Jig (19 page)

McInnes picked up his suitcase from the floor. ‘I'm booked into the Essex House on Central Park, Mr. Sweeting.'

‘I know,' Sweeting said.

McInnes winked at the man. ‘I thought you might.'

Wildwood, Long Island

Big Jock Mulhaney drove his four-wheel-drive vehicle slowly over damp sands. He had a view of Long Island Sound, which looked dismal and abandoned in the sullen light of afternoon. He wore a thick flannel jacket and waterproof pants, and he had a baseball cap pulled down squarely on his head. It wasn't the kind of clothing he usually favoured. His tastes ran to rather bright three-piece suits, large checks and flashy herringbones, accompanied by wide-knotted neckties. But today he wasn't travelling in his usual environment either, which was bounded by his penthouse over union headquarters in Brooklyn and the midtown Manhattan clubs he patronised, where his fellow members regarded him with all the suspicion Old Money has for the nouveau riche. He was viewed, he knew, as an upstart, a man who didn't belong in the more rarefied heights of society. He was a brawler, a climber, a loudmouth, and he suffered from the most heinous condition of all – which was naked ambition – but there was a certain shrewdness to him that nobody disrespected.

Now, as the four-wheel-drive vehicle slithered into ruts and a vicious wind stirred the waters of the sound, Mulhaney wondered if it was bad judgment to be out here at all. For one thing, expanses of nature made him nervous. He couldn't take too many trees. He couldn't stand silences and great spaces. For another, he wasn't sure he should be meeting with Nicholas Linney anyhow, but who else was he going to confide in? He couldn't go to Harry Cairney with his theory unless he had some backing. So he needed Linney's approval and support.

Besides, there was another reason for his uneasiness, one he didn't want to think about. It was the simple fact that he had recently been obliged to cover some very bad investments with money that had been earmarked for Ireland. It wan't any great sum, a mere $450,000 skimmed from his total contribution of $1.9 million, and he was going to return it next time funds were raised, and nobody was going to find out about it anyway – but just the same the mere prospect of discovery made him feel apprehensive. What if one of the other Fund-raisers found out about the shortage? Hell, that would make Big Jock the prime suspect in the hijacking of the
Connie
. How could it not? A man who could ‘borrow' from Irish funds for his own private purposes wasn't a man who could be trusted. It had been a stupid thing to do, admittedly, but he'd been pressured by creditors, and he hadn't been thinking clearly, and he didn't want any kind of public scandal attached to his name. Thomas Dawson had recently announced a committee of inquiry into the financial practices of unions, and Mulhaney didn't like the idea of coming under the scrutiny of a bunch of congressional jerk-offs who were bound to ask tough questions. He'd covered his shortage this time, and so had spared himself some potential embarrassment, but he'd done it only at the expense of the Irish. But it wasn't something he intended to continue doing.
Fuck Tommy Dawson
, he thought. Always pointing a mighty finger at the unions, slinging accusations, digging for dirt.

Mulhaney's vehicle became bogged down in the soft wet sands. He switched off the engine and stared the length of the beach.
What if this Irishman they were all so goddam afraid of found out about the shortage?
He shook his head. The Irishman wasn't going to get within a hundred miles of him, so he wasn't going to worry about that notion.

He got out of the vehicle and turned the collar of his jacket up against the whining wind. In the distance there was the sound of gunfire, a constant rapid knocking that was muted by the churning waters. He walked a little way. He moved awkwardly because the heavy sands inhibited his progress, and every now and again spray splashed up and blinded him. Christ, he hated this place. He stopped and removed a small silver flask from his pocket. He opened it, sipped some cognac, then stuck the flask away again. Ahead, a hundred or so yards along the seafront, he could see Linney's Land-Rover, which had been painted in camouflage colours. The trouble with Nick Linney, Mulhaney thought, was the guy was some kind of nut. He read
Soldier of Fortune
and believed every word of it. He was into weaponry and combat and guerilla techniques, and he went through the pages of
Soldier of Fortune
with a big yellow marker in his fist, circling stories and advertisements that interested him.

Mulhaney kept walking. Now he could see Linney lying flat on the sand. The sound of gunfire was constant. Blap-blap-blap. As he got closer, Mulhaney noticed the targets Linney was using. Close to the shoreline, the guy had set up row after row of cantaloupes, and he was currently blasting away at them. Every now and then one of them would explode and rise up in the air in pulpy smithereens. Linney was from outer space, Mulhaney thought.

