Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (4 page)

five

Miller dropped Grant outside
the reception lobby, then left. The Seaverns Hotel wasn't the Airport Hilton, but it was clean and tidy and better than some places Grant had rested his head. It was a three-story building with an extension around back for the dining room. Grant made a mental note to convert floor descriptions into US terms. Back in England, the floor you entered for reception was the ground floor. In America it was the first floor. That would make Grant's top-floor room the second floor back home but the third floor here. Important difference when scoping out a location.

Grant always scoped out his location.

He unpacked the holdall and stowed his clothes, more jeans and T-shirts and a couple of sweat tops. He placed a long velvet case under the folded T-shirts, then showered and changed and ended up looking exactly the same as before: faded blue jeans, dark T-shirt, orange windcheater, black K-Swiss tennis shoes. Sensible, practical, and comfortable. He was off-duty and out of division and ready to eat.

Grant ended up at Flanagan's Bar at the bottom of Jamaica Plain's Centre Street, which was basically Main Street USA. Mostly single-story flat-roofed businesses with hardware stores and laundromats, a CVS Pharmacy, and a handful of restaurants and bars. He was still reeling from the Santa Fe chicken salad he'd eaten at the Purple Cactus—more specifically, the size of the salad. He reckoned you could have grazed a herd for a week just off that one plate.

Flanagan's was a traditional pub with dark woodwork, dirty redbrick walls, and a green sign with gold letters that were picked out by a row of brass light fittings. Music and laughter came from inside and polluted the street. It sounded like Grant's kind of place.

That was his first mistake.

The second was not being careful who he spoke to once he got inside.

The main room was long and narrow and not as full as the noise outside suggested. There were tables and booths along the left-hand wall. The wall was stripped-back red brick with sepia photos of the old country and the Boston seafront back in the days of sail. A traditional bar ran the length of the room on the right. Glass shelves with mirrored backing carried every possible variation of whiskey and rye, not inverted with delivery optics like the UK but stood on the shelf, ready to be poured if selected.

Most of the booths were occupied. The ones that were empty were halfway along. Not in the corner for good viewing potential and too far in to allow a quick exit if trouble started. Booths weren't good tactical options. They penned you in with your legs under the table and your back against the seat behind you. Grant dismissed them and looked at the bar instead.

There were more spaces along the bar than the noise indicated. Several barstools and plenty of room in between. Men stood in irregular groups along the bar. A couple of women mixed in, but there were no all-female gatherings. This wasn't that kind of bar. There was a door to the restrooms at the far end with a red neon fire exit sign above it. Good. Grant chose a space about two-thirds along the bar, ignored the vacant barstool, and rested one foot on the brass rail along the bottom. The mirror gave a good view behind him. Standing instead of sitting gave him fast access to the fire exit. Now he could drink in peace.

Two bartenders worked the crowd. A young lad with a beaming smile reminded Grant of Tom Cruise in that film about a cocktail waiter. He didn't pull any fancy moves with the bottles or try party tricks with the glasses, though. It wasn't that kind of bar either. The older bartender looked hard as nails and was probably the owner. His smile, when it showed, looked more genuine. It was earned, not given freely. Grant waited for a gap in the serving, then held a hand out to get his attention. The older guy came over. “What can I getcha, fella?”

“Pint, please. Nearest thing you've got to Tetley's.”

“Yorkshire ale. A bit out of your neighborhood, aren't you?”

“Just visiting.”

“Well, you're in luck. We cater for all tastes in here. Can't get you draught, but we do carry some bottled.”

“Tetley's?”

“The very same.”

“You're a saint.”

“That's what I keep telling the boss. He don't pay me more, though.”

The bartender selected a bottle of Tetley's from the display below the mirror and expertly flipped the lid. He poured it at an angle to achieve the perfect head. Grant was impressed.

“Figured you for the owner.”

“Don't let Mr. Delaney hear you say that. Concrete shoes aren't out of fashion just yet.”

