The Bloomsday Dead (24 page)

“And you knew nothing about the kidnapping?”

“Not a thing. Slider’s a hard case and says if I ask any questions or breathe a word, no kneecapping, no Belfast six-pack, but instead a bullet in the neck from those over-the-water types.”

“Better not be lying, Gusty,” I say.

“It’s fucking gold, so it is. I swear it.”

I nod.

I know with a dead certainty that Gusty is lying through his teeth. He didn’t stand idly by while Slider topped those two lads on the boat. It’s more likely that Slider is the middleman and Gusty iced them. He certainly helped. Whether he’s deeper in the kidnapping than this I don’t know, but somehow I doubt it. Probably hired him for this one job. Doesn’t seem like a criminal mastermind. The real person I need to speak to is Slider McFerrin.

“Slider told you nothing about these over-the-water players?”

“Nothing. He was keeking it, no way he was saying.”

“I swear to God, Gusty, if you’re keeping anything back, you’re fucked. Slider and Barry are mixed up in the disappearance of Bridget Callaghan’s daughter. Bridget’ll fucking kill you and Seamus’ll fucking kill you and O’Neill will kill you.”

“I don’t know anything about any kidnapping. This was just a wee job. Guns and a hit. That’s all,” Gusty says.

“Whereabouts in Bangor is this Slider fella?”

“I don’t know. He let it slip he was from Bangor, but he wasn’t saying. I don’t know any of the hoods from Bangor, but you could ask around.”

I grimace and take a step away.

“You keep your trap shut until the girl’s back with her ma. Understood?”

“I understand.”

He nods at me and I begin making my way through the throng. What next? Up the stairs, out into Belfast, somehow get to Bangor. A town about fifteen clicks away in northern County Down. Make sure I call the cops about that murdering bastard Gusty, although that can wait until after midnight too.

Never turn your back.

It’s an old lesson and a good ’un.

“He’s a fucking peeler,” Gusty suddenly screams at the top of his voice. “He’s a fucking undercover. Get him.”

Like in a club when a drunk falls into the DJ’s turntable, the noise in the room immediately ceases. Even the dogs stop killing each other for a second.

I run for the stairs.

I don’t make it.

Two men immediately on top of me hammering punches into the side of my head. I thump one off. The other tries to butt me in the nose, misses, and smashes me in the forehead. I stick a fingernail in his right eye and kick him away. But it’s too late now and the rest of the room is running over. A couple of punches and then an aluminum bat smacks into my ribs. You know you’re in trouble when someone produces a baseball bat. Baseball isn’t played in Ireland. Men who carry baseball bats for a living are professional skull smashers. Another bat crashes into my legs. I go down yelling. A kick lands on the side of my head. More kicks in my ribs. I see the glint of a knife. Baseball bats and knives. Well, that’s it then. They’re not messing about, they’re going to kill me. An undercover cop, fair game in their eyes.

The bat comes down heavily a couple of inches from my head, breaking someone’s foot instead. A kick just misses getting me in the balls. But someone succeeds in stamping on my chest, knocking the wind out of me.

And finally I manage to pull out the revolver.

I shoot someone in the leg and someone else in the gut. Both men fall to the floor with heavy thuds, too shocked even to yell.

The kicking stops, the men freeze for a moment. I fire into the ceiling. The attackers take a step back.

I am badly hurt and I realize immediately I’ve a window of only a few seconds before I’ll pass out. Blood is pouring into my mouth, my head’s pounding. I get to my feet. Almost fall, steady myself.

“I’m not a fucking cop,” I say and swing the pistol around wildly, pointing it at various individuals. They’re scared now, ready to believe me. “Gusty owes me ten grand, I’m his collector.”

They turn to look at our old pal.

Need to further concentrate their minds. I shoot him in the crotch. He falls to the ground, screaming.

“Next person to fucking look in my direction is off to the fiery pit,” I tell them.

I shamble-run to the stairs. The doorman blocking my path. I shoot him in the left thigh, push past him, and scramble up the steps. The mob boiling behind me, debating whether to follow me or not. Am I a cop? Am I not? A confusion in the stories and the fact that I still have a gun. I have one round left. One for any one of them.

I open the metal door and run into the street. Down one alley, then another, losing myself.

Losing myself.

The blood pouring out.

My head throbbing.

Pain mounting.

Those flashing lights again.

Take a look back, no pursuit.

Another alley. I slip, fall into a pile of garbage cans.

Aye, that’s me. In the goddamn rubbish. At home here.

In Belfast.

In Dublin.

And back.

I fall way back.

Across countries. Oceans. Years.

Lima.

Los Angeles.

Farther.

All the way to a cold January in the Bronx, where my mind wants to take me for reasons that I don’t get now but I’ll understand by midnight.

“There’s no way,” I tried telling him. “It’s all to do with pressure.”

“Aye, you say that, and when I’m mashed up against the carriages you can tell my ma.”

The train was accelerating and we still had about fifty yards until we got to the steps at the platform.

“We’re not going to make it,” Andy said. Fergal was leading us, but he was so looped on paint thinner he thought he was back in the OC, hare coursing or something, screaming and hooting and generally spooking Andy and me.

“Will you shut it, you big glipe,” I told him, but he was uncontrollable.

