded down at The Colonel. 'Good shot,' he said.

I had killed him. It was the exact opposite of my intentions at the start of the morning, but that is also the pattern of my life.

'Come on,' I said.

I wheeled the suitcase to the door then turned right to go down the corridor, but Davie hissed at me to go the other way, and he led me left towards the fire-escape door. He pushed through it with his good arm, then held it for me as I manoeuvred the case through. I looked at the flights of steps leading down from the mock bell-tower. The wheels were no good: if I had to bump the case down every step it was bound to split. We needed the elevator to get the gold down to ground level.

'Davie, we—'

'I can help. 'He reached down with his good arm and lifted the front of the case; I took most of the weight at the back, and cautiously we began to descend. The smoke alarm was still sounding above us, and in the distance I could hear several sets of sirens — police, fire, ambulance, ice cream.

Sixth, fifth, fourth . . . We were drenched in sweat; at the third Davie set his end of the case down and staggered against the railings gasping for breath. It was just too bloody heavy. We turned suddenly as the fire-escape door behind us opened, but the half a dozen people who hurried out weren't interested in us, they were interested in saving their lives. The hotel was being evacuated. I looked at Davie and he nodded, and we wheeled the case back into the hall and then with the advantage of the wheels, raced along the corridor to the elevators.

There was a sign inside that said
Do Not Use in Case of Fire.
We ignored it. There was no fire. Just murder and mayhem.

We reached the lobby and were relieved to find it teeming with anxious guests. We passed through them unnoticed and were just approaching the front door — we agreed it was crazy to try dragging the suitcase along the sand, it would just sink — when a voice said: 'Excuse me, sir?'

We froze. We turned slowly.

It was Mikey.

'Can I be of any assistance?'

He glanced at Davie's arm. The blood was now seeping through to the bath towel. Davie quickly covered it up and said: 'We need a ride.'

'I'll bring your car right round for you, sir,' Mikey said.

He hurried away. Good old Mikey. He would liberate a vehicle from one of the valet-parking guys, and worry about the bloodstains later.

More and more guests were starting to arrive in the lobby. The concierge was flapping around and shouting over the high-pitched wailing of the alarm, 'If you could all just move out of the building, ladies and gentlemen, and let the firemen through,' but he was largely being ignored. There was no smoke, no obvious fire, and these people hadn't paid over the odds to waste their time standing out on the sidewalk.

Davie was pale, and now that we'd stopped moving he was again having trouble staying upright. He leaned against the case. I asked my stupid question again. 'Are you okay?'

But this time he was too past it to do anything other than nod. I looked to the doors for Mikey. Nothing. My attention was drawn to a retching sound, and through the crowd I saw the balding head of the Assistant Manager behind the front desk. He was sitting on a stool, being comforted by someone while he threw up into an empty flower pot.

Heavily equipped firemen hurried through the front doors, shouting instructions for everyone to vacate the premises; a moment later police officers followed them into the building and made straight for the stairs. They knew where they were going, but not what they would find.

Then Mikey arrived back. 'This way, sir,' he said. Davie nodded appreciatively. 'Let me help you with that,' Mikey said, and reached down to give us a hand with the case.

'Leave it!' Davie snapped.

'We're all right,' I said.

Mikey just nodded, like he understood, and then held the door open for us. Davie visibly wavered again as we wheeled the case out, as if the sun had reached down out of the sky and slapped him. Again he steadied himself against the case.

'We have to get you to a hospital,' I whispered.

'No. Fucking. Way,' he said.

Mikey led us across to a Sedan and opened the back door. Davie was reluctant to let go of the case. I said, 'It's okay, Davie, it's okay.'

He nodded and released his grip. When I touched the handle it was soaked in his sweat and blood. Mikey helped him into the back, then opened the boot. I tried to lift the case into it, but couldn't get it off the ground. Mikey was already in behind the wheel, but when he realised I hadn't moved he jumped out again and hurried back to see what the problem was.

'Story of my life,' I said. 'Packed far too much.'

He raised an eyebrow, and nonchalantly took hold of the case. He was a big guy, muscles on his muscles, but you have to be prepared to use them; when he yanked at the case and it hardly moved he let out a yelp like he'd sprung a leak in his sixpack. He rubbed at his stomach and said, 'What the hell you got in there?'

'Kitchen sink,' I said. 'Let's just get it in.'

He set his legs to a better position, then took hold of his end of the case. I lifted mine, and together we heaved it into the trunk.

The car sank about a foot as it hit the floor.

Davie said, 'Christ,' from the back seat.

I slammed the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. Mikey got behind the wheel and said, 'Where to?'

'Hotel del Mar,' I said.

'You're sure?' He looked a little disappointed, like we should have said Cuba or Arkansas.

He started the engine and we moved down the hill just as an ambulance came racing up. Davie needed one, The Colonel didn't.

'Do you want to tell me what happened?' Mikey asked.

'Nothing,' I said.

'You met that guy, I know it. Someone said they heard shooting on the seventh floor. Is he in the valise?'

'You've been very good to us, Mikey,' I said, 'but now we need you to mind your own business. It's done, it's over, just get us to the hotel.'

