Static Cling (The Irish Lottery Series Book 5)

by Gerald Hansen

  She'd figure everything out once she was released and after she had mourned over her lost child.

  Zoë turned off the light and wrapped herself in the crisp white sheets.

  Fionnuala knew nothing. Yet.

  The interrogation was over. All had been revealed. Joe O'Day was hauled down to the cells. The charge: armed robbery and manslaughter.

  McLaughlin, obviously in high spirits, had invited D'Arcy to the local copper pub for a pint of lager. A celebratory beer.

  They had clinked glasses, and after D'Arcy had taken a sip and McLaughlin had downed half of his and wiped the foam from his mustache, she searched his face. She was perplexed.

  “Perhaps I'm a little slow, sir, but...?”

  “Aye, D'Arcy? What is it?”

  “I don't understand why this crime was committed. I know I was sitting beside you at the table in the interview room, but perhaps it was the perp's accent. I'm struggling to understand why he needed to commit that robbery. What the fake ticket and itinerary had to do with it.”

  “Aye, he was speaking quickly, so he was. Blurting everything out, and crying as he did so. I had to strain to understand him meself. But this is it. His great aunt, Mrs. Ming, finally got all her funds together for her dream trip. To Kenya. She wanted to go on safari. Had done all her life, apparently.”

  “Yes, that I gathered.”

  “She didn't, but, know how to go about it on the computer. And she had a walker. It was difficult for her to get about. She couldn't go to a travel agent. Or, she could have, but why should she? When she had a layabout grand nephew just sitting there gulping down the drink before the telly every day. So she gave him the money, and told him to get the ticket and the hotel and the safari for her.”

  “But he didn't?”

  “Naw. What he spent it on we can only imagine. But he had a fancy woman, that Myrtle Flannery ye might have heard us mention.”

  “Yes, the one who works at the Palace Hotel.”

  “Aye. And that's how he knew about the contract with Final Spinz, and about all the cash that would be there and when. Myrtle told him.”

  “Why did she need to tell him, though?”

  “Joe spent all the money, and, I don't know, typed up that fake ticket and itinerary. He felt bad he had wasted the old woman's money, collected over ten years. Wasted it on two weeks worth of drink for him and his fancy woman, I guess. He knew he'd have to get together about three thousand pounds of his own to—”

  “To finally buy the real ticket and hotel rooms and such?”

  “Aye, exactly. But the days kept passing, and Mrs. Ming kept counting down the days on the calendar. It was almost time for the trip, and she still didn't have a ticket. Yer man Joe felt worse and worse. He couldn't dash the woman's dreams. So he robbed the dry cleaners to give Mrs. Ming her dream holiday.”

  “Only the woman happened to be in the dry cleaners at the same time. Shoulda stayed at home.”

  “And how did that old woman, her sister, know it was Joe? From the group at the church?”

  “His trainers, his Fahrennight, and the fact that his best mate Tom runs that stall. Tom, by the way, we've picked up as the person who carried the tongs. We've got a search out for the trowel perp. Another friend of Joe's.”

  “And what was that smell the cleaning lady talked about?”

  “That was the stench of the sewer water from Joe's job, of course. In the sewers. We sent SOCO back in. They took some swabs, and I'm confident it will match the sample from the bottom of Joe's Reedock trainers. An open and shut case, D'Arcy.”

  He finished his pint. “Shall we have another?”

  “Yes. I'll get this round in, sir.”

  “You do that, D'Arcy.”

  As he waited for her to return from the bar, the rap music on the jukebox ended. “The Last Waltz” came on. A fitting ending. McLaughlin leaned back in the nook, hands around the back of his head, and smiled. But it was a bit rueful. He hummed along.

  A few years later, Fionnuala Flood got it into her mind to visit her daddy's grave. It was the 15th anniversary of his death. She lurked outside the Sav-U-Mor, where bunches of slightly wilting flowers were wrapped in plastic and displayed in buckets. She waited until nobody was about, then she stole a bouquet.

