Seventy Times Seven

by John Gordon Sinclair

  The sky was growing steadily darker and the air inside the room felt heavy and oppressive.

  ‘What’s happened to the weather?’ asked Finn.

  ‘It’ll blow over in an hour. If you’re worried you’re sweating up your new clothes you can always take them off,’ replied Marie, raising an eyebrow like she was suggesting something else.

  Marie was lying on one of the two single beds with her bare feet dangling off the end. ‘This is the nicest motel I’ve ever stayed in.’

  Finn looked up at the cigarette-stained ceiling. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls in several places and the beds were covered with dank bri-nylon throws. Finn would have put money on the television in the corner being a black-and-white.

  ‘Really?’ he replied.

  ‘It’s the only motel I’ve ever stayed in, so maybe it doesn’t count.’

  Marie pushed herself up onto her elbows. ‘What happens now? Is there sort of a manual or something, tells you what to do? I’ve never gone on the run before. I mean, what are you supposed to pack?’

  Finn shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You hungry?’ asked Marie.

  Finn shook his head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Marie.

  ‘How’d it go with the Feds on Friday?’ asked Finn. ‘You never said.’

  ‘God, that seems like it was about two weeks ago,’ replied Marie. ‘It’s hard to believe that was only two days ago.’ She let out a long sigh. ‘They just went over the same old crap as the cops did. Wanted to hear it for themselves – too lazy to read the notes.’

  ‘They were checking you out. See if you’d be a reliable witness.’

  Marie was sitting up now.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘They ask you lots of inane questions then throw in one or two curve balls‚’ replied Finn. ‘Staring at you like they were taking in every word, when in fact they weren’t listening – they were watching.’

  ‘Yeah. One of them couldn’t take his eyes off my tits. But it was the other one who was really freaking me out. I thought any minute he’s going to ask me on a date. Didn’t stop staring into my eyes.’

  ‘They were checking you out,’ continued Finn. ‘Behavioural psychology. They’re looking for your lying zone.’

  Marie was staring at Finn in disbelief.

  ‘Did you tell them any lies?’ he asked.

  Marie thought for a moment before answering.

  ‘I told them I thought you sounded Polish, but that was about it.’

  ‘Polish?’

  ‘It was the only other Catholic nation I could think of.’

  ‘So now they know that I’m not Polish, and that you are capable of lying.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ said Marie, her face serious now.

  Finn crossed the room and sat on the single bed opposite her.

  ‘Turn this way.’

  Marie swung her legs round so that she was sitting facing Finn.

  He was staring into her eyes just like the cop had.

  ‘You’re much better at it than the FBI,’ she said.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘C’mon, play the game. I want to show you – What’s your name?’

  ‘Marie Bain.’

  ‘Where d’you live?’

  ‘Tuscaloosa.’

  ‘You married?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘What did your husband die of?’

  ‘Heart attack.’

  ‘You seeing anyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You scared?’

  ‘Kinda.’

  ‘Did you lock your bedroom door on Thursday night because you thought I was going to kill you?’

  ‘Yeah, or worse.’

  ‘What else did the FBI ask you?’

  ‘If I’d be able to recognise you again,’ replied Marie, flicking through her mind for anything else.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, “Who, the black guy in the alley or the guy from Cottondale who knows how to handle a gun?”’

  ‘What’d the agents say to that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Okay, we’re done.’

  ‘So did you find my lying zone?’

  ‘Everything you said was true except the bit about seeing someone else.’

  Marie let out a snort. ‘Pah. You’re making this crap up. You nearly had me there.’

  Marie reached over and grabbed her glass of wine from the bedside table. There was a guy she met occasionally, used to come into McHales. They’d meet up and have sex, but that was it. They had nothing in common: no emotional attachment.

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Marie, puffing out her cheeks. ‘Just . . . bullshit.’

  Finn got up from the bed and grabbed another bottle of beer from the brown paper bag sitting on the low-rise coffee table.

  ‘Okay. How does it work?’ asked Marie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The lying zone.’

  ‘When you answered the other questions you looked up to the right, but when I asked you if you were seeing someone you looked down to the left – chances are that’s your lying zone,’ said Finn, moving back to the bed. ‘I ask you lots of questions I know the answer to – things I know are true – then slip in the occasional question where I don’t.’

  Marie lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, looking at Finn like she still wasn’t sure.

  ‘Okay, let me try you.’

  ‘I’ve been trained to counter it, so there’s no point.’

  ‘Why would you need training in how to avoid answering questions honestly?’

  ‘Is that your first question?’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Let’s play something else,’ said Finn.

  ‘No sit down, c’mon, let me have a go. See what I come up with.’ Marie didn’t wait for Finn’s approval.

  ‘Are you Finn O’Hanlon?’

  Finn stared straight at her, but didn’t reply.

  Marie tried again.

  ‘Are you Irish?’

  Again Finn said nothing.

  ‘Did you come to my apartment the other night to kill me? The Feds think that’s what you’re going to do.’

  Still no response.

  ‘Well, it’s not much of a game if you just sit there saying nothing. These are the easy questions – I’ve still got the curve ball to come.’

