Adrian Mckinty was born and grew up in Carrickfergus, Northern Ireland. He studied law at Warwick and politics and philosophy at Oxford before emigrating to New York in 1993. He lived in Harlem for seven years, working at various jobs, with various degrees of legality, until he moved to Denver, Colorado to become a high school English teacher. In 2008, he emigrated again, this time to Melbourne, Australia with his wife and kids. Adrian’s first crime novel, Dead I Well May Be, was shortlisted for the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award and was picked as the best debut crime novel by the American Library Association. The first of the books in the Sean Duffy series, The Cold Cold Ground, won the 2013 Spinetingler Award; the second, I Hear the Sirens in the Street, was shortlisted for the Ned Kelly Award and longlisted for the Theakston’s Old Peculiar Crime Novel of the Year Award. The third, In the Morning I’ll Be Gone, won the 2014 Ned Kelly Award. The fourth, Gun Street Girl, was shortlisted for the 2015 Ned Kelly Award.
Works by Adrian McKinty published by Serpent’s Tail
The Dead Trilogy
Dead I Well May Be
The Dead Yard
The Bloomsday Dead
The Sean Duffy thrillers
The Cold Cold Ground
I Hear the Sirens in the Street
In the Morning I’ll Be Gone
Gun Street Girl
Rain Dogs
Hidden River
Fifty Grand
Falling Glass
The Sun is God
ADRIAN
McKINTY
RAIN DOGS
‘Rain Dogs’ words and music by Thomas Waits © Copyright Native Tongue Music Publishing Ltd on behalf of Jalma Music. All print rights for Australia and New Zealand administered by Hal Leonard Australia Pty Ltd ABN 13 085 333 713 www.halleonard.com.au Used By Permission. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorised Reproduction is Illegal.
First published in 2015 by Serpent’s Tail,
an imprint of Profile Books Ltd
3 Holford Yard
Bevin Way
London
WC1X 9HD
www.serpentstail.com
Copyright © 2015 Adrian McKinty
The right of Adrian McKinty to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
A complete catalogue record for this book can be obtained from the British Library on request
eISBN 978 1 78283 162 4
Oh how we danced with the Rose of Tralee,
Her long hair black as a raven,
Oh how we danced and she whispered to me,
You’ll never be going back home.
Tom Waits, ‘Rain Dogs’, 1988
Humiliation, unhappiness, discord are the ancient foods of heroes.
Jorge Luis Borges, On Blindness, 1983
1: THE MOST FAMOUS MAN IN THE WORLD
Even the fulminating racists on the far side of the police barriers were temporarily awed into silence by their first sight of the Champ as he stepped nimbly – lepidopterously – from the bus on to the pavement in front of Belfast City Hall. He was bigger than ordinary men, physically, of course, but there was an aura about him too. Ten years past his prime, heavier, greyer and with what was rumoured to be early onset Parkinson’s, this was still the most famous man on the face of the Earth. He was wearing Adidas trainers, a red tracksuit and sunglasses. He was flanked by two Nation of Islam handlers in dark jackets and bow ties, and a pace behind them was the Reverend Jesse Jackson, a celebrity in America, but a largely unknown figure here.
The Champ ascended the dais and the crowds surged forward to get a better look. And in cop think: the better for some nutter to get a bead on him – to throw a bottle or a brick, or to line up a concealed pistol. He was loved, yes, but he was hated too and he had sown equal parts enmity and adoration since his first title fight against the hapless Sonny Liston. Over the years the enmity had diminished, but it still lingered here and there in the hearts of those made vulnerable by the diseases of racism, patriotism and religious fervour.
The Champ took off his sunglasses, tapped the microphone, took a step back and shadow-boxed. Cheers rippled through the crowd. This was what they had come to see. ‘Look at his feet!’ someone said in front of me – a sage and pugilistically astute observation. The Champ danced like a kid, like the skinny kid who had outfoxed Zbigniew Pietrzykowski at the Rome Olympics.
