Freddie took a deep breath and stomped back towards the kitchen, muttering darkly to himself as he went.
At this point the soccer mom had re-emerged from under her table and had her phone clamped to her ear. “Yes, hello. Police please, immediately.”
The Irishman hopped back over the counter, his feet crunching on broken glass. “That’s my cue to leave. Best of luck folks – it’s been emotional.” He bent down and picked up Red’s discarded gun from where it lay on the floor. He turned and placed it on the counter in front of Marcy. “Don’t forget to tip your waitress.”
Soccer Mom glowered at him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Guess again.”
“George, restrain that man!”
She looked at her husband, who was sitting in the booth, staring out the window. He didn’t even turn his head as he spoke. “Shut up, Janice. I want a divorce.”
Chapter Four
Bunny McGarry ducked behind a tree and watched the police cruiser zoom by, sirens blaring and lights flashing. With a sigh, he stepped out and started walking back up the verge of the road. His leg ached, his head throbbed and his stomach rumbled. He’d not slept properly for a couple of days now and he’d managed barely half a breakfast, just enough for his body to decide it did indeed want food. His whole body had been building itself up for a doozy of a hangover, but the wild burst of adrenaline from the gunfight had rather thrown a spanner in the biological works. Bunny had no doubt that, when it sorted itself out, retribution would be had. In the meantime, he needed to get off the road. He’d not actually broken any laws – well, bar leaving the scene of a crime – but still, the cops would start asking questions that Bunny wouldn’t have answers to.
He had no idea what direction he was walking in, other than away. He realised the sun was in front of him, not yet high enough to warm the biting chill in the air. So that meant he was walking east. If he kept going for about three thousand miles, he knew a good pub in Galway where a man could get a pint at any hour if he knew who to ask. They’d do you a decent cup of tea too.
He’d gone to Murphy’s hoping for a solution to his problem and he’d come away with yet another one. It had not been a good couple of days. In fact, it’d not been a good week, but it had been a disastrous twenty-four hours.
Nineteen years ago, Simone Delamere had walked into his life and accidentally stolen his heart. It hadn’t been love at first sight but that was because he’d been mesmerised by her voice before he had ever laid eyes on her. Against all odds, she’d loved him too. In the darkest moments since, he’d doubted that but he didn’t now. Those couple of months they’d had together had been the happiest of his life. Then, her past, the thing she had run to Dublin to escape, had caught up with them and brought the dream to an abrupt end.
Together they had managed to deal with the problem, but that had left two bodies buried in the Wicklow Mountains and left Simone with no choice but to run again. Bunny hadn’t known it at the time, but she had done so to protect him, just as he had been trying to protect her. He had only found this out a few months ago when the two long-buried bodies had been discovered and all hell broke loose. Simone was now the prize in a battle between two opposing forces within the US government. Her, and the video tape they believed she had, could bring down a powerful man. Bunny didn’t care about any of that. He’d almost died twice to protect her and when the opportunity had arisen, he’d made third time the charm. Alive, he was a point of weakness they could attack to get to Simone, dead, he could disappear and then try and find her before anyone else did. That was his mission, his purpose – the reason he had to still be alive.
He had only one advantage over the chasing pack. He knew that she had been originally sneaked out of New York by an order of rogue nuns known as The Sisters of the Saint. He was also guessing that they had spirited her out of Dublin too. At the very least, they could give him a starting point, somewhere to go looking. The problem was that the Sisters had left Ireland long ago and Bunny’s entire plan was pinned on the hope that they would still be active in New York. He was realising that searching a city of eight and a half million people for a bunch of nuns – who, if they were still here, would not want to be found – was even harder than he had expected. Plus, he was a fish out of water, having spent the last thirty years policing the streets of Dublin. It’d been a long time since he’d turned a corner and not known what to expect. Over here, it felt like he couldn’t even find the damn corner.
He had briefly considered taking the gun. If he had it and could find whoever it was who had robbed his stuff, he could be guaranteed their undivided attention. Not that Bunny would actually use the gun. No. He had every intention of killing whoever did it with his bare hands.
The road he was walking along was what he’d have called a dual carriageway, although he had no clue what it was called over here. Everything in America had a different name and he was getting sick of it. That and the inexplicable lack of a decent cup of tea. These people were savages. There wasn’t a footpath as such, and he guessed nobody walked along this road, although judging by the state of the verge, they slowed down to chuck out rubbish quite a lot. Amidst the fast food wrappers and beer cans, there were cardboard boxes of God knows what, mud-encrusted plastic tubing and what appeared to be a stuffed moose head with its lower jaw missing. Who the hell threw out half a moose?
Bunny’s options were limited. He needed to get back to New York and find whoever was responsible for him waking up in Times Square minus some incredibly important possessions. He’d not been wild about having to call in the debt Jackie Murphy had owed him, but he’d had little choice. Nobody was supposed to know Bunny was alive, but given that almost everyone thought Jackie was dead too, it had been an acceptable risk to take. Seeing as the randy bastard had gone off and actually died, that was much of a muchness now anyway.