  ‘The whole idea is to say nothing,’ said Finn. ‘If you admit to anything, even something as simple as your name‚ you’re engaging with them. They’ll twist it round and come at you from all sorts of angles. Before you know it they’ve got you by the bollocks and you’re heading off to jail for the rest of your life for a crime you didn’t commit. It’s hard, but the rule is say nothing.’

  Marie poured some more wine into her glass. ‘See, now I’ve got loads of questions like: who are “they”? Who are you? Who am I? What the hell is this all about? Are you a goddamn spy or something?’

  Marie was watching Finn closely for some sort of reaction, but nothing was coming back at her. ‘Okay, let’s assume that you’re not going to jail if you answer my questions,’ continued Marie. ‘And let’s also assume that I’m not interested in finding your lying zone. Can we just have a normal conversation? I won’t even look at you if that helps.’

  ‘Okay,’ replied Finn.

  Marie turned to face the wall.

  ‘What’s with the big angel on your back? You got a Travis Bickle thing going?’

  ‘Who’s Travis Bickle?’ replied Finn.

  ‘You remember in Taxi Driver? Travis Bickle is De Niro’s character. He plays the screwed-up Vietnam vet with all the jail tats.’

  ‘I never saw it.’

  ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘It’s the seraph that appeared to St Francis of Assisi in a vision on Mount Alverna: marked him with the stigmata. He used to drag a cross around with him everywhere he went as an act of penance.’


  ‘The seraph dragged it?’

  ‘St Francis.’

  ‘So is it a symbolic act of penance?’

  ‘You could say that,’ replied Finn.

  ‘Did you go through my underwear drawer?’

  Finn tried not to smile. ‘Is that one of your curve balls?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why don’t you turn round now?’

  ‘I’m checking if it’s possible to hear your lying zone.’

  ‘No. I didn’t go through your underwear drawer,’ replied Finn.

  ‘I don’t even need to see your eyes to know you’re a lying son-of-a-bitch,’ said Marie. ‘I’ve got a system too: smalls with string to the right, lacies beside them, cottons next to them and bras over on the left. When I came home to get changed they were all mixed up.’

  ‘You see! I’m engaging with you in a conversation and you’ve got me tried and convicted already.’

  ‘Were you checking my ass out this morning when I was getting dressed?’

  ‘Curve ball?’ asked Finn.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course . . . I wasn’t checking out your ass.’

  Marie turned back to face him.

  ‘Liar,’ continued Marie. ‘I watched your reflection in the mirror‚ you were staring at it like you’d never seen an ass before.’

  ‘You were sticking it in my face. I had no option. And to be honest I haven’t seen an ass quite like that before.’

  Marie liked that.

  ‘Do you want to kiss me?’ she said.

  Here was the curve ball, flying towards him at a hundred miles an hour.

  Marie was staring straight at him, taking him on.

  Finn hesitated before saying, ‘Yes . . . but not on the mouth.’

  Marie liked that one too. She let it sink in. The atmosphere in the room had changed: it was still hot and sticky, but suddenly that didn’t seem so bad.

  Finn and Marie were just inches apart.

  ‘Do you want to lick me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar. Do you want to fuck me?’

  ‘No,’ replied Finn, looking deep into her eyes.

  ‘Liar,’ said Marie.

  Their lips were almost touching.

  Suddenly Finn pulled away.

  ‘I thought you told them I’d asked for a beer?’

  Marie’s brow furrowed. ‘Are you fucking serious?’ she asked. ‘I’m just about to get naked here. What the hell does beer have to do with anything?’

  ‘You told them, the only thing I did was to ask you for a beer.’

  ‘Are we still playing the game?’ asked Marie, ‘because I don’t know what the hell is going on now.’

  ‘No,’ said Finn, aware that the tone on his voice was freaking her out.

  ‘I said to them the only conversation we had was you asking for a beer . . . Jesus‚ Finn.’

  ‘How do you know I lived in Cottondale?’

  The last question caught Marie in the stomach, knocking the air out of her. She’d thrown Finn a curve ball, but he’d hit it straight back at her. Suddenly she understood why the cops had exchanged a look. It was right around the time she’d said ‘Who, the black guy in the alley or the guy from Cottondale who knows how to handle a gun?’ How could she possibly have known he was from Cottondale unless they’d had more of a conversation?

  ‘Well, I’ll tell them I forgot that bit in all the excitement of people getting fucking shot. Why does it matter?’

  ‘It matters because it’s inconsistent. To their way of thinking it looks like you’re holding out on them. They’re going to pick through everything you tell them from now on with a fine-toothed comb.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be telling them anything else now that we’re on the run, so don’t worry about it.’

  Finn stood up and walked over to the window. ‘It’s not a game, Marie. You’re the innocent party in all this and you’re in danger of ending up in some very deep shit.’

  ‘So what d’you want me to do? Drive back to Tuscaloosa and hand myself in? Tell them the guy they’re looking for has been staying in my apartment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marie was staring up at Finn in disbelief. ‘Are you fucking serious? What about the press guys who saw us leaving together in the same car . . . how do I explain that?’