He had the crowd in the palm of his hand and he hadn’t even spoken yet.
It was a cold, clear day and it couldn’t have been shot better by Nestor Almendros: sunlight illuminating the Baroque revival columns behind the Champ’s head and the clouds parting to reveal an indigo sky, the likes of which were frequently to be found loitering over the Champ’s hometown in a meander of the Ohio River, but which seldom troubled the heavens over this muddy estuary of the Lagan.
He stopped boxing, grinned, and an aide gave him a towel to wipe his forehead. He attempted to unzip his tracksuit an inch or two, but his hand was unsteady on the zipper and the aide had to help him. But then the Champ smiled again, strode confidently forward, grabbed the microphone stand and said: ‘Hello Ireland! I’m so happy to be here in beautiful Belfast at last!’
The audience was momentarily baffled by the statement. None of them had ever previously considered the notion that Belfast could be beautiful or that anyone would have come here voluntarily, and upon arrival, would have been happy with this as their choice of final destination. Yet here was the most famous man on Earth saying exactly that. Belfast’s default demotic was sarcasm and everyone liked a good joke so perhaps the Champ was only kidding?
‘Yes, sir, it’s a lovely winter day and it’s wonderful to be here in beautiful Belfast, Northern Ireland!’ the Champ reiterated, and this time there was no doubt about his sincerity. The crowd, oddly moved, found itself roaring its approval.
He had shadow-boxed, he had waved, he had lied and told them their city was aesthetically pleasing. He could have run for mayor on a Nation of Islam ticket and won on a first-round voice vote of the council.
The other policemen began to relax a little but I wasn’t so easily taken in. I was up on a raised platform with half a dozen other cops, the better for us to keep an eye on the small group of National Front skinheads yelling abuse from the protest-pen that had been rigged up for them next to Marks and Spencer. No more than twenty of them in total but with a wig or a hat they could easily have infiltrated the crowd – although that level of ingenuity was probably beyond their mental capacity.
Another quite separate protest group was the Reverend Ian Paisley’s elderly band of evangelical parishioners far down on Royal Avenue, who were not happy about the appearance of a famous Muslim spokesman in the capital city of Ulster, God’s true Promised Land. They could be heard singing their discontent in dour Presbyterian hymnals and determinedly joyless psalmody. Wherever Paisley went there was always an element of unselfconscious surrealism, and today he had brought with him a gospel choir, a gaggle of schoolgirl accordionists and a moon-faced kid on a donkey shaking a tambourine.
The Champ ducked from a phantom left hook and then took the microphone stand again.
‘Abe Grady, my great-grandfather walked from Ennis, County Clare, to Belfast in 1860. In Belfast, he took ship to America. He crossed the Atlantic Ocean and found a country in the midst of Civil War. A land where my other great-gra
ndparents were slaves. We’ve all come a long way since then and it’s great to be back home!’
More roaring from the crowd.
‘But I heard, I heard that some folks here aren’t happy that I came here to Belfast to see you today? Is that true?’
Cries of ‘No!’
‘No, I see ’em. I see ’em over there!’
Defiant cheers from the National Front contingent below us.
‘I see ’em. Look at them! Oh man, they so ugly, when they look in a mirror the reflection ducks.’
Laughter.
‘They so ugly that when they go into a haunted house they come out with an application!’
Roars of laughter.
‘They so ugly that when they go into the bank, the bank turns off the security cameras!’
A great howl of laughter and cheers.
The Champ let it die away until there was only silence.
‘Now they’re quiet, huh? I don’t hear them. Oh boy, they think they can outwit me? I’m so pretty. I’m so fast! I’m so fast that last night I turned off the light switch in my hotel room and I was in bed before the room was dark!’
More laughter.
‘He’s doing all the old classics,’ a sergeant grumbled next to me.
