A Love to Kill For

by Conor Corderoy

  She knew—and so did I—that I was going to New York. I took the reassuringly fat envelope and peered in. By the rack of the eye it was two-and-a-half grand. I slipped it into my pocket.

  “How can I contact you when I’m done?”

  “You can’t. Noddy will arrange it.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. That was my line and he knew it, but he looked away, keeping busy washing glasses that were already clean. “All right, Catherine,” I said, “you have a deal.”

  I left Noddy’s Diner with a sour feeling in my belly that my brain couldn’t identify. I was mad at Noddy for being stupid, but I couldn’t place my finger on exactly what he’d done that was stupid. I drove back slow through Notting Hill to Church Street, enjoying the drizzle and the squeak of the wipers on the windshield, watching hunched people under windswept umbrellas dodge each other blindly through wet crowds. I let my thoughts range free among them. They covered just about everything you could imagine except why I had a sour feeling in my belly and exactly how Noddy had been stupid. In the end I decided Catherine Howard was as fascinating as hell and twice as hot, but she was also twice as much trouble, and it made me mad that Noddy couldn’t see that. I could, but he couldn’t.

  That was what I told myself.

  I parked and went up to my apartment. I had a duplex on the fifth and sixth floors. Most people didn’t know about the fifth, which I used as a den for work and storage. I used the sixth to live in, and that was where people usually found me—if I wanted to be found. I went up there now to prepare an overnight bag. There was a light winking on my phone, telling me there was a message. I listened to it while I cracked a beer and scrambled some eggs. The message was from Russell.

  Me and Russell went back a long way. I left LA when I was still in my teens because a film producer, his Italian wife and her Italian family were looking for me, and I wasn’t too keen they should find me. In fact, I decided I should move to the farthest place I could find on the planet where they spoke a language similar to my own. I couldn’t handle the eternal barbecues in Australia, so I wound up in London and badly in need of bread, as my last job had paid less than I’d hoped. So I’d done some work for some ‘gentlemen south of the river’—a cute English term for gangsters. What I didn’t realize at the time was that the job included taking the fall for one of those gentlemen. I did six months inside and six months’ community service.

  That was how I met Russell. He was a mathematician by trade, but he was one of the good guys and did voluntary work on the Community Service Program. I could never understand it, but I guess he thought he saw potential in me, because he took me on as a special project and promised me he would get me on to the straight and narrow path.

  I haven’t got to the straight and narrow path yet. There always seems to be too much interesting stuff happening on the wide and wending one. But we’d become friends, and I figured I owed him, if only for everything he’d taught me about correctly calculating the odds. His message said, “Liam, it’s Russell. I need your help. Well, not me really… It’s the nephew of a friend of mine. His uncle’s rather unexpectedly dead and…well, it’s all a little complicated. I told him you might be able to help him out. Perhaps you could give me a call.”

  Everybody wanted Liam today. That’s the trouble with being useful. I made a mental note to call him when I got back. I ate my eggs, drank my beer, then packed a bag and headed out for Heathrow.

  Chapter Two

  I was at Randall’s Island, in the shelter of the trees on the banks by the dry dock at the end of the Triborough Bridge. It was dark and cold, and it was raining. At my feet I had the attaché case I had picked up—according to Catherine Howard’s instructions—from a locker at Heathrow Airport. At ten minutes after nine, I saw twin headlights approaching along the track through the silver needles of rain. The car stopped maybe ten or twelve paces away. I heard the doors slam and two thin shadows morphed out of the glaring lamps. One was tall and stooping, the other was shorter and stockier. They were both dressed in dark macs, and wet light streamed off them in glowing runnels. The short one was carrying a black case. So far everything was according to her written instructions. I said, “You the Don?”

  I saw him stiffen and his head started to turn back toward the car, but he stopped himself. He didn’t want me to know the Don was in the car. He said, “Fot is this? Where is…” He sounded German.

  I waited but he wasn’t going to finish his question, so I said, “She couldn’t make it. I’m here instead.”

