by L. Danvers
As good a reason as any to nickname you the Eel.
“You know exactly what I'm talking about, Jimmy. I need a piece.”
Jimmy took a few seconds to gather himself.
“A fucking gun? The Mangler looking for a gun? Are you trying to erase your legacy, boy? You're the feen that can take out guys with a single hand to the throat. You're like the Bruce Lee of Cork.”
The platitudes weren't working on me. The reputation I was building was becoming a mill stone.
“Let's just say I need to be in a position to fight fire with fire.”
Jimmy frowned. “Still up to your eyes in it, boy. It's always the same with the shades: you lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas.”
He pulled another cigarette from the pack and sighed before putting it in his mouth. “I'll give you a mobile number.”
He tore the flap off the pack of Player’s, took a pencil from the middle of the table, and began to write. I drained the last of my whiskey.
“Call this number after eight. The guy's name is Sham. You'll meet up where he says and he'll have your piece for you. I hope you're not fussy – it'll be a regular nine-mil hand gun, clean, no record.”
“How much?”
“For you, boy, a special price. Eight-hundred.”
I'd come with a grand. I didn't know what I'd have done if it had been more. Jimmy was the kind of guy you didn't want to owe money to. I counted out eight-hundred and slid the bundle of notes across the table. Jimmy put it in his pocket without counting. It was grubby business – there was no mistaking that – but I would be ready now, I hoped, for any eventuality.
I needed a place to hole up. Going home wasn't going to be an option. Neither would I be dragging my troubles to my mother's door, putting her in harm's way.
I got the number of a hotel about five miles to the east of Cork City from directory enquiries and asked the operator to connect me. I asked if they had a cheap smoking room with a view of the car park. I also confirmed that they did room service dinners – I'd need a full stomach before going to get my gun. Best to keep up the sugar levels when walking into situations of stress.
The receptionist said they had and they did, but she asked for a credit card number, which I declined to give her. She explained that for a cash customer, I would have to pay in advance at the desk. I knew it was best to stay low-profile, to not use a credit card that could very easily be traced by the Guards, maybe even a particular bent one affiliated with O'Brien.
I stopped off at the bank and drew out another two-grand. At least they could trace me no further than my local neighbourhood. I wondered how long, if ever, it would be before I could safely return.
As I drove to the hotel, I felt the car lurching a bit any time I changed up a gear and accelerated. The old girl was feeling her age, misfiring a bit. Probably just a dirty spark plug or a dodgy lead. I'd bring it to a mechanic I knew down a back road in the back of beyond when things calmed down. If I made it through.
The hotel was one of those dreary generic chain hotels that you could probably assemble from a flat pack. Far from giving the building any character, the red brick used in construction just made the building look cheap, like an institution.
As I drove into the parking area there was a pop. For a split second my blood pressure zeroed out and I thought my time was up for sure this time. Then I realized that my old Fiat had just backfired and that my head was still intact. Maybe it was more than just dirty plugs, after all.
I parked the car and it was a few seconds before I could peel my hands from the steering wheel. When I looked at them, I could see the white imprint of the wheel across them. I just knew, then, that all the stress that was being dumped on me was doing permanent damage to my heart, literally taking years off me.
Inside, the receptionist was cheery enough, wished me a good day, but in a MacDonald's kind of way. I was glad of the pleasantries, though. At least she wasn't shooting at me. She explained that breakfast was extra, that the price I had been quoted was a room-only rate. It was an additional ten Euro and I felt like asking if the full Irish included Clonakilty pudding, but I resisted. I told her I'd play it by ear and decide in the morning.
I paid enough cash to cover the room for two nights and gave an extra fifty as deposit against phone calls made from the room. Needless to say, I used a false name: Jerry O'Leary – a combo of my middle name and Mam's maiden name. She gave me a key card for a room on the fourth floor without asking for identification.
I looked around. The lobby was full of suits. Sales people, corporate types meeting up to talk their corporate shite. They were so oblivious to the side of the city I saw. They had no idea just how much trouble was close to their doorsteps – the tweakers, the pushers, the street walkers, the homeless, people on the edges of society. I was envious of them and their shallow preoccupations, up to a point.