‘If you even dream of beating me you’d better wake up and apologise!’ the Champ said, and took a step back to do some more shadow-boxing. The crowd was deliriously pleased.
The Champ wiped his forehead again and waved. Jesse Jackson waved. The Lord Mayor waved and, pushing his way to the front like an eager schoolboy in Cuban heels, Bono waved.
The Champ talked some more about his Irish roots and his grandmother and great-grandmother. He talked about growing up in Kentucky in the era of Jim Crow. He got serious.
‘Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on Earth. The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses – behind the lines, in the gym and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights. Only a man who knows what it is like to be defeated can reach down to the bottom of his soul and come up with the extra ounce of power it takes to win when the match is even … Now I know you got problems here in Belfast. I know it. But believe me, there’s no problem that can’t be solved by the human spirit. You got to work together. You gotta work hard! We’re all brothers and sisters, no matter our creed or colour. Someday this will be a peaceful island! And that day is going to come because of people like you! Thank you, Belfast and God bless you all!’
‘Ali! Ali! Ali! Ali!’ the crowd chanted and cheered. The Champ acknowledged them and waved goodbye. He turned and an aide put the towel around his shoulders and began guiding him towards the bus.
‘Is that it?’ the copper next to me was saying.
‘I think so,’ I said.
I was glad. The riot gear was making me sweat and already my boxer shorts were drenched. I’d be happy to get it all off, put in my overtime claim and go home to Carrick.
But then, as he was making his way between the crash barriers towards the bus, the Champ suddenly stopped in his tracks, shook his head, turned and walked back on to the stage. He peered out over the audience and then walked down the steps at the front of the stage into the adoring crowd.
‘Jesus! He’s gone walkabout!’ I barked into the radio.
‘We know!’ a dozen voices yelled back into my earpiece.
The crowd surged towards the Champ. Thousands of them. Young, old, Catholic, Protestant … His two handlers were swamped immediately. Swept away.
‘I’ve lost him! I can’t see him!’ desperate voices yelled into radio mikes.
For an uneasy thirty seconds we wondered if he had been trampled, if maybe we should fire in a couple of tear-gas canisters or baton rounds … but then we all spotted him again, just across the street from us.
He was slowly shaking hands and making his way towards my position.
‘He’s coming to Donegall Place,’ I said into the radio.
‘Who is this?’ a voice asked in the earpiece.
‘Duffy.’
‘He’s coming towards you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get him back on the bloody bus, Duffy!’
‘How?’
The reply was lost in a blizzard of static.
The Champ moved through the crowd, ‘like a cinder through the snow,’ the peeler next to me said. Fame was his protection. He wasn’t a politician or an actor, but he was sporting royalty and people gave way before him. Arms reached out to touch him, others were holding out notebooks and scraps of paper which he signed with pharaonic detachment.
‘This is DI Duffy, we’ll need more uniforms at the east side of Donegall Place. Could be trouble. He’s heading straight for the National Front demonstrators behind the crash barriers.’
‘Roger that, Duffy, I can send you half a dozen men.’
‘We’ll need more than that!’
Confused radio traffic now. Panic. Fear.
‘He’s going to get into it with the bloody National Front!’
‘They’re going to lynch him!’
‘We need reinforcements!’
Normally, the Champ had handlers with him at all times, to prevent lunatics throwing sucker punches in the hope that they could acquire infamy by coldcocking the great Muhammad Ali.
And now, without handlers or aides or policemen, he was walking right up to the racist NF protestors outside Marks and Spencer.
‘There is no black in the Union Jack!’ the National Front were chanting – nervously – as the crowd followed the Champ towards them.
What on Earth was he doing? Did he think he could reason with them? Ali’s spiel wasn’t going to play with this lot. Ali’s spiel worked on the postmodern ear. Ulster had barely entered the twentieth century.
Yet still he advanced.