Bunny had nothing to his name but the clothes he was wearing, the random crap in his pockets and a very bad mood. The fact that most of his current predicament was his own damn fault made the whole thing feel worse still. He worked best when he had someone to take it out on, although remembering the sight of that gobshite with the balaclava on his head and his pants around his ankles brought him a half-smile. If nothing else, he may’ve at least taken away one gobshite’s chances of adding to the gene pool.
A dark green car pulled up beside him. Bunny didn’t make eye contact. “I’m fine, thank you, just out for a walk.”
He heard the passenger-side window lower with a whir.
“Get in.”
Bunny stooped down to look into the car. It was the girl, the one who’d been on her own in the diner. She had shoulder-length straight brown hair and was the dictionary definition of petite.
“No thanks,” said Bunny. “I’m fine walking.”
He started walking on. The car rolled forward to keep pace with him.
“Stop being an ass and get in the damn car.”
“Fine language for a young lady. Are you even old enough to drive?”
The car pulled in front of him at an angle, blocking what path there was.
She sounded exasperated. “Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, but get in the damn car before someone else spots you and starts asking questions. I get the definite impression you don’t want to answer any.”
“I’ll be grand.”
He started to move around the car, but she moved it further forward, forcing him to jump a step back.
“For God’s sake, love, what’s your problem?”
She rubbed her knuckles into her eyes for a couple of seconds and then looked up, a decision made. “It was me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They were after me!”
Chapter Five
“Wake up.”
The Irishman turned in the seat slightly and farted.
Amy wrinkled her nose in disgust and shook the guy’s shoulder firmly. “Wake up,” she repeated more loudly, to no noti
ceable effect.
She turned the radio back on and treated her passenger to three seconds of Imagine Dragons at ear-splitting volume. The Irishman reared up with a start.
“What in da feckin—!”
“Oh good, you’re up.”
He looked around, dazed and confused. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my car. I picked you up about fifteen minutes ago. We didn’t get much chance to make conversation – you complained about the song on the radio then fell unconscious.”
“Oh.” The Irishman nodded. “That makes sense, alright. And where are we now?”
“I pulled over at a McDonald’s drive-through.” She held out a brown paper bag and a lidded cup. “I got you an Egg McMuffin meal with a coffee.”
He looked at the cup. “I don’t suppose they had tea?”
She pulled both the bag and the cup away. “Seriously? I just saved you from the cops and bought you food.”
He held his hands up in contrition. “Sorry, sorry, sorry – it’s just – never mind.”
She handed him the bag and cup and he plunged his hand in to start shovelling hash browns towards his face. She had gotten herself yet another coffee. She was too nervous to eat.
She pressed the button to bring down the window. “And by the way, you could stand to take a shower. It smells like a wino’s ass in here.”
He tried to talk but was unable to do so around a mouthful of food. He held his finger up for a second’s grace, chewed expansively and swallowed. “I could do with a lot of things; a shower would barely scrape the top five. So, why’d you pick me up?”
Amy looked out the window at the empty parking lot. A chill breeze cut through the car. It was just shy of 8am. There was a reasonably steady stream of customers pulling up to the drive-through window, but nobody was pulling over. Anyone who had McDonald’s for breakfast this early on a Sunday was eating it with one hand on the wheel, driving to wherever they needed to be.
She turned back to him. “What do you think was happening back there?”
“In Murphy’s Diner?”
She nodded.
“I’ll tell you what wasn’t happening – tea! Fecking disgraceful.”
She gave him a look.
“Those two guys weren’t robbing the place. That was pure nonsense.”
“How so?”
He had pulled out the wrapper holding the Egg McMuffin and he was now inspecting it like a dog did with something it found on the floor, as if trying to decide if it was food or not. “Well,” he said, “I’m only guessing, mind, but if you have someone or something you need to get hold of in a hurry and it’s in a public place, like a restaurant, you pretend you’re robbing the place and then you take everything, to hide what you were actually after. Only those two idiots hadn’t got a clue what they were doing.”
“What makes you say that?”
She waited as he took a large bite of the Egg McMuffin and chewed through it industriously before swallowing. He nodded approvingly. “Not too shabby. What was your question?”
“What made you think those guys were amateurs?”
He shrugged. “Because pros wouldn’t pull such a gobshite move, and if they did, they’d have controlled the room. If that bloke was Special Forces, then I’m Ronald Mc-Fecking-Donald. They let me talk. A pro would’ve identified the threat and shut it down.”
“And in that room, you were the threat?”
He nodded. “Well, outside of the geriatric gunslinger, but yeah. If they knew what they were doing they also wouldn’t have let me annoy them into getting close enough that I could flash-fry one of their bollocks, pardon my French.”
“I speak French,” she said absentmindedly, looking out the window, “and that isn’t French.”
“Excusez-moi.” He said it in a sing-song voice around another mouthful of McMuffin. “So,” he continued, “what’s your story?”
