by J. A. Marley
Harkness shifted his weight, and Danny just folded off him and onto his knees.
Harkness’s face was a picture of amazement. To see the blagger in all kinds of trouble, his face drained of colour, ashen and unable to even speak was a shock. He moved towards him, about to try and help him up, but Danny was suddenly able to catch some air.
He inhaled in a howl, his faculties finding a little purchase from God knows where, the feel of the gun and the realisation of his current vulnerability bringing him back some focus. As Harkness reached for him, Danny jerked back the gun and let off a round. The noise was ear-splitting between them, the smell of gunpowder rank in the air, Danny feeling something warm and sticky on his fingers. All of this in a heartbeat. And then, he heard it.
Harkness. Screaming.
Looking up, Danny could see that his wild shot had caught the side of Harkness’s head, blood was pouring down the side of his face from where the top half of his left ear should have been.
That was the moment that Danny’s brain decided to shut down.
16
Stoning Birds
When he came to, the first thing Danny saw made him involuntarily sit up a little straighter. He then realised that as well as staring into Father Simeon’s hazel-flecked eyes. He was sitting on the floor of his porch, his back propped up against the wall of the house.
“Good morning. Welcome back to the real world. How ya doin’, my man?”
“Err… that would be telling. Did you say good morning?”
“People tell me all sorts of things, Brother D. Comes with the priest territory along with the funny looking collar, and yes… good morning.”
Danny’s memory kicked in. He must have lain there all night. He looked down at his right hand, expecting to see his gun, not surprised that it wasn’t there.
“Looking for something?”
“Uh… no, I’m not.”
Danny looked at Simeon. He wasn’t holding the gun either, so that could only mean that as well as giving Harkness a new scar, he had a new gun, too.
“Y’all hit the sauce a little hard last night?” Simeon gestured towards the shattered remains of the Bourbon glass on the porch floor.
“Something like that. Are we fishing today, Sim?”
“Uh-uh… I just stopped by to invite you to a little happening I have this coming weekend.”
Danny pushed himself up. Using the wall to steady himself, he hoped Simeon wouldn’t notice that he needed the support. “A knees-up? Kind of you.”
“Whatchu sayin’? Knees… wut?”
“It’s London speak, for a party… a knees-up is a party…”
“You are one curious mutha…”
“Said the catholic priest. The only one I know who has a mouth like a sewer… mind you, you are the only priest I know… Come inside, I’ll make you a coffee…”
“You look like you need it more than me.”
As they turned to go, something caught Simeon’s eye. Dark splashes on the wood just to the left of the remains of the tumbler. He stopped, crouched down, reaching out to touch the marks, trying to see how fresh they might be. His fingers came up dry, a little grit on them. Simeon straightened up, a question hovering on his lips. Danny pre-empted it.
“I see you’ve spotted the result of my attempts at DIY.” He held up his left hand, showing a scabbed finger as proof.
“Must’ve been a deep cut to leave so many splashes o’ red…” Simeon slowly shook his head, letting a breath out as he did so. “You should know better than to fool around with shit you have no idea about. Stick to fishing, Brother D.”
Danny knew he didn’t believe the explanation, but he was relieved Simeon didn’t pursue it.
“Coffee. Come on in.”
Danny realised the instant he walked into his living room that he was tense. For a fleeting moment, he had expected to see it trashed. That whilst he had been out cold, Harkness would have rampaged through the modest abode. But everything was as he’d left it the night before.
As he started the coffee maker, Father Simeon perched against the small kitchen table, watching Danny go about the simple chore.
“So, what’s this knees-up in honour of, then, your holiness?”
The smell of brewing coffee started to fill the air. Simeon pulled out a chair.
“Our little tête-à-tête about God, the universe and everything on the boat the other day bothered me.”
‘I didn’t mean to offend, but when it comes to religion, I’m a mind-made-up type.”
“I geddit, I geddit, but I do think yo’ might be missing something. I think yo’ might be cutting off a whole side of yourself. It could be something beautiful, man. I know when I meet someone who has good bones. You got those type o’ bones, Brother D.”
“Listen, Simeon…”
“No, no, now, hear me out… let a dog bark. I know you got all sorts o’ stories runnin’ in yo head ’bout how religion does nuthin’ but make men hate one another. But I think I can show what else it can do. Show you an iddy biddy peek of the good that can happen. People might just surprise yo’ ass. So, I wanted to invite you to my little event. Show you how religion ain’t made up of theology. It’s made of people, and all of ’em have hearts. And you might have some fun along the way. Kill two birds, and all that jazz…”
Danny poured the coffee, enjoying the sight of the black liquid nectar swirling into the mug even if he didn’t often drink it. Tea was more his thing, but he wanted a bigger caffeine hit.
“That’s all very nice, Simeon, but like I said before, I’ve got a lot of personal data that supports my worldview… and as for having good bones? It might be time to get that radar of yours recalibrated, mate.”
“Now, listen up. I ain’t asking you as a priest, or a spiritual adviser. I’m inviting you as a brother, a friend. Come take a look. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Simeon was staring at him. He had a sincerity on his face that almost made Danny flinch, a reaction that was alien to him.