Grant laughed. The bartender smiled. A rare honor, Grant reckoned, for a first-time customer. He paid for the beer. “How come it's called Flanagan's, then?”

“Same reason McDonald's is called McDonald's.”

“You make burgers?”

“No, and neither does the fella that owns McDonald's. I'm the public face.”

“You Flanagan?”

“At your service.”

“I'm honored. You don't exactly welcome the English round here.”

“Being a cop is more of a problem.”

“You can tell, huh?”

“Comes off you like a bad smell. Don't try going undercover.”

“Not me. Straight ahead and open is my way. Good job I'm on vacation.”

Flanagan indicated a large glass jar half filled with banknotes and coins next to the hand pumps. There was a slit cut into the screw lid. A piece of card with black lettering was taped across the front.

WIDOWS AND ORPHANS OF THE CONFLICT

“All donations gratefully received. That'd settle folks' nerves.”

Grant looked at the jar and then back at Flanagan. It appeared that pissing contests came in all shapes and sizes. He smiled to take the sting out of his words.

“The famous gun-running jar. I wondered if you people still had those.”

Flanagan kept a straight face.

“It's for the widows and orphans. Says so there, look.”

He pointed out the words on the jar. Grant didn't look. He was watching the two big guys in the mirror who'd slipped into the booth behind him. They'd been watching Grant ever since they came in five minutes ago. He looked Flanagan in the eye, gauging how far to push this. “It says beef on McDonald's burgers. Don't make it so.”

There was a moment's silence when this could have gone either way. The jars had been an open secret for years. Donations for the conflict, even though the official conflict was over. The IRA was history; politics had taken over. It was just the splinter groups that still caused trouble, but Northern Ireland was mainly a peaceful place now. Flanagan broke into a warm smile. Pissing contest over. “And it says Flanagan's on the wall outside.”

Grant nodded. “As far as I'm concerned, it says Flanagan's in here too.”

“Enjoy your drink, and go with God.”

“Not sure God would want me, but I'll enjoy this for sure.”

Flanagan moved along the bar to serve a group near the front door. Grant kept an eye on the pair behind him through the mirror. There had been no exchange of glances with the bartender. It didn't look as if they had anything to do with the bar. That left two possibilities. Either they were scoping out a target for a robbery or they didn't like the English. Maybe a third option. They didn't like the police. Flanagan had already made it plain that Grant's status was common knowledge. That didn't surprise Grant. It was in the way he carried himself. The way he looked at people. He didn't need a uniform.

The long flight and extended day began to catch up with him. He decided that one beer was enough and finished it in twenty minutes. Flanagan didn't wave him farewell. He was busy with other customers. A big guy on the barstool next to him gave Grant a withering look. Either the donation-jar speech had been overheard or his Englishness was counting against him. Grant didn't care. What he cared about was what the two guys in the booth did next.

He walked slowly to the restrooms at the rear, keeping half an eye on the booth. One of the guys shuffled out of the seat and began to follow him. The other got up and went towards the front door. They weren't going to fall for the sneak-out-the-back-door routine. They were going to cover both doors.

six

Grant went through the
door
into the rear corridor. It swung shut behind him. The corridor was poorly lit by two wall lights, one on either side. The fire exit door was at the far end. The gents' restroom was on the left and the ladies' on the right. He quickly shoved the door to the gents, then ducked into the ladies' opposite, the smell of piss and disinfectant reminding him of Moor Grange School for Boys. He didn't plan on having this confrontation amid the white tiles and washbasins, though.

Timing was everything. Grant heard the door from the bar open again, followed immediately by the gents' door. He was moving before it even slammed shut. Back into the corridor and turn left. Fast. Into the bar and close the door behind him to stop it swinging. He walked straight through the bar and out the front door. The guy who'd followed him would take a few seconds to check the restroom and then go out the fire exit. Grant had just reduced the opposition by half.

The other half was waiting on the right under the brass light fittings that lit the Flanagan's Bar sign. It gave Grant a good look at his face in case an ID was needed later. He didn't think it would be. Grant came out fast but not running and turned left, back up Centre Street. The big guy had last seen him going through the rear door and wasn't ready.

