Dead I Well May Be

by Adrian McKinty

  Dermot, you cultchie cow-fucking bastard, parley, are you fucking deaf? Parley, I yelled again.

  The shooting went on for another few seconds and then abruptly stopped.

  There was a pause, and then Dermot yelled out from somewhere:

  What?

  Dermot, listen, it’s Michael, listen, bloody listen. Peelers are gonna be here in a minute. Your boys fucked up, fucked up big-time, can’t get us from where you are.

  See about that, Dermot said, menacingly.

  Wait, you fucking wanker, wait. You’re not getting us and we’re not getting you, and the peels are gonna show up sooner or later, and then what? Slammer, five years, and then deportation. Is that what you want?

  One of Dermot’s boys yelled something in Spanish and the shooting started again. Sunshine grabbed my arm and was having some kind of asthma attack. I looked over at Scotchy sarcastically, asking him to get a load of this, but Scotchy’s face was contorted with rage, either at me or his predicament, you couldn’t tell. The shooting stopped.

  What do you suggest? Dermot shouted.

  Cease-fire and withdrawal. You let us go and we’ll give you twenty-four hours to get to pastures new, I said, and looked at Sunshine to see if that was ok with him. Sunshine seemed to understand and nodded.

  Who says I want to go anywhere? Dermot yelled.

  Listen, Dermot. What was the idea, were you going to kill all of Darkey’s boys? You must be heading somewhere. You can’t sit it out here, you’re not that powerful.

  There was a long silence and in it we could hear sirens.

  All right, Michael, your word. You’ll give me twenty-four hours if I let youse out? Dermot said.

  My word and Sunshine’s too, I yelled.

  I turned to Sunshine.

  Tell him, I whispered, tell him.

  My word too, Sunshine yelled, somewhat shrilly.

  Ok, Dermot said.

  Ok, I said.

  What now? Dermot asked, uncertain.

  Uhhh, we get up and you don’t shoot us, I said.

  Scotchy was shaking his head at me and mouthing “Fuck no,” but he didn’t say anything. He had that much sense, at least.

  Ok, that’s all right, Dermot announced.

  So we get up and you don’t shoot us and we back out to the car and get away before the peelers come, ok, all slow and simple like, ok?

  That’s ok. I agree, Dermot said.

  Sunshine was tugging at my sleeve. I crouched beside him.

  What? I asked.

  Are you sure this is going to work? he asked.

  I think so.

  How do you know he won’t shoot us as soon as we get up? Sunshine said nervously.

  He will shoot us as soon as we get up. That’s the whole plan, I said and took his .38.

  Sunshine paled.

  I looked over at Scotchy and did a little pantomime of my own now. I leveled the .38 and showed that I was going to keep it by my side and then bring it up fast to full extension and shoot. Scotchy looked at me quizzically, and then he seemed to understand. He whispered to Fergal, and Fergal shook his head before Scotchy pulled some sense into him by the hair. It was really just a copy of Scotchy’s dim-witted plan that I’d dismissed earlier as completely ridiculous, but there didn’t seem to be anything else. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been shot at; as it turned out, it wouldn’t be the last, either. I had the bottle to do it. If Scotchy had it too, we might just be ok.

  Ok, Dermot, we’re getting up, no shooting now, I said, and then in a whisper to Sunshine: You better stay down.

  I looked over at Scotchy. He was psyched. Say what you like about Scotchy being a dick and all, but he comes through for you when you need it.

  I nodded.

  He nodded.

  Scotchy was ready and, shit, was that boy a fast one. Fergal you could discount, but Scotchy might do something.

  The problem as I saw it was that with our handguns there was no way we could get in a decent shot at the opposition without exposing ourselves. With a machine gun you can spray at random, but a handgun needs a target. I’d figured—and Scotchy had telepathically agreed—that the boys with the heavy equipment would open up as soon as they saw us. The muzzle flash would show us where they were, and we could try to take them out with our pistols. Scotchy was a shot and I wasn’t bad myself, but the whole plan depended upon Dermot’s boys being an awkward squad and not really able to control a big gun like a Kalashnikov, which was hard enough to aim for a pro.