The train was bearing down and those buggers in the MTA never stop.

“We’re gonna die now,” Andy said behind me.

“We’re not going to die,” I assured him.

But the gap between the line and the security fence was only about a yard wide and for the first time I began to think that Andy might be right. Maybe the bloody thing was going to hit us. It was coming at a fair oul clip, that was for sure.

“If we cut over to the other side of the tracks, there’s more room,” Andy suggested.

“Go and you’ll trip and fall and get bloody electrocuted and then beheaded and I’ll have to explain that to your ma,” I said.

“Well, big Fergal’s going to get it first, the way he’s carrying on.”

“And he deserves it, his idea.”

I looked up the track to see where Fergal was, but everything was absorbed into the train’s headlights. It couldn’t be more than ten feet in front of us. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

It sounded its horn and I found myself screaming.

“Oh my God,” Andy yelled out and then the thing was on top of us.

“It’s sucking me in,” I heard myself shrieking. “Sucking me in, so it is.”

Couple of people staring at us from their seats, lights, clattering wheels, sparks. In a few seconds the train was past. Fergal was giving it the fingers from the side of the track. I was hyperventilating. Deep breaths, I told myself, deep breaths.

Andy put his hand on my back. I shook my head.

“That boy is going to get us killed,” I said, pointing at Fergal.

“More than likely,” Andy agreed.

We headed up the line, caught Fergal, grabbed him by the jacket, and trailed the useless ganch after us. We exited the subway station and found the steps down the hill. Sure, it saved us about fifteen blocks by going over the fence and along the tracks, but it had taken years off our lives.

A minute later we walked into the brightly lit bar, more or less in one piece. Fergal looked at his clunky digital watch and told us that it was exactly nine o’clock.

“My shortcut paid off. We’ll be able to get a seat now,” he said, sliding his way among the patrons. Andy gave me a disgusted glance and I validated it with an eyebrow raise.

We walked to the bar, but before we got five paces a bouncer tapped me on the shoulder.

“How old are you boys?” the bouncer asked in a monotone.

“How can you ask me that question?” Andy said. I groaned. Just answer, you bloody big stupid eejit. “Can’t you see that I’m twenty-five?” Andy continued. The bouncer looked at him with skepticism as Andy rummaged for the fakest of fake IDs. Fergal waved his hand in front of the bouncer’s face.

“These are my mates,” he said.

Fergal was five or six years older than Andy and myself, but even so, that wouldn’t matter to the bouncer. I sighed. All this way into the heart of the Bronx and then risking death on a shortcut along the elevated subway tracks. All for some mythical bar that would probably be shite. Moot, anyway, because it looked like we were going to get chucked out after just two seconds inside the establishment.

“I’m twenty-five,” Andy insisted and showed the ID.

The bouncer looked at Fergal for a second.

“Wait a minute. Do you work for Sunshine and Darkey White?” the bouncer asked.

Fergal’s eyes narrowed. He drew himself up to his full height.

“Aye, I do,” Fergal said.

“And these are your mates?” the bouncer asked him.

“Aye, they’re tagging along. Andy here has been with us about six months, and for young Michael, this is his very first week in America.”

The bouncer looked upset and then afraid.

“Sorry, I had no idea, I had no idea,” he said apologetically.

“It’s ok,” Fergal said.

He backed away.

“Sorry for grabbing you on the shoulder, pal. I didn’t know you were working for Darkey White,” he said to me.

“Forget it,” I muttered. “It’s nothing.” Although it wasn’t nothing, and Fergal suddenly gained stature before my eyes.

We walked upstairs to the top bar, our ultimate destination.

Of course, we could have gone drinking anywhere in Riverdale or Manhattan but what was special about this place, allegedly, was that it was full of underage Fordham girls, who, Fergal claimed, were gagging for it all the bloody time. Beer, underage girls, Fergal on paint thinner. Quite the mix.

“My prediction,” I told Andy, “is that it’s going to end in tears.”

“Lucky if it’s only tears.”

We opened the door of the top bar and went in. But for once, Shangrila wasn’t over the next mountain. It was right bloody here, if your particular utopia was heavily made-up seventeen-year-old Catholic girls, in slut skirts, heels, jewels, and perfume from their ma’s closet.

There were mirrors everywhere and bright interrogation-style lights. MTV was playing on two TV screens, the music so loud that everyone except the bar staff had to shout. The girls had attracted a rough crowd of ne’er-do-wells from Long Island—surly suburban kids, looking for action of any description: girls or fights, either would be acceptable.

Fergal sussed a vacant table near the corner right under one of the TVs. He led the way, his big arms swinging wildly at his sides, terrifying me into thinking that he was about to knock over someone’s pint. He could handle himself, but it was inevitable that Andy and me would be drawn in to any fracas. A couple of silent prayers and mantras kept him safe all the way to the corner. We sat down and took off our jackets.

“My shout,” I said, and asked the boys what they were having. Everyone was on lagers, so that was easy to remember. The barman caught my eye as soon as I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. Part of the advance Sunshine had sent me to bring me over from Belfast to New York.

I ordered three pints. I paid with the bill, got the change, and put the three pints into a triangle. I weaved my way back through the tables, avoiding obvious booby traps in the shape of extended legs or handbags or the belts of folded-up coats.