The Bloomsday Dead (16 page)

“No, thanks.”

“Michael Forsythe, Michael Forsythe. You’re a bit of a legend, aren’t you?”

“Nah, not really. You’re the star, Garrett. Councillor, assembly-man— I’m very impressed.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just doing my bit for the people. A life of service turned out to be my calling.”

“Very good of you, I’m sure.”

His eyes went glassy as he remembered the old days.

“Jesus, Michael Forsythe. I haven’t seen you since way back. Boy, oh boy, I couldn’t believe it when I heard you’d joined the British army. I’m glad you got out and I didn’t have to kill you,” he said with a big laugh.

“Maybe I would have killed you.”

Garrett laughed again.

“Oh, don’t worry, you don’t have to brag, I know all about you, Michael. I heard about your exploits in America.”

“What ya hear?”

“You killed Darkey White over money. That’s the story on the street.”

“It’s close enough,” I said.

“What are you doing with yourself these days? Maybe I got the wrong end of the stick, but I’d been led to believe that you were living a secret identity, in the witness protection program,” Garrett said.

“Aye.”

“I heard you were in Australia.”

“No, I wasn’t. . . . Listen, Garrett, I’d love to talk about old times and your rise to fame and fortune, but I came here because I need your help.”

Garrett’s smile disappeared from his face.

“You need my help?” he said suspiciously.

“Yeah.”

“Michael, um, these days I have to keep within the letter of the law, I’m running for parliament and—”

“Garrett, it’s nothing illegal. I’m working for Bridget Callaghan, her wee girl—”

“I know. Her wee girl ran away with some fella and she’s been doing her nut, sending her boys everywhere looking for her. I know all about it.”

“Aye. Well, her boys have drawn a blank and the cops have been fucking useless and now they’ve received a ransom demand.”

Garrett nodded slowly.

“Have they now? So she’s been kidnapped.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“I heard she ran off. Maybe she staged it to get her ma’s money.”

I was getting a little impatient with this.

“Garrett, regardless of how it happened, I’m trying to find her and I’d like you to help me.”

Garrett pushed his chair back on the rollers, creating a psychological and physical distance between us. You didn’t need to be a head shrinker to read those signs.

“You owe me a favor, Chopper,” I said.

He laughed.

“A favor? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“For the van full of nicked whisky. If I hadn’t torched it, blown it the fuck up, you would have done five years for that.”

Garrett shook his head.

“No way, Michael. I would have bought my way out of that one. I would have done what I done, no matter if you’d torched that van or not. Stop kidding yourself, mate. I don’t owe you a fucking thing.”

I closed my eyes. Seethed. This was the wrong thing to say to me on the day I’d had.

“Take that cigar now,” I said.

Garrett opened a box on the table, took out two cigars, cut the end off, lit them both, and passed one to me.

“Michael, let’s go get some lunch. I’m happy to see you, let’s talk about what you’re about and what you’ve been up to. It’s fascinating that you’re actually working for the woman who, I heard, had a million-fucking-dollar contract on ya. I mean, for Jesus’ sake.”

I puffed on the cigar. An expensive Cuban. Way above a councilman’s salary.

“Garrett, I don’t want to threaten you—” I began again.

Garrett laughed.

“You. Threaten me? Whose town do you think this is? Aye, I know who she is and I seen her goons about, but let me tell you, this isn’t the fucking Big Apple. Don’t even try to go down that road. Don’t embarrass yourself. Would you walk into Palermo and start mouthing off about Bridget Callaghan? Well, don’t walk in here and try the same thing.”

“Garrett, it wouldn’t just be her. You wouldn’t want the IRA after you, would ya?”

“The IRA, Michael, is on cease-fire. Come on, enough of this talk, you’re spoiling what could be a nice reunion between old pals.”

“Hear me out, Garrett, all I want to know is the name of the gangster who owns the Malt Shop on Bradbury Place. That’s all, just a fucking name. Fucking manager was too afeared to tell me, but I know you know. You’d have to know.”

Garrett nodded. He did know. He knew all the underbosses in his territory.

“Why is that name so important to you?” he asked.

“The Malt Shop is where Siobhan Callaghan met the boy she disappeared with. The boy was reeking of pot. A drug dealer. He has to be connected. He’d have to get permission to deal there and whoever gave him that permission will know who he is and where he lives.”

Garrett rubbed his chin, slowly shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Michael, I can’t help you, I don’t want to rock the boat. If they ever found that I had told someone who—”

“I’ve got a .38 in my pocket,” I interrupted.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Michael. The intercom has been on the whole time you’ve been in here. I know you’re joking, but I wouldn’t want my boys rushing in and fucking shooting you by mistake. That would be an ugly thing to happen to the prospective MP for West Belfast. Even with the whole IRP behind me, it would hurt my campaign,” he said jovially.

I was angry now.

“‘Peace, Power, Prosperity,’ my arse.”

“Michael, all those things are important. We’re bringing people together. We are taking power from the old archetypes committed to a past full of hate. We’re building a new society here.”

“Chopper, don’t come the politician with me, don’t get ideas above your station. You are what you’ve always been, a small-time fucking hood. Ignorant hood, too,” I said.

He forced his laugh harder.

“Ignorant. How so? Oh, do enlighten me, rat exile from abroad,” he said, not at all nonplussed.