  It was risky.

  This won’t work, Sunshine said.

  It’ll work, I said.

  I nodded at Scotchy; he nodded back. We started getting up, and it all took place in an instant. Sunshine, of course, was right. It didn’t work.

  Sure enough, we stood and the boys opened up, and they were so excited the weapons rose and tore big holes in the ceiling above our heads. I took the fire on the right-hand side and let go three rounds. Scotchy took the left and got off his whole clip. I wasn’t sure about him, but I might have hit something. It wasn’t enough, though, and both of us had to hit the deck again as the gunfire starting getting our measure.

  You didn’t get them, Sunshine said.

  I shook my head.

  And it is true we didn’t kill them, but Fortune, however, had not completely neglected us. We had hit someone, and after a moment we could hear him yell. An argument began in Spanish.

  The sirens now were even closer.

  Dermot, can’t you see we’re all fucked? Completely fucked. You have to let us go. You go out the back way and we go out the front, I yelled.

  Kill them, Dermot was screaming.

  Fucking come on, Dermot, you fucking brainless cunt, Scotchy contributed.

  I waited for the reply, but the argument was still going on, and then there was more gunfire. Scotchy leaned his gun over the top of the table and shot back blind. The shooting from their side lasted only another second, and then it stopped.

  Jesus, Dermot, can’t you see we’ll all be in the shite? I yelled again.

  I listened for any response, but this time there was complete silence. I looked at Scotchy and he shrugged his shoulders.

  We heard the back door bang, and immediately Scotchy stood up.

  They’ve fucking scarpered, he said.

  It was all very fast now.

  I pulled up Sunshine. Scotchy, suddenly all business, made a break for the back office to get cash and any papers relating to Darkey before the boys in blue got there. I followed, but before we got back there we saw Dermot lying sprawled on his side, bloody and quite dead on the floor. There were several big holes from the AKs.

  Accident? Friendly fire? I asked him.

  Scotchy shook his head, either to say he doubted it or didn’t know. I stood and looked at the body for a moment or two, paralyzed. It was the first corpse I’d seen since working for Darkey. Fergal snapped his fingers in front of my face.

  Come on, he said.

  To be told off by Fergal was just too much. I followed him to the back office. There was a blood trail that led to the back door. It began to fit into place. We’d hit one of the boys, the boys had wanted to go, Dermot had been against this proposition, and you don’t get into an argument with a couple of lads with Kalashnikovs. At least not at point-blank range.

  The sound of sirens was close, a few streets off. There was a mini-safe in a false cupboard by the wall. Scotchy, whose talents I sometimes underrated, had already searched the drawers, found the safe, and was shoving it out.

  You’re going to have to help me carry it, no time to open it, Bruce, he said.

  Fuck it, I said.

  Bruce, listen. Can’t leave anything for the cops. Give me a hand.

  Thing must be twenty stone, I protested, but I was already putting away the .38 and crouching down.

  Knees bent, keep your back straight, Scotchy was saying, calmly, as the sirens got still closer.

  Do you want a hand? Fergal asked.

&n
bsp; Get Sunshine out to the car and come back and then give us a hand, Scotchy ordered Fergal.

  Fergal went off and we lifted up the safe. It was a complete bastard, and we got about ten feet before dropping it.

  Fucker, come on, Scotchy yelled.

  We picked it up and got it as far as the door before Fergal showed up to help.

  Crowd, he said.

  We carried the safe outside, and there was a bit of a crowd. About twenty, all men, some yelling in Spanish, most mute.

  Get the boot open, Fergal, I yelled, and he went and opened it. Andy was revving the engine, nervous, shitting himself, no doubt. We dumped the safe and got in the car, Scotchy in front, all the rest of us in the back.

  Is everybody here? Andy asked.

  Drive, you fucking fuck, Scotchy yelled at him.

  Some people clapped, and a man from the crowd told us to do a U-turn, ’cause the cops were coming from the other direction. He cleared the people and directed us down towards the river. I knew when the peelers did show up, he’d point them in exactly the opposite direction. Helpful bastard.

