Seventy Times Seven

by John Gordon Sinclair

  ‘To kill his own brother! What the fuck is that all about?’

  ‘ . . . and buy some heavy-duty weaponry from De Garza for his friends back home in Ireland.’

  ‘How come we know all this if we haven’t got a rap sheet on O’Hanlon? Why we suddenly so well informed?’ asked Kneller.

  Joe Evelyn was about to answer when he noticed Bulldog Jo hovering near the till directly opposite where they were sitting.

  ‘You boys thirsty enough to try another?’ she said, trying to cover.

  ‘Sure,’ replied Kneller. ‘Same again, and a pack of smokes, don’t care what brand.’ He let it hang for a while before continuing, ‘You got anywhere we can sit and have a private conversation?’

  Bulldog Jo gave him a look that said ‘Stop being an ass’. ‘If you don’t want anyone listening in then you can take your beers and drink them on the sidewalk so long as the po-lice don’t see you, else they bust your ass for vagrancy . . . if that’s no good then there’s another bar, bout half-an-hour’s drive from here, but chances are it’ll be closed by the time you get there. Failing all that, you can sit right where you are and keep your goddamn voices down . . . is up to you.’

  Jo put the beers down in front of the two men and turned to get the cigarettes from the display stand behind her.

  ‘Maybe we’ll ask the cops that bust us for vagrancy to step inside and check you got all the right permits. Could be a nightmare trying to run a bar if your licence got pulled over something stupid.’ Evelyn said, talking to Jo’s back.

  Jo turned and placed the cigarettes down on the bar then smiled at the two FBI agents. ‘You got maggots on your balls, or something? I didn’t shoot no one. You want to have a beer and a smoke it’s fine. You don’t want anyone listening in, that’s fine too . . . Don’t have to bust my tits just cause I got ears. I’ll be over there if you need anything else. Make sure you holler loud cause I’s suddenly gone deaf.’

  When Bulldog Jo had moved to the far end of the bar Joe Evelyn finished what he was going to say. ‘We are “so well informed” because you got a call. Someone called 18th Street and left you a message. They mentioned the hit in McHales, they mentioned the Lakeshore Hotel, they mentioned O’Hanlon’s flat in Cottondale: only thing they didn’t mention was who they were, but they knew what they were talking about. Spoke with a thick Irish accent: had to repeat themselves a few times.’

  Kneller picked up Joe Evelyn’s pack of cigarettes from the bar. ‘You mind if I have one of these?’

  ‘I ain’t your doctor,’ replied Evelyn.

  ‘So what do we call O’Hanlon now?’ said Kneller with a scowl. ‘We got to call him Sean McGuire? I kinda got used to calling him Finn O’Hanlon. Be weird to call him something else.’

  Bulldog Jo leant across, picked the phone up from the bar and dialled. After about thirty seconds she said, ‘Jesse, it’s me. Let me speak to one of them?’

  Eventually Danny came on the line.

  ‘You just got a name-check, boy,’ said Bulldog, whispering under her breath. ‘They mentioned Finn and you and the fact you was travelling under an assumed name. Even said it: “Mr Leonard”. They said you came in at Boston and you got some business with Hernando De Garza. These guys seem to know a whole load of shit.’

  *

  Danny didn’t like what he was hearing. He had to get back to Ireland and he had to make sure Sean got back too. If the FBI knew about the false name on the passport then the chances were high that Sean would be stopped before he got anywhere near a plane. He thanked Jo and replaced the receiver.

  The smiles disappeared from Ardel and Hud’s faces when Danny told them what Jo had said; Marie was staring anxiously at Danny.

  Hud was the first to speak. ‘Sounds to me like there’s someone up a ladder with their ass hanging over your head, Mr O’s bro. You getting shit on,’ he said. ‘I ain’t being paranoid, but I hope you don’t think it’s any of our skinny black asses talked to the FBI. You in the Ardel and Hud club too and that means we take a vow of silence over anything that happens to be your business. We don’t know even half that shit anyways.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I know that information didn’t come from you,’ replied Danny, pulling the Walther PPK from behind his jacket and placing it on the table in front of him. ‘Where are you going to be in forty-eight hours? Where can I pick up the passport?’