‘Nick!' he called out.

Linney stood up, raised one arm in greeting. He was dressed in combat clothing. He even had a beret, which he wore at a precarious angle. Mulhaney noticed the heavy army boots. Grenades lay on the sands alongside an assortment of weapons. Jesus, the guy was a one-man militia.

Linney stared in the direction of the cantaloupes. Then he held out the weapon he'd been using as if he wanted Mulhaney to inspect it and give it some seal of approval. Mulhaney wasn't happy around firearms.

‘The M-16A2,' Linney said proudly.

Jock Mulhaney nodded. The melons, most of them shattered, were being sucked at by the tide.

‘Feel it, Jock.' Linney thrust the weapon out in the manner used by gun freaks the world over when they're in apprehensive company. Cavalier. A little too casual.

Mulhaney held the gun for a moment before returning it. He wondered how Linney got hold of weapons that private citizens weren't supposed to have. ‘Yeah. Feels solid,' was all he could say.

‘Excellent piece,' Linney said. He pointed out some features, such as the new muzzle brake/compensator and the integral brass deflector, and Mulhaney made humming sounds, as if he might be remotely interested. Mulhaney hoped that if any one of the Fund-raisers ever found out about the ‘borrowed' cash it wouldn't be Nick Linney.

Linney swung the weapon back towards the rows of cantaloupes and fired off a couple of shots. Mulhaney watched one of the melons explode and then hit the water, carried away like a mutant jellyfish.

‘Very nice, Nick,' Mulhaney said.

Linney smiled, then put the gun inside his Land-Rover and lit a cigarette. There were oilstains on the backs of his fingers. He smoked in silence for a time, his face turned out towards the waters, before he tossed the cigarette away and looked at Mulhaney.

‘What's on your mind, Jock?' he asked.

‘You have to ask?'

Nicholas Linney beat the palm of one hand upon the panel of his vehicle. ‘I get the impression you suspect me, Jock. I got that feeling when we were at Roscommon.'

Mulhaney shook his head. ‘I considered it, I admit.'

‘And you changed your mind?'

Mulhaney took his flask out again. He wished he'd brought a cigar with him to complement the flavour of the cognac, but he'd left his case behind. He swallowed, offered the flask to Linney, who declined.

Mulhaney said, ‘Yeah. I changed my mind. Which is why I drove all the fucking way out here to see you.'

Linney pulled a pair of sunglasses over his eyes even though the sky was gloomy and overcast. ‘I'm listening, Jock.'

‘Okay. First, I ruled out Cairney. He's been in this business for nearly fifty goddam years and I can't see him screwing the Irish at this stage of the game. He's been on the Cause's side since I was in fucking diapers and you weren't even born, so why would he dump on it now?'

Linney said, ‘I'll go along with that. It wasn't Cairney.'

‘Okay. I ruled out myself because I
know
I didn't have anything to do with the
Connie.
'

Linney smiled. ‘I'm supposed to take your word for this, Jock?'

‘Hear me out,' Mulhaney said. ‘Okay. I eliminated Cairney and myself. Leaving you and Kev Dawson.'

‘Don't keep me in suspense, Jock.'

‘First, I figured it might be you. You wanna know why? Because you're the guy that
physically
takes the money to the Courier –'

‘I never saw the Courier in my lfe,' Linney said.

‘Okay. Let me put it another way. You give the money to a guy who gives the money to the Courier. Right?'

Linney adjusted his dark glasses. ‘Something like that.'

‘Fine,' Mulhaney said. He glanced at the demolished melons, understanding now why Nick Linney had an effect on him. It was more than just the gun thing, it was something in Linney's physical qualities that unsettled him. That strangely coloured face, which reminded Mulhaney of a lime. The guy's general air of self-confidence and the feeling you got that when a nuclear holocaust came, Linney was going to be among the survivors, bottled up in some fucking concrete cellar with his guns and dried fruits and astronaut foods. Linney always looked as if he knew something the rest of the human race had either ignored or forgotten.