  He took a long time to answer. A cold trickle of rain, like a trickle of death, crept in through my collar and down my back. Finally, he said, “You haf got it?”

  Sometimes I like to be a wiseass, so I said, “Maybe I have,” and the big stooping one, catching on fast, said, “Wiseass,” and wiped rainwater from his eyes. He sounded like New York.

  Fritz said, “Take five paces forward. Leave ze case on ze ground, zen take sefen paces back. Pro here is doing the same, unt he takes ze case you leaf. Ve leaf, you take your case unt leaf, unt everybody goes home happy. Okay?”

  I let my amusement crawl up the side of my face. This goon was going to hand over the Don’s golden goose to a perfect stranger without checking first with his master, no questions asked. I wasn’t buying it. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but I knew it wasn’t this. I said, “You work that out all on your own, Einstein?”

  Pro, the stooping gorilla, turned to look at his buddy and shrugged. “I told you. A wiseass.”

  The rain was getting heavier. I said, “I don’t put down anything until I see the films and the photographs, with the original cards.” I was going beyond my brief, and I knew what I was asking for was impossible, but I was getting real curious. Something was wrong, and I wanted to know what it was and where it would lead. My nose told me it led to big bundles of cash. Pro made a face like a constipated gorilla and said, “Films and photographs?” like it was giving him ass-ache, and Fritz said, “Fot are you talking about? Who are you?”

  And for good measure, Pro repeated, “What’s he talking films ’n’ photographs for? What films? What photographs? I’m telling you, he’s a wiseass. I’m gonna whack him.”

  Fritz held out his hand and said, “No, vait.” I saw him glance back at the car again. He really wanted to consult with the Don, but the big man was staying out of sight. Fritz raised his voice to me. “Who are you? Why are you here? You haf got it or not?”

  I needed to think. I reached in my coat pocket for my Camels. I fished out the pack, saw it was wet, screwed it up then threw it away. I could feel the Smith & Wesson 26 hard and cold on my hip. I said, “Got what? Why are you here, Fritz? What did you come here for?”

  He turned and looked at Pro. Pro said, “This is bullshit.” It was a fraction of a second. His hand was twitching. Then there was a flash like a camera and a dry crack. Pro winced and cursed and there was the high-pitched whine of a ricochet. Fritz was stumbling backward toward the car, staring past me at the river. Pro was coming out of his wince, reaching for his piece. My Smith & Wesson was already in my hand. I saw the glint of blue metal in Pro’s coat and my Magnum erupted. I double-tapped and both slugs ripped right through his chest, and the windshield exploded behind him as he lifted off his feet and crashed onto the hood. It takes a person four full seconds to react to unexpected violence. Fritz still had three seconds to go.

  I’d sprinted two steps toward him before he turned and scrambled to pull open the door. He had it open and was half in when I collided with him. My hand slipped on his wet mac as I grabbed for his neck, but his foot skidded in the mud and he began to fall. Somewhere I heard another crack and a whine.

  Two men in wet rain macs are not graceful in a fight, and we were real clumsy. He fell against me. My Magnum thudded into the mud at my feet and I remember Pro’s upside-down, ugly, dead face staring at me through the shattered windshield, him lying on his back. I struggled to put an arm lock on Fritz as he tried to bite through my
sleeve, and I remembered randomly being grateful to the Australians for inventing Driza-Bone. Next thing his wet crew cut had slipped through my arm and he was clambering into the car. A voice somewhere was screaming, “Get us out of here!”

  I was saying, “No, wait! I just want to talk to you, damn it!” and he was scrabbling with his keys in wet fingers, half screeching as he breathed. I reached for him and in my peripheral vision, I saw a shadow on the backseat. I’d been right. The Don was in the car. Then there was a flash of metal and Fritz was coming at me. I remember thinking, Fuck! Knife!