I got into the lift and pushed the button for the fourth floor – the smoking floor. Only then did I remember that I'd given up the cancer sticks. I closed my eyes and dropped my head down. Of all the times to give up, I had to choose the time when someone starts firing bullets at me.
The room was every bit as bland as the exterior, but I didn't care. It was safe, for now. I could smell the smoke of previous occupants. The first thing I did was to grab the ash tray and put it in a drawer. It would only have sat there laughing at me otherwise, mocking me for being such a weak-willed quitter.
I sat on the end of the bed. I took a painkiller – just the one to smooth the way until my proper dose in a few hours. It was the first time in quite a while that I had time to think clearly. And God knows, there was plenty of thinking required.
I had to decide on who to call, if anyone. I had to phone Sham at eight; that much at least I knew. That gave me about five hours to kill. Could I trust Cotter? I could probably trust Grace. It would have made no sense Jordan having anything to do with the attempted hit. There wasn't much I would have put past him, but wacking me within hours of talking to me would have been suicide. Surely it had to be O'Brien and Savage. I was sure I hadn't been spotted when I beat a hasty retreat from the house in Carrignavar, so they must have run my number plate, which the two Guards had recorded. They could have been Savage's lads. Two of them, anyway. Christ knew how many more of them there were.
I decided I could trust Grace. I needed to trust Grace. I dialled the number of the burner mobile into the room phone.
“Michael?”
“Hi Grace. It's me. I'm just –”
“Are you OK? Are you hurt?”
How could she know? But she was Jordan's daughter, after all. O'Brien had Savage, but Jordan probably had an army of Guards, some ranked even higher. Not necessarily on his payroll, but former employees of his in much the same way I had become.
“I'm OK. I'm safe.”
I could hear her exhale loudly.
“Honestly, I just got a scratch,” I said. “I got the hell out of there before …”
I almost said Savage, but restrained myself just in time.
“… before they could come back.”
“Daddy was furious. I'm not sure if he was mad at you or whoever sent those men, maybe both. The last thing he wants is a war.”
A war? I hadn't considered anything beyond myself ending up dumped in a field somewhere. Like a piece of rubbish. Like Robbie.
“The bastards got my friend. Shot him in the gut.”
“I'm sorry, Mickey. I didn't realize he was a friend.”
I guessed he really was, then. What I felt for him, despite leaving him to bleed out, was something a friend would feel. I moved my leg a little and then all I could feel was agony. I moaned into the phone.
“What, Mickey?”
“Nothing. Just clearing my throat.” I gritted my teeth, nearly bit off my tongue. “Look, I'm just going to lay low for a bit, see what way the wind blows.” Get a gun, maybe seek revenge.
“Where are you now?”
I hesitated. Could I t
rust her not to bring an entire barrack of Gardaí along behind her, maybe a side order of hoodlums? I had to trust her judgement, her discretion.
“I'm in Shanley's hotel, to the east of the city.”
“I know it.”
I remembered our original plans for the dinner date.
“We can order room service.”
I felt like a right bollocks.
“That would be … nice.”
I imagined her squirming wherever she was.
“Six o'clock OK? Ask for Jerry O'Leary. That's the name I'm under.”
“Six is good. I'll see you then, Michael, Jerry, or whatever. And for God's sake, stay out of trouble.”
I could try. But somehow, I thought, it would eventually seek me out. It had a habit of it. I said goodbye and hung up.
“Fuck!” I said to myself, cursing my lack of foresight. I didn't have any proper clothes. And after all my effort picking out a new rigout in Genteman's Quarters. I looked like a homeless guy with the sweat pants and top. I looked in the wardrobe mirror. I was shocking – hair matted from sweat, stubble poking out like badger bristle, and a pallor like I'd just crawled out of a body bag. Plus I smelled terrible.