  ‘If it’s okay with Jesse we was thinking of dropping it off here,’ replied Hud. Jesse shrugged her shoulders. ‘Don’t bother me none,’ she said.

  ‘That’s fine,’ continued Danny. ‘Marie, if you don’t mind, would you let Jesse look after you till then? After that I’m going to – hopefully – make sure you can go back home and forget all this ever happened.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Marie.

  ‘Got a few things to sort out,’ replied Danny. ‘You guys fit to drive?’ he asked Ardel and Hud.

  ‘We fit to fly, man,’ answered Hud. ‘Don’t know if we’s fit to drive. Why don’t you take the wheel and we’ll give you directions. You need some back-up?’

  ‘Maybe,’ answered Danny as he handed his Walther over to Marie. ‘Would you mind holding on to this for me till we get back?’

  ‘Sure. Why not.’ Marie took the gun and put it in her purse.

  ‘You okay, Mr O’s bro?’ asked Ardel. ‘You acting all distracted, like you got a plan coming together in your head.’

  ‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ answered Danny. ‘You coming?’

  *

  Kneller watched the guy with the beat-up face push through the entrance door and walk towards him. Something about his manner – the way he carried himself, or the look in his eyes – made Kneller instinctively reach inside his jacket and rest his hand on the safety clip looped over his revolver.

  The guy pulled up a chair and sat between him and Joe Evelyn like he was late for the meeting. ‘Can I help you, mister?’ Kneller said, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the guy’s eyes.

  ‘I’m hoping we can help each other. My name is Danny McGuire. I arrived at Boston International on Saturday travelling on a passport in the name of Leonard with a few jobs to do, but due to some unexpected turns of events I’ve had to change my plans.’

  ‘Why are you telling us things we already know? You trying to prove you been listening in to our conversation?’ Kneller threw a glance over at Bulldog Jo then asked, ‘You carrying any form of weaponry, Danny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mind if I check?’

  Danny held his arms out to the side and said, ‘Feel free.’

  Kneller stayed in his seat.

  ‘Aside from throwing you in cuffs and sticking you in jail for the next forty years, you mind me asking what other business you got here, Mr McGuire?’ asked Joe Evelyn.

  Danny didn’t answer. He’d already worked out that Kneller was the one in charge so he would direct the conversation towards him. Kneller had the touch: calling him by his first name like they were already friends. Asking if he minded being searched – as though it mattered to him what Danny thought – then not bothering to search him, letting Danny know he was already prepared to take him at his word. Kneller knew how to play the game.

  Jeff Kneller picked the pack of cigarettes off the bar and offered one to Danny.

  ‘Don’t smoke, thanks,’ said Danny.

  Kneller took his time lighting his cigarette before continuing. ‘My name is Jeff Kneller and this is Special Agent Joe Evelyn. Now, I know we’ve only just met, Danny, but already you strike me as the sort of person who doesn’t get into a situation without a way of getting out . . . would that be correct?’

  Danny nodded. Ardel and Hud were parked in the alley that ran along the back of the building. If everything was going well Danny would go to the restroom and flick the lights on and off. If he didn’t do that within ten minutes of him leaving the car they were to make their way round to the front and get ready to start shooting.

  ‘Well, assuming you wouldn’t have w
alked in here tonight if you didn’t think you could walk right out again,’ continued Kneller, ‘we’d be happy to hear what you’ve got to say.’

  ‘I want to do a deal,’ said Danny, his voice steady: under control. ‘The girl Marie Bain, she has nothing to do with any of this,’ he continued. ‘All she’s guilty of is trying to survive a shitty situation that wasn’t of her making. I want any charges against her dropped and a guarantee of immunity from prosecution.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ asked Kneller.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Danny.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Danny hesitated: he couldn’t be one-hundred-per-cent sure the FBI knew his brother was attempting to leave the country. If they didn’t know; he would be compromising Sean, but at this stage it was an all-or-nothing throw.

  ‘My brother Sean is going to get on a plane in the next few hours using the passport in the name of Mr Leonard – he must be allowed to go unimpeded, with no alerts sent to the British authorities for at least seventy-two hours.’