  I was knocked hard on my back in the mud and he was kneeling on top of me. His face was twisted and the rain was in his eyes. He spat something that sounded like “Gray fucking lizard!” but I was concentrating on the knife in his hand as he leaned all his weight on it, pushing toward my throat. Something moved and I heard a car door slam. Then the engine roared and the car reversed, dropping Pro’s dead body in the mud. Then it was gone into the night, followed by another crack, but no ricochet this time.

  The worst thing you can do when someone is trying to kill you is focus on the weapon he’s using. If you do that, chances are you’ll die. So I held his knife hand with my left and fingered my way through the mud into my coat pocket. I felt the hard, cold weight of my Zippo and pulled it out. He must have wondered what the click was as I flipped the lid. The blade was just an inch from my throat when I thumbed the flint. Then the flame was licking his wrist and instead of pushing his knife hand away, I was holding it hard over the flame. It wasn’t so much a scream as a gibbering screech. When I let him go, he staggered back and I was on one knee, swinging a right hook into his balls. He collapsed. The unfortunate thing for him was that he collapsed right next to my Smith & Wesson. If he hadn’t done that, he might have lived. But when I saw the muzzle trembling up at me, I acted without thinking. I twisted it in his hand and pulled the trigger. It blew his heart right out of his back.

  They should write a song for him. I Left My Heart in New York City.

  I reached down and picked the black attaché case out of the mire. Then I collected Catherine Howard’s case and carried them both back to the rental car I’d parked by the dry dock. I slid into the driving seat and slammed the door. Then I smoked for a while, looking out at the rain and the river, letting my pulse rate slow down.

  * * * *

  I had a couple of stiff Jamesons at JFK and read the New York Times. Greenland was still melting faster than expected. I felt I wanted to explain to the IPCC about calculating odds. If they overestimated how fast they thought it was melting by as much as they always got it wrong, most of the time they’d get it right. If you’re going to gamble with humanity’s future, I figure you should know the gambler’s trade.

  But the big news was still Spain’s disintegration into three autonomous republics, leaving only the Kingdom of Castilla-Galicia to carry the name España with some dubious pride. With Catalonia and the Basque Country—now Euskadi—seeking independence, Andalusia had added to the political mayhem by finding huge reserves of oil under Almeria, Granada and Malaga. This had led to Javier Tejero, the president of the Andalusian Junta, issuing an immediate demand for independence, and he’d followed that up with an overnight referendum that he’d won ninety percent for, five percent against and five percent spoiled ballot papers. Madrid had rejected the referendum as illegal and claimed it was rigged, but the big question for the European Commission was which of these new, emerging states was rich enough to warrant membership of the EU? Catalonia and the Basque Country strolled through those big gates, flicking Spanish bullshit from their Italian suits, Castilla-Galicia—what was left of Spain—had little to offer the Big Political Club and was going out in the cold with Morocco and Turkey. But Andalusia—if it was indeed true that it had oil—would be a priceless asset. So the EU was playing a waiting game, while the Andalusians drilled like moles on speed, and chaos threatened to engulf the continent of Europe. Again. The journalist wondered if there’d be war. I think he knew there would be.

  I took Catherine Howard’s advice and slept all the way back.

  * * * *

  After landing, I went straight to Noddy’s Diner. It was nine-thirty p.m. by the time I walked in. I was still pretty mad. I answered his greeting by asking for a Martini, very dry, and put the two attaché cases on the bar. He built my drink and pushed it across the bar, nodding at the cases. “Wha’sat then? Everyfink go awright? She gonna be ’appy?”

  I drained the glass and sucked my teeth, trying to hold down my anger. “Noddy,” I said, “you’re a damned fool. No, she’s not going to be happy.” He was frowning. He could tell I was mad. “Tell her I have two cases for her. Two. You got that? Tell her if she wants them, I am going to need a lot more than twenty grand. A lot! No woman is going to play me for a sucker. Set it up, Noddy.”

  I turned and made my way to the door. I could feel him watching me. When I had opened it, I turned back to him. “You know something? When it comes to women, you’ve got to stop thinking with your damned dick and start using your brains.” He leered and I left. A voice in my head told me I should follow my own advice. I told that voice to shut up.