Grant crossed the road. He stayed in plain sight, walking up the middle of the sidewalk and close to the curb. The streetlamps were bright. He passed the first Dunkin' Donuts and scouted ahead. The CVS Pharmacy was still open. The main entrance was at the far end as he approached. The exit door was nearest to him. He glanced in a darkened shop window to his right and saw a hulking figure cross the road to follow him. Just one. Good. He hadn't waited for his partner. He didn't have time. There was no doubt this was enemy action, though. They weren't after his autograph.

The CVS Pharmacy. Grant hoped it didn't have automatic doors and cash-register barriers. He swept past the exit door and went in the main entrance. It wasn't automatic. He was through in a split second and already heading for the exit before the salesgirl knew what was happening. He saw the big fella speed up towards the pharmacy, eyes glued on the main door. Not seeing the exit until it was too late.

Grant came out of the door like a thunderclap just as the guy sped past. Weight and momentum doubled the impact. Grant brought a knee up into the guy's wedding tackle and dropped him like a deadweight. He bunched his left fist around the guy's collar and dragged him into the deliveries alley. It was all over in five seconds. Even as he was kneeling on the moaning figure's chest, a voice played loud and clear in Grant's head.

Keep out of trouble. Don't get involved. You're off-duty.

If he'd paid attention to that voice back at Snake Pass, he wouldn't be here now. If he'd been the kind of guy to sit back and do nothing, he wouldn't have joined the army and he wouldn't be a cop. His inspector was an okay boss, but the West Yorkshire Police was ruled by statistics and target figures. Edicts handed down from on high. It had nothing to do with right and wrong anymore, merely accountability. Grant couldn't play that game. Accountability for Grant was catching the bad guys and putting them in prison.

Sometimes accountability was under his knee.

He slapped the shadowy face awake and leaned forward. “You know, if you're going to rob a fella, you really need to get in shape.”

The man's eyes were cloudy with pain. Grant didn't wait for a response. “And pay attention to the little things. Target acquisition. Surprise attack. Pick on somebody a bit smaller. Don't split your forces.”

Grant slapped him again for emphasis. “Means stick together.”

The man shifted under Grant's knee, so Grant leaned in again. The extra weight made him groan, but he didn't speak. Grant kept an eye on the mouth of the alley. Nobody came rushing past. Nobody had called the police. The other half of the attacking force was lost and confused. Grant kept his tone conversational. “That's assuming you're after my wallet. If it's an anti-English thing, I'm a Yorkshireman. Different breed. If it's a cop thing, you're lucky I'm on vacation.”

There was another possibility, but he didn't voice it. Could these two have been trying to rough him up to stop him interviewing Freddy Sullivan tomorrow? If so, what the fuck was Freddy mixed up in? Grant took five dollars out of his wallet and tucked it under the scuffed collar. “Get something for the swelling. Pharmacy's next door.”

He stood up and backwards, out of the wounded tiger's kicking arc. There were no post-action shakes. There was no adrenaline rush. There never was. It was a bonus of Grant's calm approach. He glanced down at his fallen adversary, then out of the alley. The street was quiet. Just to be on the safe side, he went out of the other end of the alley and skirted the rear of the shops. Jamaica Pond was a dark presence in the distance to his left. Grant knew it was there but couldn't see it through the network of back streets that filled the space between the hotel and the lake. The family homes of the better-off. Jamaica Plain. The face of Middle America. Peaceful America.

The sirens and the
flames
and the fighting didn't start until he was back at the Seaverns Hotel and had nothing to do with him—or so he thought. Tomorrow he'd get the interview out of the way, then chill out for a couple of days before heading home. He was looking forward to a more peaceful day. As he climbed into bed and blocked out the sirens, he didn't know it would prove to be anything but. He'd bought the map. He'd gotten laid. Now it was time for the third part of his Boston trifecta.