  After crying for a few moments at her father's grave, Fionnuala made her way out of the graveyard. She was almost at the gate when she happened to notice out of the corner of her eye the words EIBHLEANN MING on a tombstone. She stopped. She looked down. GONE TO HER INDIA it said after the dates of her birth and death.

  “Eejits!” she muttered under her breath. All these years on, and the Mings still thought Mrs. Ming had always wanted to go to India. As if that was the only foreign country in the world! Fionnuala knew better. It had been Kenya.

  She thought for a moment. Her eyes swept over the grave. There were a few scattered remnants of flowers that had been placed on the grave years before. It didn't seem right.

  Fionnuala thought about the bouquet she had placed on her daddy's grave. It was terrible far away, and her feet were aching. She should have worn different shoes. She didn't want to walk all the way over there, get the flowers, and walk all the way back. She looked around at the other, closer graves.

  There was a beautiful bouquet of lilies on an adjacent grave. She tiptoed over. She read the tombstone as she snatched them up. “Sorry, Mrs. Murphy.”

  Fionnuala placed the lilies on Mrs. Ming's grave. She bowed her head.

  “Ta, Mrs. Ming, for all yer kindness,” Fionnuala said. A tear rolled down her face. “I hope they've a Kenya up there in Heaven for ye. And I hope to get to Greece and all. If I do, I'll take ye along with me. Don't be alarmed, now. I don't mean yer bones or whatnot. I mean...take ye along in me heart. I know it wasn't yer country, but it'll be better than nothing. Ta again, Mrs. Ming.”

  She wiped away the tear, squared her manly shoulders, then took the bus back home to her family.

  ****

  I thank you so much for getting this book. If you enjoyed it (and I hope you did!), why not review it on Amazon? I don't even mean a review; many people don't like to write them. Really what's important are the stars, so even a sentence would do. Reviews/stars are so, so important for us authors, and we are always grateful for them. Please go to Amazon and rate this book here. I’d love to hear from you!

  And keep in touch with all my activities, freebies and special offers! Sign up for my mailing list here. And if you do—how exciting!—you'll get my new short story, Table For Nine At Kebabaliious, just for signing up!

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  Thanks so much again for reading this book! Gerald

  In the meantime, the story doesn't end there! Why not read Gerald Hansen's next book? It's a bit different, about Ursula and Jed's daughter, Gretchen Barnett. She's got troubles of her own in New York City. Here's an exclusive excerpt from Emergency Exit. I hope you give it a try.

  Excerpt from Gretchen Barnett's MPPI-3 Psychological Assessment Exam, completed for admission to the New York Police Department:

  365. My mother and father are good people. True

  366. My feet and hands usually feel warm. True

  367. My daily life is full of things that keep me interested. True

  368. I enjoy reading mechanics magazines. False

  369. I often daydream about being a pop star. False

  370. I am just as athletic as most of my friends. True

  371. I am frequently the life of the party. True

  372. My parents raised me right. True

  373. As a youngster, I engaged in petty criminal activity. True

  374. I have never been in trouble because of my sexual behavior. False

  375. Sometimes I feel like cursing. True

  376. I am very strongly attracted to members of my own sex. False

  377. Fire fascinates me. False


  378. I get angry sometimes. True

  379. I have not lived the right kind of life. False

  380. My sleep is often fitful and disturbed. True

  381. I often suffer from constipation. False

  382. I fear that someday alien beings will take over our planet. False

  383. I see things or animals or people around me that others cannot see. False

  384. Everything is turning out just as the prophets of the Bible said it would. False

  385. I feel like smashing things occasionally. True

  386. Evil spirits possess me at times. False

  387. I always tell the truth. False

  388. My sex life is satisfactory.

  CHAPTER ONE TWO YEARS AGO

  It would never have happened, never begun, if she'd been carrying a different purse. How different things would be now if only she'd chosen her magenta Tory Burch hobo handbag, an actual one, the black quilted Chanel clutch, knockoff, or even her Louis Vuitton bowler bag, irregular, as she was leaving her apartment in Williamsburg that spring day. But she hadn't.