  When I got back home, my telephone was winking red at me again. I ignored it, slung the two cases on the sofa then cracked a bottle of Irish, pouring a stiff measure straight up and letting the hot gold ease its way to my brain via my stomach. Then I dropped into my old, overstuffed armchair, poured a second shot then poked a Camel in my mouth. I sat smoking and looking at the cases, allowing my brain to roam free for a while. One thing was sure. The case I’d collected from Heathrow wasn’t full of dough, and the one I’d collected from the Don wasn’t full of films and photographs.

  I popped the Don’s case. It contained a hundred and fifty grand in sterling. A quarter of a million dollars. I snapped it shut and slung it on top of my wardrobe in my bedroom. Then I went back to the living room and popped the other case. It contained a perfectly fitted polystyrene immobilizer with a beautiful, featureless box in the center that seemed to be made of deep, black carbon fiber. It was the size of an A4 piece of paper, about six inches deep. It was sealed shut, and hard as I tried, I couldn’t find a keyhole or pry it open. It didn’t chip, scratch or yield. It seemed to be indestructible.

  Finally, I put it on top of my wardrobe, next to the other case, then stretched out on my bed, staring at the ceiling and smoking. There was a hot restlessness in my head. I was more curious about Catherine Howard than I wanted to be. I kept seeing those red lips, that black hair and those lazy green eyes looking at me like she didn’t know whether to be bored or amused. And her whole story was like a twisted Sam Spade dime thriller, where the dame asks you to be the bag man in a blackmail payoff, but the goons pay off the dame instead. I smoked a little more and told myself I had a couple of tough questions for Miss Howard. That was why I was smiling at the thought of seeing her again—not because of her looks, not to hear her husky cut-glass voice or experience her weird, complex, vulnerable-lethal personality. I was immune to all that crap. That was what I told myself as I closed my eyes, but I didn’t believe me, not for a moment.

  The next day I ran a couple of errands, went to see some nerd friends of mine, put Catherine Howard firmly on the back burner then called Russell. He suggested I drive down to his house outside Chichester the following day, stay over and meet Rupert over dinner. That was the thing with Russell. He was so damn civilized.

  Then I hung around awhile, gently kicking the furniture and staring out of the window by turns. Finally, about midday, I called Bernie Epstein, a contact of mine on The Daily Graphic. I could tell by the way he answered the phone that he was on his third breakfast.

  “Mwaph…?”

  I said, “Bernie, is that you? It sure sounds like you.”

  I heard him swallow and it hurt. “Liam, me old mucker! I’m just havin’ breakfast. I haven’t eaten since ten! How’s it hangin’, mate? What can I do for you?”

  When Ber
nie asks what he can do for you, what he means is, what can you do for him. So I told him.

  “I might have something for you, Bernie, but I need some information first.”

  “You wanna trade, you sly little Yank! Shoot!’

  “It’s a woman. She’s real class. From the way she speaks, she’s old money, but she was on the game for a few years—”

  He swallowed noisily then cut in, “The game? You mean she was a hooker?”

  “High class. Let’s call her an escort.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

  “She had highly placed clients. If she started talking, she could upset a lot of people. Recently she bought into a biotechnology R and D company as a partner. Name’s Catherine Howard. Ring any bells?”

  I heard his shrug through the phone. “That’s it?”

  “So far that’s it. Any bells…?”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Bloody hell, Liam! You’re not givin’ me much to go on, mate!”

  “Trust me. It’s important, but that’s all I got right now.”

  He blew noisily and spoke through a mouth full of doughnut and coffee. “I’ll nose around, see if anyone on the society pages knows anything.”

  “I owe you.”

  “I know you bloody do!”

  I hung up and sat turning my phone over in my fingers for a while, waiting for it to ring. When it didn’t, I hit the speed dial for Russian Pete.

  Russian Pete had a voice like tectonic plates colliding very quietly deep underground. And like most Russian Mafia, he thought social graces were escorts who happened to be called Grace. Now he said, “Liam, what do you want?”