I decided the least I could do was take a shower, but the dressing was going to be a problem. If that got wet, I'd have to redo the whole thing again. I looked in a desk drawer and found a plastic laundry bag. I wrapped it around my leg and used my shoe laces to get it good and tight, as waterproof as I could. I felt like MacGyver; a couple of lollipop sticks, an empty toilet roll, some Sellotape and the world could be mine.
The warm water negated the pain somewhat as it drained over my temples. I turned the heat up to just below lobster-cooking temperature and savoured the therapeutic effect of hot water on tight, sore muscle. I whistled Leftfield's ‘Melt’, spitting water from my mouth when it put a stop to the whistling. Steam got in my chest and I coughed, stripping something away from the lining of my lungs. Probably tar or some other toxic shite the fags had coated them with. I'd heard of smoker's cough, had had it myself for years, but nobody talked about post-smoker's cough.
There was no light-headedness when I stepped out of the bath. I guessed that only happened when you got up from a sitting position and had the blood rushing to your feet. Now, despite the hammering I had taken, despite all the drugs, I felt strong. But more mentally than physically. I felt I had entered a new state of mind, one where I didn't care what happened to me. I could take it, had taken it. Steel strengthens steel, they say, and I had been strengthened for sure. Emboldened too. And with that gun in my hands, nobody would be tougher.
Fuck it, I'll call Barry. I'll call his bluff. But later, in town where my mobile can't be triangulated back to here. And only after I have my gun.
I had little doubt that Cotter wasn't one of Savages lads, but what I wasn't sure about was whether Cotter was a company man, would try to cover his ass. I hoped not, because with Mogs in intensive care, I was short on friends to turn to, and as fractious as our recent dealings had been, I needed him. If push came to shove, I'd need someone to call on, to watch my back, as he put it.
I dried myself and climbed under the duvet butt naked. I set an alarm on the room phone for half-five, which I was able to do despite my technophobia, and laid down for a power nap.
I woke to a tinny rendition of William Tell the room phone was chirping by way of an alarm. I beat my fist down on the phone and the receiver flew to the ground. I hated that fucking tune. Far from any refreshment from the sleep, I had a pounding headache. Just another chore for the painkillers. I popped three of the opioid tablets without any regard for the recommendations on the leaflet within the carton.
I rang the reception desk to check on room service arrangements. Cash on delivery, the girl said, which was fair enough. She said she'd have a menu dropped up and ten minutes later there was a knock on the door.
I'd been sitting watching the RTE news, waiting for any update on the shooting, maybe catch some statement by the Gardaí. It was only mentioned in passing. Mogs, it seemed, didn't warrant the time of day when there was a potential heave on the leader of a major political party. The rap on the door sent a cold chill through me. I quickly put on my track garb.
I looked through the peep hole. Guy in smart-enough dress, maroon-coloured formal jacket that seemed genuine, a respectable, inoffensive haircut – he would have made a convincing croupier.
I opened the door and he handed me the menu. I wondered if this was how things were going to be with me from then on, questioning every motive, suspicious of every identity. I wondered where it would stop. Would I start doubting my friends? I'd already started doubting Cotter – maybe not deeply, but enough that I was uncomfortable with him knowing where I was hiding out. Could I start doubting my own mother? She had been evasive last time we met. Fuck it, maybe I'd even start doubting my loyalty to myself if I got paranoid enough.
I looked at my watch. Ten to six. Grace seemed like the punctual type, had looked at me with scorn when I'd been late arriving at Corrigan's for our last meet. Sure enough, five minutes later the phone rang and the receptionist, who it seemed I was building quite the rapport with, told me that a Ms Jordan was waiting for me in the lobby.
I wasn't one bit satisfied with my attire, but I suppose it was better than turning up in shredded trousers like some guy marooned on a desert island. I was nervous about leaving the room, about being somewhat out in the open. And there was that fraction of a percent of doubt in my mind about Grace and her father, about their potential involvement in the hit or any other intentions towards me. These fractions were being magnified in my mind, blowing themselves up from mere possibilities to probabilities. Like suspecting that a simple, easily-explained bout of light-headedness might be Parkinson's or some other neurological disease. No, I could trust her. I was sure of it.