“I know where you come from, mate, even if your constituents have forgotten. I know you are in an ugly fucking business and if your boys rush in, well and good, let them do their worst, you’ll be dead before the door handle turns,” I said, pulling out the revolver and pointing it at his head.

“Put that away, you’re making a fool of yourself.”

“Aye, well, better a breathing fool than a dead fucker.”

“You’d never get out of here alive.”

“Shoot my way out.”

“You wouldn’t dare kill me. Your life wouldn’t be worth tuppence.”

“Who owns the Malt Shop on Bradbury Place?”

“Michael, forget it, what do you care about some missing wee tart.”

A knock at the door.

“Is there a problem, Councillor Clonfert?” a voice asked.

Chopper looked at me quizzically. He was right. If I laid a finger on him, his boys would top me. There was no angle in killing him and Chopper was certainly brave enough to see me blink first.

We regarded each other for a half minute, and then for the second time in an hour I put the gun away, my bluff called, my threat useless.

“There’s no problem, Peter. Mr. Forsythe here was just leaving,” Chopper said.

Aye, the son of a bitch knew I wouldn’t kill him. He knew I couldn’t kill him. But everyone has a weakness. I got to my feet.

“Well, Garrett, you can keep your cigars, I suppose I’ll he heading on.”

Garrett stood too.

“Michael, it’s always interesting being with you. So over the top. So old school. You should have gone into the theater,” he said, and offered me his hand again. I shook it and winked at him.

“You’re a brave man, Chopper, should have know better than to threaten you.”

“Aye,” Garrett said, pleased with himself.

I hesitated, thought for a moment, nodded at the photograph of him with his wife and child.

“Although if I were you, I’d put a couple of bodyguards on that wee girl of yours and keep them there for at least ten years, that’s how long Bridget waited till she hit me. She’s patient.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me, Garrett,” I said, and began walking for the door.

“Bridget Callaghan wouldn’t dare come after my family,” he said, his face completely at odds with his words.

“Nah, not your family. Just your wee girl, she’s old school too, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, dead daughter for dead daughter.”

Garrett let me walk two more paces. He hit the intercom button on his desk, turning it off to give him privacy.

“Sit down,” he said in a whisper.

“I think I’ll stand.”

“What would you tell Bridget?”

“When her daughter turns up dead, I’ll tell her that you’re the one that stopped me from saving Siobhan and that you have a lovely wee girl yourself.”

This was the chink in his armor. He paled and sweat appeared on his forehead. He looked at me with the cold hate that comes from the mingling of shame and fear.

“Seamus Deasey. It’s his turf. If it’s a drug place, they’re paying off to him.”

“Where would I find him?”

“He’s in the fucking book.”

“I need to find him right now.”

“He might be in the Rat’s Nest.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a pub on Valencia Street.”

“Where?”

“Off the Falls Road.”

“Bad area?”

“Bad fucking area.”

“Ok. Take it easy, Garrett.” I threw the lit cigar onto his carpet, stamped it out.

“Aye, don’t hurry back, Forsythe, and remember, not everyone you’ll meet is as mellow and well adjusted as me.”

I left the office. Nodded to Doreen. Not the happiest of reunions. But at least I had a name. It was something to go on. Chopper hadn’t been lying. He was tough as old boots, but he couldn’t be tough for everyone. Shouldn’t have put up that Klimt of the ma and bairn, not that with the old family photo too. That was overdoing it. Wouldn’t have thought to get you from that direction, Chopper. Did you forget, it was you, mate, who told me long ago to hide your weakness, your vulnerabilities. You don’t display them for all the world to see.

Nah.

I exited the advice center.

Out into the street.

Checked for tails.

It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk to the Falls Road. I’d do it in ten.

You know why I don’t like it?

Because there is still evil in this town.

I can sense it.

In the pavement, in the fold of tenebrous color, in the eclipse of shapes.

I can sense it because I helped make it.

I feel its presence, its power.

From Saint Patrick to the Vikings, Ireland had five centuries of peace. Never before nor after. That time ripped apart literally in a Norse blood eagle of ribs and axecleaved hearts. And ever since we’ve had the creature with us. Our shadow, our watcher, our tormentor, our instigator. It sleeps. It dreams. But it’s still here. Coiled. Hungry. A stalking monster of revenge and memory. It moves and weaves. Slipping sideways, backwards, but always moving, driven by malcontent. Its greatest reign, the Troubles. And I suppose some might say that it’s not sleeping, it’s dying. It’s possible, but it’s too soon to tell. Certainly, on the surface, we are in the time of no more war. Terrorism doesn’t happen in Ireland nowadays. America, the Middle East, Russia, across the water, those are the hot spots. No radical Muslim sleeper agents here, and Ulster has an uneasy peace.

But the evil waits. Biding its time. It moves the clouds, it stirs the breeze.

Whispering with a voice so delicate that it will throw a switch on a circuit board. Click—and a breath of a wire shifts into a new and more significant alignment. A minuscule voltage disappears from a battery and jolts into a doughnut ring of industrial detonator. Viper quick, the Semtex expands a millionfold into a couple of bags of fertilizer or roughly two hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate, home-made, stomach-churning, disemboweling explosive. A chain reaction and the fertilizer rips through a police station, or the floor of someone’s car, or into a bag of sharpened roofing nails.