  Andy was panicked and got us on the West Side Highway and then almost over onto the George Washington Bridge, but he got himself together and took us east and up into Inwood. We stopped the car and adjusted the safe so that the trunk closed properly and then Scotchy, Fergal, and Sunshine got out and took the train up in case they were looking for five people. I had to stay with Andy because I was still bleeding. Indeed, after all that, I was the only one hurt (not counting Dermot or his boy).

  Andy was still close to hysterics and almost got us into three or four accidents.

  You know, we drive on the right in America, I told him as he turned left into the left lane of an intersection.

  Been here longer than you, he said huffily and got us on the correct side of the road.

  Yeah, but I didn’t lose half my brain cells in a coma, Andy, I said.

  Neither did I, Andy said, angrily.

  True, half of nothing is still nothing, I said.

  You’re a very negative presence, Andy said, fuming.

  But it had worked. I’d distracted him, and for the rest of the trip he huffed and calmed down.

  We went over the bridge onto the mainland of North America and up Broadway and out of that weird cut-off bit of Manhattan, and we were safely back at the Four Provinces before Pat even heard the first of the reports on the police radio.

  My hand hurt, and it woke me. Mrs. Callaghan had bandaged it because bloody Bridget Nightingale had been off with dickhead Darkey at some poxy place in Long Island. I hadn’t seen her in a few days, and it made me wonder if the ardor was fading or whether Darkey was getting more protective.

  It was a pisser. Andy’s party had had to be postponed. Everyone getting shot at had spoiled the mood a bit. It was rescheduled for tonight.

  I’d got the 1 train back, gone to the apartment, slunk to the sofa, slept. I felt awake now and in pain and dirty. Fucking shooting people for a living. What kind of a life was that? Bloody ridiculous. Jesus, I wasn’t fourteen anymore. I was practically twenty. In a couple of weeks, in point of fact. Maybe it was time to turn over a new leaf. I wondered if I’d paid off my plane ticket yet. Jesus, but what would I be going back to? Nothing. Bloody nothing. Fucking rain.

  It was late afternoon now, so I dialed the number, put on an accent that I hoped was Jersey Shore.

  Is Bridget there?

  Hold on, Mrs. Pat said.

  A long pause and then that voice:

  Yes?

  I haven’t seen you in forever, I said.

  It’s been impossible. Our schedule has been so busy, but, uh, don’t think I haven’t been thinking about you, Bridget said.

  I want to believe you.

  It’s true. Listen, M—, listen, I can’t really talk here. I’ll call you, ok?

  Ok.

  She hung up.

  I looked at the phone for a half a minute.

  I stripped and went into the shower.

  I felt filthy. I scrubbed and soaped myself and scrubbed again. I sat down on the floor and let the water come over me. I banged the floor and cursed for a minute or two. I remembered what I’d said to Sunshine about my chi and laughed. I washed my hair and got out. I was absolutely bloody famished, so I decided to go down into Harlem to get some Chinese. It was hot now, so I dressed in shorts and a cotton T-shirt and desert boots. I still had the .38 and there were slugs out of it, probably in some crime lab right now being looked at by some bespectacled fuckwit. Somehow, I’d have to get rid of it. I wiped it and washed it and put it in a plastic bag. I got my backpack and put the gun inside with a book and a water bottle. I went downstairs. In the hall, steam was again escaping from the heating. I dodged the jets, put on my sunglasses and Yankees hat, and turned right towards Amsterdam.

  There was a building Dumpster on the corner. The street was empty, so I took out the bag with the gun and threw it in. It was as dumb a place as any, but whoever found it around here would probably keep it.

  I went by the projects, crossed 125th, buzzed the Chinky door, and Simon let me in.

  I told him I’d waved to him last week but he hadn’t seen me. He apologized. The place was clean, and there was a new calendar with views of Hong Kong Harbour. Simon looked well. He stared at me from behind the bulletproof glass.

  Wha happ your han? he asked.

  I cut it, banged into something, hurts like a bastard, I said.

  You gey stiches?

  No, I didn’t. I bandaged it up myself.

  Go to emergence room Sin Luke, no quessions. They do it, quick, no quessions.

  I thought you had to fill in lots of forms and stuff.