Finally, I could see a couple of RUC Land Rovers heading towards us, bringing the much-needed reinforcements, but they were going to be too late – the Champ was going to get to the National Front protestors before they did.
‘Come on,’ I said to the Sergeant. ‘We’ve got to go down there.’
‘Into that lot?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No way.’
‘That’s an order.’
‘Says who?’
I pointed to the Inspector’s pips on my shoulder. ‘Says me.’
‘You’re going to get us both killed … sir.’
We climbed down off the platform just as the Champ reached the crash barriers.
A dozen seething skinheads in parkas, skinny jeans and DM boots were yelling at Ali-like caged laboratory animals. Ireland – the land of Charles Stewart Parnell and Daniel O’Connell – had been brought to this happy state whereby Ian Paisley and a skitter of foul-mouthed skinheads were the spokespeople for the disaffected.
The Champ found the skinhead leader, fixed him with his eye and waved his hand for silence.
The crowd hushed and held its breath.
‘Listen to me! Listen to me,’ the Champ began. ‘I took an easy shot. I called you ugly and I made everyone laugh. You riled me up. I heard the war music. But then I remembered to be humble in the face of mine enemies and to trust in the mercy of Allah. I’m here in the spirit of peace and brotherhood.’
The skinhead stared at him, amazed.
The Champ leaned over the crash barrier and put out his hand.
That big right hand.
That big right hand that had floored Foreman in the eighth.
That big hand right that was shaking with Parkinson’s.
The skinhead froze. His mouth opened and closed. And then his arm began to raise. He couldn’t help himself. It was magnetism. It was kinetic. His eyes were wild. He turned desperately to his friends. I can’t stop myself … I mean, don’t you see who this is? Sure you can talk about Gene Tunney or Joe Louis or Jack Dempsey but this is The Greatest!
His arm lifted. His fist unclenched. He shook hands with the Champ.
I’m shaking hands wi
th Muhammad Ali.
‘What is it you don’t like about black folks?’ the Champ asked.
The skinhead was tongue-tied.
‘Come on, answer me like a man!’
‘I, I … I … You shouldn’t be in our … this is our …’
‘Son,’ the Champ said, ‘if all you have is a hammer everything looks like a nail …’
And you could see it in the skinhead’s eyes.
This was it. Saul to Paul. Right now. Instantly. This wasn’t Donegall Place, this was the royal road to Damascus.
The Champ destroyed the National Front contingent with a handshake and a grin. We’d never seen anything like it.
‘Never seen anything like it,’ the Sergeant said. This was the opposite of what happened when the Kennedys came. The Kennedys brought bad voodoo, Ali brought good.
‘Duffy, are you still there?’ the radio voice asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘We’ve got the bus around to Royal Avenue, get him down to Castle Street.’
‘OK.’
The Sergeant and I escorted the Champ to his bus which had moved to the junction of Royal Avenue and Castle Street. He was exhausted now. But he took the time to thank me and the Sergeant.
He shook our hands. And his grip was strong. The Sergeant got an autograph but I was too star-struck to think of that.
I walked back to Queen Street police barracks where I’d parked my Beemer and said hey to some grizzled old cops who looked like rejects from Jim Henson’s Creature Shop.
I got in my car and drove along the A2 to Carrick Police Station.
Everyone was more or less gone except for Lawson up in the CID room and the Chief Inspector lurking in his office. I decided that I would avoid both of them. I put in my overtime claim and quickly looked at the duty logs. It had been a busy day. Muhammad Ali had come to Belfast, robbing the station of half its staff, and back in Carrickfergus the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland had been showing visiting dignitaries around the old ICI factory in Kilroot. The big-wigs were from Sweden, the rumours being that either Volvo or Saab were going to set up a car plant. It was pro forma stuff. Every new Secretary of State pretended he was going to ‘save Northern Ireland’ by encouraging investment, but in fact the new investment always went to marginal electoral constituencies in England.
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