Mulhaney played with the surface of his flask. ‘I ruled you out, Nick, because I couldn't see you turning against the Cause. I couldn't quite get a fix on that. I mean, you bring in more money than the rest of us put together, and if you wanted to steal it you'd find an easier way than going to the trouble of hijacking a fucking ship. You could have stolen the money at the source, for Christ's sake! You could have pocketed the money you raised and then told us that your donors just couldn't come through and who the hell would have been any the wiser?'

Nicholas Linney crossed his arms on his chest. He looked like some tinpot general in a South American jungle army. ‘And that leaves Kevin Dawson,' he said.

‘Kevin Dawson.' Mulhaney gouged out a pattern with the heel of his shoe in the damp sands.

‘He's got money coming out his ears. Why would he want more?'

Mulhaney smiled. ‘It wasn't the cash he was after, Nick. His family owns about half of fucking Connecticut, so he wasn't looking for financial gain. You wanna know what I think?'

Linney took off his sunglasses. ‘Tell me, Jock.'

‘Okay. I see it happening like this. Let's say he gets a call from Tom Dawson in the White House. Big Brother's unhappy. He doesn't like money flowing out of America and into Ireland. He's in a flap because all that money coming from the States makes him look bad with his bosom buddies in London, who are about the only fucking allies he's got in the world, and they've been bitching about American aid to Irish terrorists. He says to Kev that it's got to stop. And Kev, who's never been a man to deny Big Brother anything, tells him about a certain shipment aboard a certain small vessel. Wonderful, Tommy thinks. We'll put a stop to that one. He gets on the phone, talks to some of his cronies, and these cronies put together a bunch of fucking killers. Vets. Former marines who've been twiddling their thumbs since the Bay of Pigs. Whatever. The money's taken. Tommy is happy, Kev hasn't let Big Brother down, the crew isn't around to point the finger at anyone, and there's no awkward publicity.'

Nicholas Linney reached for the M-16A2 and held it against his side. He fired off two shots, missing the cantaloupes both times. Mulhaney's ears rang from the noise of the gunfire. Linney studied the barrel of the weapon for a moment, then turned to look at Mulhaney.

‘What kind of proof do you have that Kev Dawson went running off to the White House, Jock?'

Mulhaney shrugged. He had been so convinced by his own theory that the matter of proof hadn't occurred to him. To him it was blatantly obvious that Kevin Dawson was the turncoat, and even if he had constructed a scenario that might or might not have been correct, that alone didn't detract from the basic feeling of rightness he had. And he wasn't accustomed, in the world of ass-kissers and yes-men in which he insulated himself, to having his judgments questioned because proof was lacking. Kevin Dawson was the one. The only candidate. Everyone
knew
that the Dawsons weren't a trustworthy bunch.

Linney said, ‘For all I know you could have come out here to tell me this story because you wanted to avert suspicion from yourself.'

Mulhaney was quiet.
Does this bastard suspect me of something?
he wondered. The speculation filled him with a cold fear. He said, ‘I could have. But I didn't.'

‘I've only got your word for that, Jock. Which leaves us right back where we started.' Linney looked out towards Long Island Sound. ‘What makes you so sure that
I
didn't arrange the whole thing anyhow?'

Mulhaney felt spray rise up against his face as the wind forced itself over the tide. ‘Because I know it was Kev Dawson, for Christ's sake,' he said. ‘A process of simple elimination, Nick.'

‘It's not so simple, Jock. Show me proof. I need to see proof before I can go along with your story. From where I stand, Kev Dawson's always been reliable when it comes to raising funds. I need something that might convince me otherwise. I need a smoking gun, friend. Right now, I'm thinking that you dislike Kevin Dawson so intensely you'd hang anything on him. Jesus, you hate that whole goddam family.'

‘There's nothing personal in any of this,' Mulhaney said. He sipped from his flask again. Coming out here to talk to Linney – a waste of time. He had hoped that Linney would become an ally and together they'd go see Cairney and lay the story in front of the old man and let him decide how to deal with Dawson. Now Linney was asking for proof, for God's sake. What did he want? Taped conversations? Transcripts?

‘It's not exactly the kind of thing where proof's easy to come by,' he said, a little deflated. He had revealed himself to Linney and now, having been rebuffed by the man, he felt very defensive. ‘Okay. So maybe my theory isn't correct. Maybe it happened some other way and Kev Dawson had motives I haven't even thought about. Maybe the family empire is strapped for cash, I don't know. But I
know
he's the one.'