  ‘Maybe we could organise to give him a massage and get his dick sucked while he’s waiting to board,’ exclaimed Agent Evelyn.

  ‘If you’re volunteering that’d be grand,’ said Danny, ‘but I’m not sure you’re his type.’

  ‘You think cause you strolled in here to face us off, you’ve got big balls?’ said Evelyn getting up from his chair. ‘All it means – asshole – is we’ve got a bigger target to kick when we beat the shit out of you and throw you in jail.’

  ‘And . . . anything else?’ interrupted Kneller putting a hand between the two men and pushing Evelyn back into his seat.

  ‘I want to leave too – same deal as my brother: no alerts for at least seventy-two hours.’

  ‘You booked your ticket?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Evelyn sat there trying to stare Danny down, but Danny ignored him: he hadn’t come to start a fight. His only objective was to buy enough time to get Sean out of the country and then leave as well. Kneller took a long drag on his cigarette and finished the last of his beer before he said anything else.

  ‘So far the traffic’s travelling in one direction, Danny, and as far as I can make out there are a couple of juggernauts packed with explosives heading our way that could cause a nasty pile-up and get us all burned. We got information says you’re here to procure arms, and that you have a contract to murder someone. We also got your brother down for a fatal shooting in Tuscaloosa, and a murder right across the street here in Cottondale. Whichever way you cut it, you and your brother are looking at a major term indoors, with no chance of parole. If your lawyer advised you to come here and make this play, I hope he – or she – also told you the only way you’re gonna win is if you’re playing with a marked deck, or you got a royal flush, otherwise you made a bad call. What I’m getting at is this: what do we get out of it, except clearing up all the shit you’re proposing to leave behind?’

  Danny noticed Kneller’s hand resting on the handle of the gun. Kneller was taking the situation in his stride, playing it cool – but Danny had him sussed. He knew Kneller would have no hesitation in drawing the weapon and shooting him dead if he made one wrong move.

  ‘In return for everything I’m asking,’ replied Danny, ‘I’ll give you enough on Hernando De Garza to guarantee he’ll never come out of jail again.’

  Kneller’s face was like stone: it was difficult to read any sort of reaction, but he was taking his time to answer, which told Danny everything he needed to know. If it wasn’t a possibility Kneller would have dismissed it straight away.

  ‘Can I get you another couple of Skeeters?’ said Danny as he nodded over to Bulldog Jo.

  ‘Sure,’ replied Kneller.

  ‘You mind if I go to the restroom?’ asked Danny. ‘I need to signal my colleagues to tuck their guns back in their pants and head off home.’

  ‘Go right ahead,’ said Kneller.

  Chapter 36

  Sherwood Avenue, Tuscaloosa‚ early hours of Thursday

  Danny drove north-east along Jack Warner Parkway for a few miles looking for somewhere to pull over. He eventually turned right into Sherwood Avenue and drove to the top of the hill, where he parked, making sure the car wasn’t visible from any of the houses he had passed on the way.

  Sherwood was a quiet cul-de-sac with only four or five bungalows on one side of the street and a patch of tall woodland on the other. There were no street lamps. The only light came from small electric storm lamps that swayed back and forth in the picket-fenced porches.

  It was 12.30 a.m. and all curtains were drawn. Danny killed the engine and sat in silence for a few moments, watching the road behind in his rear-view mirror to make certain no one had followed him. When he was sure he was alone, Danny got out of the car and made his way round to the boot. Inside was a dark-blue checked duffel bag and a slim leather case that measured roughly four feet in length, and eighteen inches wide. Danny lifted out the narrow case and locked the car.

  The air was cool and fresh: a faint hint of the river mixed in with the aroma of pine from the adjacent trees. Danny crossed to the other side of the road and climbed over a low barrier into the shelter of the shrubs that were scattered in large clumps under the canopy of the trees. If anyone did happen to glance out of their window, Danny would be well hidden.

  Following the line of the road he walked quickly back down the hill through the trees until he was standing on the corner of Sherwood and Jack Warner Parkway, making sure he would not be visible to any passing motorists.

  At this time of night there was little traffic, but a faint rumbling sound in the distance made him stop. The long shadows of the trees swept along the road as a large freight truck passed – its headlamps blazing – on into the dark night.