  Do, fill in fake name, Simon said, as if he knew all about it, but really, someone must have told him and he was just passing it on.

  I’ll think about it, I said, knowing full well I would never be so stupid as to go to the emergency room with a heavy-caliber gunshot wound the same bloody day as a major shooting involving heavy-caliber weapons. Besides, it would be a cool scar.

  When, much later, I had been betrayed twice, lamed, severely traumatized, and had a .22 slug in the gut, and I thought I was fucking dying, my scruples, however, somewhat lessened and I actually did take myself to trusty old Saint Luke, painter, Greek, bit of a fabulist, and, of course, doc.

  But that was still to come, and for now I could afford bravado.

  Fuck it, Simon. Useless quacks will take your bloody hand off by accident or something, I said.

  Simon laughed, and I could sense his brain filing away the word quack for later use.

  I ordered curried pork with fried rice and sat in the corner with the three tabloids I’d bought. I’d already read the Times, so these would do for lunch. I ate some pork and rice and drank some of my Coke. It was another hot one.

  The air-con above the door was hardly making a difference.

  Hey, Simon, you wouldn’t put the air up a wee notch, would ya? I asked, but he wasn’t coming out from behind that bulletproof glass if it was World Peace Day and it was the pope and the Dalai Lama asking him. He nodded and went back to watching a Bob Ross painting show on his black-and-white TV. Bob’s stoner voice relaxed me.

  Before I could open the papers, the door opened and Freddie, our mailman, came in. I knew him quite well, because we’d talked about getting me into the postal service as a casual when I’d first arrived. Bureaucratically, it was impossible, but we’d talked and he’d helped get me a bar job. He was a huge black man in his forties, three hundred pounds at least, stereotypically jolly, and seemingly happy with his lot. Even on a day like today when the heat must be murder for him.

  Michael, he said, shaking my hand, I haven’t seen you around.

  No, I’ve been working, Freddie.

  Shit, man, where you working? At Carl’s?

  No, Freddie. Don’t you pay any attention? I was only there for a week, just until they fixed me up, up in the Bronx.

  Freddie gr
inned and ordered an egg fried rice and a sweet-and-sour chicken and spring rolls and sat down beside me. His mail cart was outside, and on 125th Street you’d think that someone would have wheeled it off, but no one did.

  That was some funny shit, you working in Carl’s, you know, the only white dude in the whole joint. You musta taken some.

  I did, I agreed, but I still go in there sometimes, Freddie, not regular, but I go.

  Carl’s was a bar a few blocks east of here. I’d worked there while Scotchy checked me out and passed me up to Sunshine for final approval. It wasn’t called Carl’s anymore, and I didn’t go in there ever, but I wanted Freddie to think I was a cool customer.

  Freddie, though, didn’t give a shit whether I was a cool customer or not. His grub was up. He ate his food with gusto and we chitchatted about this and that, mainly sports. We ate and talked, and Freddie finally had to leave. I was sorry to see him go. He was a good presence in people’s lives. A horrible, lazy mail carrier, but a good man and about the only black guy I knew in the city. He was a steady bloke and knew a bit, and I would have liked to get his perspective on one or two things, but daylight wasn’t the time and we were both sober and it was too soon after recent events to be levelheaded about them.

  Listen, if I’m at Carl’s this Friday, will you be around? I asked him as he was going out.

  No man. Apollo. Monday, Tuesday maybe, he said.

  Really, Tuesday? I don’t want to go down there and stick out like a sore thumb and you not show up.

  Michael, what’s on your mind? Women, huh? Freddie asked with a huge grin.

  I nodded and said I’d see him, but of course by Tuesday I was in fucking Mexico and not destined to be back in Harlem for quite some time.

  I finished my food, which was so loaded with MSG I was starting to see visions.

  I said a pleasant cheerio and went outside and fixed my shades and my hat. Freddie was chin-wagging with some Costa Rican guy, and he introduced us and then he disturbed the hell out of me by asking if I was still seeing that big-chested, redheaded girl, which could only be Bridget, and here I was thinking that I was Mr. Secret Agent Man with her, but if the goddamned postie knew then half the fucking city knew.