  Gretchen Barnett weaved through the throngs of New York's Union Square, the gawping tourists, the hustlers, the skateboarders, the invalids from the local hospital with their canes and casts, the homeless with their carts, the drug dealers, the NYU students, the Hispanic families who seemed to travel in caravan-like hordes, the shoppers, the hipsters, the hip-hoppers, the men in suits, the butch girls, the mincing boys, the people smiling and waving at her as if they knew her but only wanted her to sign a petition and give a donation, the gangs of pimply teens and, Gretchen was surprised to see, a nun.

  She herself was one of the shoppers, and heading for a cup of chamomile tea at one of the many Starbucks that ringed the square. She hauled a Burlington Coat Factory shopping bag in her right hand. It was stuffed with discount emergency underwear and high-end toiletries that were going cheap because their bottles were sticky or cracked. Her beige 'Michael Kors' cross-body satchel, with the chunky gym-locker type lock, was slung over her shoulder. She had chosen it because she thought it matched her blue halter dress with daisies. The satchel bulged, spindly strap straining, as she had shoved too much inside, but you never knew what you might need on a day out.

  The sun was shining and she was happy. It was a rare day off work, a very rare day. Gretchen seldom had the chance to live in the city she actually lived in, spend some quality time there. And who, out of all the 8.5 million people in the city, would she happen to spy in the crowded square during her 'my time,' but Sam. She clutched her throat. Stood frozen. Horrified.

  There he slouched, next to the halal food cart across from the Starbucks door, staring down at his phone. Her ex-boyfriend. With his three day growth and his matted no-color hair and his beer gut straining the Raiders t-shirt she had seen far too many times. The man responsible for the misery of her life right now, and responsible for her current 'look.'

  Gretchen had always worn with pride her naturally curly red hair, hair inherited from her mother Ursula; had spent a lifetime, 28 years, feeling it bouncing, cascading around her freckled face, a field of deep copper with shimmering bronze highlights, always at the receiving end of compliments and jealous dirty looks. Sam had begged her to straighten it, just to see what it looked like. Kowtowing to his strange desires, she had gotten it professionally relaxed, straightened, and now it hung, though still deep copper and bronze, like damp curtains. Long straight bangs above her oversized black-framed glasses gave her a modern look, she supposed, but she was counting down the days, months, until it grew out, until she could feel the comfort of her curls and look proudly into a mirror again. She, or her hair, in any event, had always been traditional Irish farm girl, but now there seemed an edge to her, a look that said the farm girl has moved to New York and discovered uppers, alternative music and bad men. She had, it's true, but that had been a decade ago, and she had tamed down since then, grown up. Though still the bad men lingered. Like Sam. But coercing her to change her hair wasn't the worst thing Sam had done.

  Gretchen scurried behind the stall selling cheap sunglasses, phone covers and dodgy-looking pashminas, thankful the vendor was fat. Hopefully, his bulk would shield her, hide her. But, no.

  As if he were a drone and she a terrorist, Sam's head snapped up and he stared directly at her, as if he had implanted a chip in her, her coordinates always available on some app on his phone. He smiled, delighted shock. Gretchen's heart sank.

  “Gretchen!” he called out, frat-house cheery. Cheer was the last thing she felt. Her scalp tightened, her stomach clenched. She couldn't ignore him, pretend she was someone else. But there was no need to be friendly. She still hated who she was now because of him.

  He rushed around the stall and came up to her. “Wow! How long has it been?”

  “Not long enough,” she sniped. Gone were her thoughts of a tea at Starbucks. Two doors away was the corner, and around that the entrance to the subway. “Please, Sam. Let's not do this. I'm late for an appointment.”

  She raced down the sidewalk, willing him to disappear. He didn't. He followed her like a puppy eager for love. He wouldn't get it from her. Not any more.

  “Aw, that's no way to be,” he said, arms spread out, one before her, one behind, as if to capture a butterfly, trap her once again. “Hey, come on. Gretchen! Let's talk.”