  The two-lane County Road 88 ran parallel with Jack Warner Parkway, separated by a flat central reservation of dried grass. When he was sure there was nothing else coming, Danny sprinted across and disappeared into the tall spindly pine trees that ran along the eastern banks of the Black Warrior River.

  The ground underneath the sprawling canopy was covered with rotting leaves and fallen pine needles. It wasn’t long before Danny was standing on the shore of the great river. Moonlight reflected off the slick black surface as the current pulled it silently along its wide, meandering course.

  In the far distance the lights of a bridge twinkled through the darkness and danced around on the swirling surface of the water. On the western bank – about half a mile from where he was standing – there was the dim outline of a large shed or boathouse.

  Danny took a few paces back and, using his bare hands, began to clear a patch of ground. He had only just started scraping away the leaf-cover when he heard something crashing through the branches of the tree overhead. There was a loud shrieking sound and he dived forward, fumbling for his gun. He realised with dismay that he had left it in the glove compartment.

  Danny twisted round just in time to see a black, misshapen form splash into the river just yards from the shore. His heart was thumping hard. Whatever it was struggled and thrashed around battling for its life.

  ‘Jesus Christ, scared the shit out of me,’ he muttered as he got back to his feet.

  A large black raven was being carried away by the current, its waterlogged wings unable to break free from the Black Warrior’s icy grip.

  After only a few minutes the sound of thrashing gradually diminished until – eventually – all that could be heard was the rush of the dark river. The Morrigan’s return had been a brief one.

  Danny looked up at the clear night sky and wondered if the raven’s death was an omen. If everything was going to plan then Sean would soon be boarding a plane to fly back home. Danny would follow on as soon as possible and together they would sort out the mess. But what if the FBI had gone back on their word and Sean was now languishing in jail somewhere in Alabama?

  He returned to clearing the patch of ground.

  When he finished Danny placed
the leather case he’d taken from the car in the shallow hole and covered it with leaves. Next he looked around for some reference points, then stood for a few moments to make sure he had them fixed in his mind. He then turned, and – following the course of the river – walked along its shore, counting in his head the exact number of steps he was taking. The length of his stride was slightly exaggerated and would give him only a rough estimate of the distance, but that was all Danny needed. He had only been walking for five minutes when he stopped and looked across to the other bank. Directly opposite was the boathouse: 720 paces, just under half a mile – perfect.

  When Danny got back to the car it suddenly occurred to him that he had nowhere to stay the night.

  Chapter 37

  Lookout Mountain, Alabama‚ Thursday‚ morning

  Hernando De Garza reached across and replaced the antique telephone handset in its cradle, then propped himself up against the plump duck-down pillows on his bed. He stared thoughtfully at the small, silk, mauve-coloured lampshades hanging from the excessive chandelier in the middle of the bedroom. His mansion house – ‘nestling at the foot of Lookout Mountain in seventeen acres of secluded rolling hills and lush green pastures’ – had seven bedrooms in total: one for every day of the week. Today Hernando was in Thursday’s: modelled on a French boudoir, with rich silk-braided curtains, and a deep-purple velvet bedspread that complemented the ornately carved seventeenth-century, black-oak bedstead. All the bedrooms were themed: the French Revolution, the American Civil War, the Second World War, et cetera. The idea would have been a bad one if Hernando hadn’t had the money to carry it off to perfection. Every detail – the antiques, relics and mementos – that filled each room were all one-hundred-per-cent genuine.

  The oval-shaped entrance hall to the property was covered in grey Spanish marble and had two long sweeping staircases on either side that led to the first floor. A large mahogany breakfront chiffonier sat against the back wall of the landing with an original Picasso hanging above it. The Picasso had belonged to Hernando’s grandmother and – as far as the art world was concerned – no longer existed. His grandmother told the insurance company the painting had been destroyed after a house fire and claimed substantial compensation for its loss. De Garza didn’t particularly like the painting, but he loved the story behind it, which was why it had such a prominent place at the head of the stairs. It made him wonder how many other priceless works of art had a catalogue listing that read ‘Destroyed by fire’. If anyone ever asked, he would tell them it was a passable replica of the original.