“What?”
“Who were you meeting?”
“Who said I was meeting anyone?”
He said nothing, but raised his eyebrows at her.
She turned away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I’d lay good money it does.”
“Alright, then it’s none of your damn business.” She turned her head away from him again and looked out the window. A woman in a minivan appeared to be arguing her order at the drive-through window.
“Fair enough.”
They sat in silence for a minute, just the three of them – Amy, the constantly chewing Irishman and his overpowering aroma.
Eventually, Amy turned back. “So, what’s your deal then?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why were you at Murphy’s Diner? And who comes to a roadside diner without a car?”
He licked a spot of egg from the corner of his mouth. “I got the bus. I was hoping to meet the eponymous Mr Murphy. He owes me a favour and I happen to be in need of one. I find myself suddenly with an absence of funds.”
“Was he not there?”
He shook his head. “He is not receiving any visitors, owing to him being dead as the proverbial dodo.”
“I see. And how did you… who are you that… how did you know how to handle that situation?”
He shrugged.
“I mean seriously,” she continued, “you figured out what was happening just from the guy’s shoes. You weren’t just talking; you were distracting them and drawing them into a mistake. Then you managed to disarm the guy. How’d you know how to do all of that?”
He shrugged. “Ah, I’ve always been good in a scrap.”
She turned towards him. “Yeah, but seeing the guy’s shoes, knowing straight off what they were doing there…”
“Do you know how some people are just good at maths? Or are natural singers? Or they can just, I dunno, they just understand computers and stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I was never much for the sums, I can’t sing to save my life and I can barely check my email – but that… that I can do.”
“Have you been in the States long?”
“Seven days.”
“Why did you run from the cops then? I mean, until you left the scene, you’d not broken any laws. Hell, you were a hero. You’d foiled a robbery and God knows what else.”
The man took a sip of his coffee with a grimace. “Let’s just say I don’t particularly want to draw attention to myself.”
Amy turned further in her seat. “No, that’s not it though, is it? You thought they were there for you.”
“Maybe I did.”
“You did. You asked how they found you. Are you on the run?”
“No. It’s complicated. Those lads definitely weren’t after me though.”
“Why? Do you not warrant two men with guns?”
“No. I don’t warrant two amateurs with guns. So anyway…” He shoved the now empty wrapper into the bag and scrunched it up. “Any chance of a lift back into New York?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
She stared out the front window as she spoke, running her hands up and down the wheel nervously. “I need your help. Clearly, these guys are after me and you’ve got… Well, you beat them with a fork and a pot of coffee. I think I could do with your help. I’ll pay you. No questions asked.”
“I’m afraid there’ll have to be questions. For a start, why are they after you?”
“I won’t tell you that.”
“Why don’t you just go to the police?”
“I can’t.”
“OK then, the answer is no.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Excuse me?”
“Look, my arse is hanging in the wind here, but I’ll figure it out. I need less trouble, not more. I’ve got a lot of shite of my own to deal with and not a penny to my name. I could do with a lift and the money, I won’t deny that, but I’m not helping you unless I know the whys and wherefores. If this is drugs or anything dodgy, I’m not interested.”
“You’
re awful picky for a man who’s running from the cops!”
“Avoiding. And that makes me shy; it doesn’t make me a criminal. Look, I’ve my own way of looking at this, and I don’t expect you to understand. So, thanks for the lift and the food and all that, but I’ll make my own way from here.”
He opened the car door.
“Wait.”
He did. They sat there, him with one leg out of the car, her trying to weigh up her options. Although “options” implied plural, and right then, she could only see one. “Alright.”
He pulled his leg back in and shut the door.
“I work as a dom in Manhattan.”
“A what?”
Amy was annoyed to feel herself blush. “A dominatrix.”
The man scrunched up his face. “Like with the whips and the chains and all the spanky spanky, ‘who’s your daddy?’ stuff?”
“Well, that’s a rather juvenile interpretation of it, but yes, essentially.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “And that’s a job now, is it?”
“Yes,” said Amy. “And as it happens, a rather well paid one.”
“Well spank my bot-bot and call me Susan.” He scratched his beard. “And you’re trying to get out of it and those guys are your pimps or something?”
Amy didn’t try to keep the anger from her voice. “No. See this crap is why I don’t tell people. I’m not being forced or coerced into doing it. I like my job. I’m good at my job. I appreciate it’s a bit different, but fundamentally I believe that what happens between two freely consenting adults is entirely their business.”
“The law might take a different view.”
“And the law is wrong.”
“Well, that aside, you’re like five-foot-nothing and you’d blow away in a strong wind.”
“And? I’m a dominatrix, not a professional wrestler. I don’t need to physically overpower someone. In fact, that’s the last thing I should be doing. Look, it’s just a job like any other.”
“Really?” he said. “So, if I asked the lady at the drive-through window there if she’d like to whip me and shove a dozen chicken McNuggets up my—”
Disaster Inc Page 3