He nodded. It was only about half a mile to the Del Mar so I wasn't quite sure why he was driving so slowly. Perhaps it was out of concern for Davie's comfort. Or because he wanted to chat to an old friend.

'They track this back to me, I'm in deep shit,' he said.

'I know. We appreciate it.'

'They track this back, I'll be fired. And maybe sued. I need this job. It's paying for college.'

'You'll be fine.'

'No, you don't understand. I really need it. It's the best paying job on the beach. I'll be fucked without it.'

I glanced back at Davie, but he had his eyes closed. I took out my wallet. I'd about three hundred dollars in cash. I offered him two.

'That won't buy me shit,' he said.

This was a definite shift in his attitude. The ready smile was gone. He was no longer the happy-go-lucky servant. He had the upper hand now, and he knew it.

'What're you saying, Mikey?'

'All I'm saying is, you know, help me out.'

He finally pulled into the car park at the Del Mar. He sat behind the wheel. He'd done his helping, he'd set out his case. I drummed my fingers on the dash for a moment. It came to me that I still had The Colonel's gun in the pocket of my shorts, and that I could just shoot Mikey, just off him the way I'd offed The Colonel. It was a scary feeling, how easy it would be, and I didn't like it. Even the thought of taking the gun out and threatening him with it, it was just too much. Instead I just said, 'Wait here a minute,' and jumped out of the car.

I opened the boot, unzipped The Colonel's case, made sure there was nobody passing, then opened it up and removed one of the gold bars. I rezipped, closed the boot and slipped back into the car.

Mikey looked a bit jumpy, as if he'd suddenly had the same thought about a gun, that I might have been getting the murder weapon out of the trunk. But then he saw what I had in my hands. His eyes widened.

'Here,' I said. 'Buy the whole fucking college.'

There are sleepless nights, and then there are sleepless nights.

There are nights when you toss and turn a bit and wake up the next morning and tell your wife, 'Gee, I had an awful night.'

And then there are nights when your psychotic best friend is dying in the bed next to you and all you can think about is how you're going to get rid of his body and how you're going to avoid going to San Quentin and how you're going to smuggle Al Capone's gold back to Belfast.

Davie groaned through the night; he alternated between lucidity and mad-eyed shouting. I went across the road to the Eckerds and bought bandages and antiseptic cream and treated him as well as I could, but I had no idea what I was doing. I might have been making matters worse. I had never been a Scout and learned First Aid. I had been in the Boys' Brigade and merely learned how to kill people by boring them to death with scripture. But in the darkness I said a prayer for him and God responded pretty quickly by reaching down and knocking him into the kind of heavy sleep which is just a hair's-breadth short of a coma.

There wasn't anything more I could do. He had expressly forbidden me from calling a doctor or taking him to a hospital. He was in no position now to stop me from doing either, but I didn't. And it wasn't all out of respect for his wishes. It was out of fear for what would happen to me if I did.

I didn't want to be caught.

I didn't want to go to prison.

And it seemed that I was prepared to let Davie die if it meant staying free.

I set it up as a kind of moral conundrum in the darkness, as if it was one of those big life-defining decisions, but it wasn't really. I have mentioned instinct before: hunting, procreation and Liverpool. Add another to that list. Self-preservation. Like the boxing referees say, protect yourself at all times.

Besides, Davie couldn't die. He'd been shot in the arm. I'd seen that enough in movies to know that you didn't die from that. You got a bit of a fever and a friendly woman applied a cold poultice to your brow and in the morning you felt better, and she spoonfed you soup, and you fell in love. So I soaked a flannel in cold water and placed it on his brow and Davie came round enough to glare at me and spit, 'Would you
fuck off,'
at me.

I backed away. He fell back into his sleep and I switched on the TV and watched the news coverage. America is great for news. Dozens of channels saying exactly the same thing, that a wealthy Irish tourist had been shot dead in an apparent robbery at the famous Pink Palace, the Don CeSar on St Pete's Beach. Several of them made references to the fact that the hotel had once played host to A1 Capone, which might have seemed fatuous and irrelevant if I hadn't had twelve of his gold bars stashed in the cupboard. They said police were following several lines of enquiry, but that nobody had yet been arrested.

Good. That was a relief.

In the morning Davie was awake before I was. He shook me and I sat up real quick. He said, 'Relax. Just thought we'd better get moving.'

He had some colour back in his cheeks.' How're you doing?' I asked.

He laughed, then showed me his arm. He had obviously been up to the bathroom and cleaned it. It was still raw, but it wasn't bleeding.

'I think the bullet might have gone straight through,' Davie said.

'You still need it seen to.'

'I know. But not here.'

I nodded. I went out to get coffee, though mostly it was just to see if the coast was clear. There didn't seem to be anything amiss. Tourists were out getting breakfast, the road was busy with people going to work or heading off to the theme parks. I bought the coffee and some doughnuts in the Publix across the road. When I got back, Davie had his bag out and packed.

'We should hit the road,' he said.

I nodded. 'Where to?'

'I don't know. Lose ourselves for a few days.'

'I want to go home.'

'I know. You did brilliantly yesterday.'

'I killed someone. I don't call that brilliant.'