  ‘Tell them I’d threatened to kill you and you were scared.’

  ‘Jesus‚ Finn‚ when you throw a curve ball . . . Whoa! It’s not a ball, it’s more like a goddamn hand grenade.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s coming my way, but it’s not going to be good. I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire. It’s real – you could end up dead.’

  Marie watched Finn turn and look out the window.

  ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t fuck.’

  Finn stood with his back to her and didn’t answer.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m thinking I need to go to the apartment.’

  ‘Now? Why don’t we wait: go tomorrow evening?’

  ‘I should probably go alone.’

  ‘Oh yeah?

  Finn heard her jangling the car keys.

  ‘And how you going to get there . . . you planning to walk?’

  Chapter 24

  Cottondale, Alabama‚ Easter Sunday‚ evening

  The storm clouds had passed swiftly over the low-rise buildings of Cottondale, giving way to a bruised-blue evening sky and light drizzling rain.

  Danny was parked in a side street across from Finn O’Hanlon’s apartment.

  The three-storey red-brick building opposite had graffiti covering the walls of the ground floor, and the majority of the windows looked like they’d been boarded up for some time. The entire neighbourhood looked like it had been boarded up along with it.

  A Victorian-style balcony ran the full length of the building on the first and second floors, with heavy glass panels acting as dividers between each of the apartments. The white paint on the balustrade had crackled and peeled in the humid atmosphere: the exposed wood underneath was grey and rotten.

  Danny had planned to drive around for most of the day to familiarise himself with the area, but there wasn’t a lot to see: he was all done within less than an hour. Cottondale was not the sort of place you’d take a tour bus to: even after sundown, when the appearance of every other small town in America improved under the soft glow of orange sodium, it still looked bleak. If O’Hanlon was the Thevshi then he must have been really desperate not to be found, to put up with living here. It was a good place to hide, but a shit place to live.

  Danny had been sitting in the car long enough to get himself noticed, but not long enough to know for certain if there was anyone inside O’Hanlon’s apartment. Aside from an old Mercedes that had circled the block two or three times – like the driver was lost – the street was deserted. However, even odd places have their own normality: a rhythm of life imperceptible to the casual passer-by. A guy sitting in a car on his own for most of the afternoon would be sure to attract attention: a beat out of time. It was time to make a move.

  Danny pulled the MSG90’s scope from its soft leather pouch and sited it on O’Hanlon’s front room. The magnified image told him nothing that he didn’t already know: the flat was empty.

  Situated directly opposite the shabby apartment block sat a small glass-fronted coffee shop with high stools facing out onto the street. From there he’d have a clear view of the first-floor balcony and the front door to the building: it would be easier to see who was entering and leaving. Maybe he’d go in and have a Coke, wait around for another twenty minutes or so to see if anyone showed up: or alternatively he could head into ‘Jo’s Bar’ on the far corner and get a beer. Or maybe he’d just walk across the street and ring the bloody doorbell: the chances of O’Hanlon still being around were nil.

  Danny wanted to have a nose around, get a feel for who this guy was: hopefully find a photograph so that at the very least he would know what the guy looked like. He flip
ped the handle on the glove box and lifted out the Walther PPK to check it was loaded. He’d already checked it ten times, but it was something to do. Danny liked the feel of the PPK in his hand. It was a good weight; comfortable grip too. He tucked it in his belt, pulled on his leather jacket and got out of the car. Immediately Danny wished he’d worn his light cotton Harrington instead. This late at night – even with the light rainfall – the temperature was still in the eighties. Before he’d reached the other side of the street he was covered in sweat. The heat was fine; it was the humidity that made it unbearable. Danny never imagined he’d long for the cold grey Newry drizzle, but anything was better than this.

  There was a light on in the apartment next to O’Hanlon’s. Whoever was in there was playing gospel music too loud for the time of night, but it sounded good echoing down the deserted street.

  Of the twenty or so rectangular slots in the brass-framed plate screwed to the sidewall at the entrance, only three had names written in them. Flat B Four – O’Hanlon’s – was one of the blanks. The other names looked like they were Polish or Russian – something Eastern European.

  Danny pressed the buzzer and waited.

  Nothing.

  Earlier on he’d driven down the alleyway at the rear of the building. It ran north to south along the back of the block. Danny decided to head round there and look for a way inside.

  As he turned to walk away the lock on the main door suddenly buzzed and clicked open. The noise startled him. He hadn’t expected a response.

  He peered from underneath the overhang to see if anyone was looking down at him from the balcony of O’Hanlon’s flat, but there was no one there.

  Danny hadn’t really thought this through: he’d been so sure O’Hanlon was gone.

  Reading off one of the other nameplates he leant forward and pressed O’Hanlon’s buzzer again. ‘Mr Slovensky, parcel for you. You want me to bring it up?’ Danny said‚ trying an American accent.

  There was still no answer, but the lock buzzed again. The tall main door creaked and groaned loudly as Danny pushed against it, the sound reverberating down the hollow corridors. If O’Hanlon was upstairs waiting for him then he would know for certain that Danny was inside the building.