  “I still can't forgive you,” she said stiffly, lips crimped, unwilling, unable to look at him, staring ahead as startled people parted on the sidewalk before her, a woman on a mission. To escape. “Do you realize what hell you've made of my life? What hell my life is now? And all because of that damn alarm clock. You just had to turn it off, didn't you? And because you did, I'll be forced to live like this for five more years, with the constant abuse, an inhumane boss to answer to, derided and pitied by everyone. And no chance of it changing any time soon. Five more years of torture! Because of you.”

  He was panting with the effort of keeping up with her. Gretchen hated how he had made her seem unreasonable, full of anger to all those around. She wasn't usually.

  “Come on!” Sam said, an unappealing whine to his voice now. “Gimme a break! Anybody coulda done it.”

  “Anybody didn't do it. You did.”

  “Let me at least carry your shopping. It looks heavy.”

  It weighed a ton, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

  “Get your hands off it,” she said, smacking them away. “And get away from me. Do you want me to yell?”

  “Gretchie-baby!” Sam implored, hot on her heels as she stepped onto the empty escalator. “Gimme another chance! I'm going crazy without you.”

  Gretchen was clomping down the moving steps, but now she whipped around and yelled up at the chins which towered over her, “And I'm going crazy because of you! You...you...asshole!”

  Sam jerked back in alarm, staggered, then toppled forward. Gretchen gripped the handrail as his hands flew down for support. Only four steps to the bottom. She screamed as he snatched the strap of her purse and fell against her. The shopping bag tumbled to Gretchen's shoes. The teeth of the steps snatched the bag and gobbled it up, her underwear and the bottles shooting out past the last step, across the bottom platform and out onto the entrance of the subway lobby beyond. Sam still clung to the strap of her handbag, and it snapped, whipping through the air, cracking Gretchen in the face, then back down. Where it disappeared in the crack between the churning steps and the escalator side.

  “My purse!” Gretchen wailed as it whipped through her fingers. The machinery gargled and burped. Gretchen was flung past her purse and the steps and onto the concrete, palms stinging. Sam plunged after her. Both splayed across a floor littered with old metro cards and strange stains and Gretchen's new panties. Her purse whizzed across the bottom platform of the steps that now convulsed strangely, her purse grinding again and again against the bottom teeth, lipsticks and tissues and money and pens spewing out, the lock clanging as it smacked against metal.
/>
  “You fool! Look what you did!” Gretchen's voice echoed in the din of the subway. Heads in the Metrocard machine lines turned like periscopes.

  Passing girlfriends held their boyfriends tighter and flashed her superior looks. Nobody cared to intervene. Gretchen scrabbled through the field of conditioners and shower gels. She reached out for her shuddering, mangled purse, which was still being attacked by the teeth of the escalator. She finally noticed the massive red EMERGENCY STOP button and pressed it. The machinery shuddered to a stop. And as Sam, wincing and clutching his leg, lumbered over to, she supposed, offer help there was no way in hell she would accept, and as she tugged at her purse and yelled at him, “Just stay away! Stay away from me!” down the still escalator bounded a sharply dressed man.

  “Leave her alone!” he yelled at Sam, leaping past Gretchen and positioning himself between the two. “Get away from her! She asked you to! More than once.”

  Alpha Sam's face of concern hardened, offended. King of the jungle provoked.

  “And just who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.

  “Someone who respects women. Unlike you.”

  Gretchen, her head turned from her purse for a moment, saw Sam's puce face, the veins throbbing on his forehead, the clench of his hands into fists.

  “You trying to tell me how to treat my girl?”

  “I'm not your girl!” Gretchen yelled.

  “You heard her,” the stranger said. “Get lost.”

  Now a crowd had formed, including a woman with three children shoved in a stroller, all of whom were licking on popsicles like this was the afternoon's entertainment. Sam must have realized most were eyeing him with disapproval, that he was on the losing team.

  “Ah, who gives a shit anyway,” he said, hands up in surrender. “You can have the bitch if you want her. Not that you look like you'd want her. You look like a goddamn wop fairy.”

  Sam shoved through the crowd, bumping as many shoulders as he could, and Gretchen thought How did I ever put up with him for so long? How did I not see it? The crowd dispersed, a few spectators on the fringes scooping up the freebies on display, the underwear and toiletries.