The lift opened into the lobby and I felt as if everyone's attention had been interrupted by the lift's electronic beep when the doors opened, that somehow, in unison, everyone was probing me. In truth, only Grace was looking at me. But she wasn't alone. I stopped in my tracks. I didn't recognize the person who stood next to her, his back to me, his eyes fixed firmly on the front door.
Grace must have noticed my reaction. She smiled reassuringly at me. She tapped the man next to her and whispered in his ear, then walked alone towards me. I began to walk slowly to meet her.
“Sorry about Mr Geary. Daddy insisted. He's just got a bit more worried about things after that shooting.”
A bit more worried? More paranoid more like. Was that even possible?
“Can't say I blame him. Who's this Geary?”
“He works for my father. He fills in for O'Keeffe when he's not working. Usually he's head of security for one of our companies. A banana importer, in case you're interested.”
Yeah, because crimes against bananas have been on the rise.
I wondered for a moment why O'Keeffe wasn't working right then, but didn't pursue it.
“I hope you're not expecting Geary to accompany us for dinner.”
She smiled awkwardly. “No, it'll just be you and me. He's going to wait in the bar.”
“OK, then, let's go up to my room.” It didn't sound right, sounded seedy. That Catholic upbringing of mine, I suppose. “I mean, let's go up for dinner.”
Grace put a hand to her mouth. I could see she was suppressing a laugh.
Her reaction to the room was different. She couldn't hide the fact that she had become accustomed to better surroundings.
“It's not the Ritz, that's for sure,” I said. “But it's off the beaten track, which suits.”
She nodded. “It is that. It's got a certain … charm.”
That rules out a drink in An Capall Bán, then.
I handed her the menu. I'd already decided on chicken supreme, with chips instead of vegetables. My health-improvement endeavours were well and truly on hold at that stage. Grace decided on pork steak with a chestnut stuffing.
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,” I began to sing, then stopped, embarrassed at myself. Christmas was more than two months away. Then a brief moment of clarity. Had I lost the run of myself? It was the fecking opium drugs, or whatever they were. I must have been high as a kite, maybe as high as a satellite.
“You're in a cheery mood for someone who's just been shot at.”
“If you can't sing, you can't laugh,” I said.
It made no sense. Or maybe in some twisted way it did. I was definitely beginning to lose the run of myself. But that could get me killed. It was going to be a fine balancing act between pain and lucidity. The thing about pain, though, was that it kept you sharp, alert to danger. A natural reaction, perhaps, to the possibility of a killer blow that could arrive at any time.
Grace cocked up an eyebrow, said nothing. I concentrated on my behaviour, did my best not to embarrass myself. If I was lucky, maybe the effect of the drugs would taper quickly enough. But for now the drugs had chipped away at my sense of inhibition. I felt I could open up to Grace. As disastrous as it sounds, I did.
“Does it ever bother you that your father can, at his whim, assign you a bodyguard? Do you even worry about why you are in that position – needing one in the first place?”
She didn't seem taken aback in the slightest. She was unflappable.
“I won't deny my father has made a few enemies over the years –” I noticed she dropped the Daddy business when the conversation became more serious, maybe when the talk became more grown up. "– but I suppose you don't get anywhere in business without making a few enemies.”
Business? Was that what they called it? Extortion, drugs, money laundering, an occasional punishment beating and worse, and she legitimized it as business? I suppose he was in the business of crime – that much I could grant him.
“I've made a few enemies myself,” I said after my brief contemplation. “Last night's a prime example. But I've never courted friendship either, so I suppose I can't be surprised.”
She pulled her lips inside her mouth, an expression that suggested to me her resignation to life's vagaries. Even when pulling such a face I could see her beauty, even more so a kind of inner beauty. She had a gentle manner that I was unaccustomed to. I realized that mine was a harsh upbringing surrounded by harsh people. Her father, despite unforgivable brutality to others, had obviously done right by his daughter, had seen to it that she was shielded from it. He didn't deserve credit for that, though. There was no balancing out when it came to murder, however far removed he was from the vile act itself.