“Okay, I don’t know what I’m being invited or saying yes to… but I’ll come. Bless me, Father… for I have RSVP-ed.”
Simeon’s face cracked into a huge smile, his big fist accepted the mug of coffee being passed to him, the other clapped Danny on the shoulder, almost knocking him off balance.
“My man! My Brother D… I swear you’re just gonna love it…”
“Yeah? That might be, but you still need to get that radar checked…” Because, Danny thought, my bones are riddled with our people’s screams and you can’t even see it. He took a sip. The coffee tasted hot and bitter in his mouth.
Ines Zedillo had to wait until the afternoon before making the call. The time difference between Miami and the south of France was an inconvenience, but when your boss might be imprisoned and given the death penalty the minute he set foot on American soil, it was a small price to pay.
She’d sent her boss the latest briefing document a few days earlier via Fed Ex, and today, he would have the chance to discuss its contents with her. She listened to the ring tone on the satellite phone they used for such conversations. Not a hundred percent secure method of communication, but better than any mobile, landline or online connection.
Thousands of miles away, the other end of the connection chirped. She could picture Alvaro Montoya as he set aside his demitasse of coffee to answer it. Nestled in the Provence countryside, she imagined he’d be sitting at the breakfast table on the terrace of his beautiful villa. Even at this early hour on a spring morning, she knew the sun would be warming him along with his coffee.
“Bonita… que tal?”
“Jefe… muy bien… y tu?’
Despite the caution of satellite connection, they would converse without names and be circumspect with their choice of words.
“Chica, I received the detail. Thank you. The numbers look fabulous. As always, I’m in your debt.”
“We can improve them now we have a new player on the field.”
“He thinks he is a better player than the ones we already have. As I mentioned, he wants to solve a problem he thinks we have not spotted. A tactical one, so to speak. Should we give him a chance?”
“Chica, you know my views on weak tactics. If they are making it easier for our opponents to score against us, then we change them… shuffle the line-up. I know this new talent is not one of ‘our’ players, but if he is skilful, sign him on loan, no?”
“But what if the new player is not so tactically astute?”
“Give him a trial. If he turns out to be a loser, we ditch him. Sabe, señora?”
Alvaro was being quite clear, despite the footballing euphemisms. She was to give Harkness the go ahead to fix her skimming problem. And if he turned out to be useless, or worse, even more trouble than the skimmer, the cartels had ways of making problems disappear. And if he solved the problem, then perhaps he might be useful, or perhaps she might let the cartel machine dispose of him too.
“The new player wants to bring his own coach with him… someone he says will be a catalyst for the team.”
“Que suerte, chica… you always bring us luck. I’m sure you will know how to handle these players, even if results go against us. Hasta luego, bonita. Get me results.”
The line went dead. And Ines let the phone drop to her side. She stepped out onto the patio. This one overlooked the waters of Biscayne Bay. The sun was starting to dip beyond the horizon. As with all problems, opportunities also presented themselves. She was beginning to think that with Harkness, and whoever this man he wanted with him was, she might be able to kill more than a few birds with just the one stone. And her boss, from his luxurious exile in Europe, had just given her permission to do so.
As always, problems presented her with opportunities. It was one of the factors that had made her so successful in the treacherous world in which she walked. She was able to spot where advantages could be gained, even in the face of adversity. She relished such challenges, and here was another. And, as usual, Ines liked her own odds of success.
17
Scarlet Billows
The band was giving it everything they’d got. The brass section was puffing with all their might, the drummer looking to thrash out the irresistible rhythm. The lead singer was wrapping his voice around the lyrics, his tune unctuous and seductive. The revellers on the dance floor were playing their part too, moving hips and feet in time, all elegant dresses and razor sharp tuxedoes.
The glamour of the Royal Ballroom in Miami added to the decadent feel. You could have been forgiven for thinking this was a party scene fresh out of the demob happy days straight after World War Two. It’s lavish drapes and chandeliers were like props from a Hollywood musical. Except it was the twenty-first century and the partygoers were there to raise funds for an ultra-right-wing think tank called ‘Forethought’. Political respectability needed clout. Clout cost money. Huge amounts of it. And it didn’t matter if your blog movement dressed up views that had been around since the heyday of the Klan. If you paid enough for your emperor’s new clothes you might end up hanging out with the emperor himself.
And in the middle of all this ‘whiter than white’, ‘righter than right’ party, Vincent Cardell was doing a passable job of a hybrid foxtrot and quickstep. June’s hair was flicking round her head as he led her on a very merry dance.
The music ended with a flourish and the dancers stopped to raise their hands in the air, applauding the band, the singer, themselves. Vincent reached out and took June by the wrist. A smile beamed across his face, flush with the exertions of dance that his father would have called ‘the Devil’s distraction’. He pulled her close, kissed her full on the lips, not noticing the way her body tensed ever so slightly as he did so.
“So, set it up. If you think you have someone who can clear up this Zedillo mess, then I want to speak with him, June.”
“When?”
“This Sunday. He can watch us preach God’s true, holy word and then I can work out if he is our ‘Godsend’?”
“He can be. I’ll sort it…”
And this time she kissed him. Feeling him react against her hip, his mind flooded with thoughts that could distract a devil, just as the singer took to the mic, announcing the last song of the evening.
“There’s only one song that can polish off a celebration like tonight, folks. Let’s go all Bobby Darin, and I’ll tell you about a man named… Mack the Knife!”
And the band kicked in.
Danny felt annoyed rather than surprised when he heard a car pull up onto his drive, tyres crunching on the oyster shells. He had just been trying to decide which movie he was going to watch. Was it going to be Richard Gere’s breath-taking villainous turn as the ultimate corrupt cop with Andy Garcia on his tail? Internal Affairs was always a compelling watch. Or was he going old-fashioned yet up to date as Jeff Bridges broke out his gruff sheriff act for Hell or High Water, a film Danny was yet to watch but had heard great things about. Now, by the sound of it, his plans were about to be screwed.
He stood out on his porch, letting the headlights of the deep red Ford Mustang sweep over him as it pulled to a stop. Shading his eyes, Danny could see a familiar bulk and shape climb out of the car. The broad shoulders. The bullet neck and head that was close-shaved and looked that bit too big for the rest of the body. Instinctively Danny reached for the back of his jeans. He realised too late that there was no pistol there, no chance of the secure feel of cold steel to greet his hand.
Fuck. You don’t need a gun to watch a movie. He grimaced.
“I can see you looking, Felix… there’s no need to panic. I owe you for that half a fucking ear.”
Harkness stepped into Danny’s car lights. Backlit, Danny could see the ear he had mangled with his reckless shot.
“I’ve only just gotten used to my new look. Come with me.” Harkness said it in a tone of voice that made it obvious this was not an invite. It was a command.
“And why should I do that?”
Harkness came to the foot of the steps that led down from the porch. Looking up at Danny, he showed no sign of malice or nervousness at the vulnerability the height difference left between them.
“I’ll tell you why. You, my fine young thief, are experiencing panic attacks. I know one when I see it. And that is why I’m not that pissed off with you about the whole ear deal.”
“It’s less than a whole ear…”
“Fuck off with your smart-arse mouth. In the car. Now. We’re going to cure your ‘screaming ad-dabs’.”
“How would you know what’s best for me?”
“You’re fucked in the head, Danny. You fell off the horse. Perceived wisdom tells us to get straight back on it.”
“It’s been eighteen months since I’ve had so much as an angry thought. But as soon as you show up they seem to blossom.”
Harkness laughed. Looking at his feet, he stepped up onto the porch. “A little of what won’t kill you can do you good.”
“But you’re a killer, Harkness, dark as night. A stone-cold madman who kills anyone who gets in your way.”
“You’re bored, Danny Felix. I can smell it on you. I can see it in your eyes. You wouldn’t be melting into your own thoughts with every little stress if you weren’t. You wouldn’t be fucking damsels in distress when they show up on your boat. You wouldn’t be even having this chat if you weren’t bored out of your tiny little scheming mind. You need some juice. A little action. And I can provide…”
Harkness let it hang in the humid night air. The words, out there in the world, were taking on a life of their own, finding purchase in Danny’s head like an ear worm song from a worthless pop star.
“I’m not getting involved. You can keep your little Jesus freak woman, Harkness. Keep her money, her job, and her ‘Jesus is my homeboy’ husband. I’m done, I’m out… I’m twice as quit today a
s I was when you first showed up leaving little toy cars on my porch. Go fuck yourself…”
“At the very least, Danny, look at it as a way to finish the business you started back in London. You know you have to kill me, right? This may be the only way you can find a route to that particular loot.”
Harkness was laughing, clapping his hands, a sound that Danny never wanted to hear again, ever.
But the reality hit him, made him stop and pause. Harkness was speaking the truth. This had to end. And there was only ever going to be one way.
“Come on, Danny. Where is the adventurer who brought London town to its knees? Where is the blagger who brought a little style back to the art of thieving? You with your panache. Your balls and brass neck. You’re an artist, Danny. Don’t let that go to waste. Come with me. Have some fun and those night sweats will be a thing of the past. Get back in the game… you never know, you might get a swing of the bat at me in the process.”
Danny considered the man he hated most, save his own father, standing now in front of him, trying to cajole him into another bad situation. And yet the logic stacked up. The only way to keep Harkness at arms-length was to walk beside him. See where his plans lead and then take the best opportunity to stymie them. And then, this time, take him off the board once and for all.
Danny couldn’t believe he was about to say this: “Where?”
“I want us to pay a little visit to some regular heroes. Cause a little fuss, raise a little hell. Put a dent in someone’s plans that might just help us a bit further down the avenue…”
“I don’t kill. That’s over for me. No guns, no bombs. I can work smarter than that now.”
“Holy fuck… Am I asking the Dalai fucking Lama out on a job? Hold on, will these do instead?”
Harkness stepped back down to his car. Opening the boot with the key fob, he delved in and emerged with a pair of baseball bats. “They aren’t lethal if you use them right… right, Danny?”