"You did it! You did it! You pushed her right over. He did it 'cause he was mad that they were going to sit on his goddamn bridge. You stupid old man. She was sick. She was sick. She was sick. She was sick! She could hardly walk, you old crow."
Number Four was on his feet, flapping his arms. Taylor's hands hit his own head like it was a pinball – one side then the other. Number Four slapped his knees in a bizarre chicken dance. Together they looked like cocks in the ring ready to peck each other's blind eyes out if only they could find one another.
"Did no such thing. Did not. Did not," Number Four screamed back. "You couldn't see nothin'. You was in that house of yours."
"You did. You pushed her and the man ran away," Taylor shot back and then he went for the old man.
Finn bolted up and Cori appeared at the same moment. She took hold of Taylor, expertly corralling him. Her voice was even as she advised that she would have to restrain him if he did not restrain himself. Finn had his eye on Number Four who was dancing on his long, skinny legs, pointing his long skinny finger as he cackled.
"She's got you now, Taylor. She's got you."
Finn stepped in front of him to herd him back to the curb.
"Calm yourself, man."
Number Four, though, was in no mood to be herded or ordered about. Before Finn could get another word out, the old man bolted. He ran over Taylor's pizza stand sending it twirling into the street. Taylor howled. Number Four smashed into his own tent, sprawling over it spread eagle. Finn grabbed for his leg but he kicked out and caught Finn in the groin, missing a direct hit only by the grace of God. Finn doubled over long enough for Number Four to scramble up and be on his way.
"Number Four! Save yourself." A woman across the bridge screamed like a cheerleader rousing the crowd around her into a hue and cry.
"Christ," Finn muttered.
Number Four picked up speed so Finn did the same until someone pushed a cart in front of him. He slapped it out of the way but his sidestep sent him into the retaining wall, catching him at the hip, throwing him right so that he teetered over the railing. For a split second he saw what Jane Doe had seen; he saw how easy it would be to put an end to any misery this life had ladled into her bowl. Having a bit of the bitters of his own, Finn understood her but he also knew there had been a choice that night. It might not have been her choice to make, though; the man she was with might have chosen.
With a grunt, Finn righted himself and took off once more. If Number Four made it to the end of the bridge, he would surely be gone for good because he knew these streets better than any cop in the city ever would. But luck was with him because Number Four made a mistake. Instead of veering off into the clear and running down the center of the road, he gave out a war whoop and tried to vault over a stack of orange traffic cones a city crew had left for the night. His front foot caught one and he went down, the cones toppling like bowling pins under his weight.
Finn was on him, taking the old man by the shoulders and pushing him onto the ground as he tried to get up. Number Four shook himself free and slid out of Finn's grasp. He crabbed back on elbows and heels but Finn had enough. He was younger, stronger and he was mad. He grabbed Number Four's feet and dragged him back.
"Stay down old man! Stay put!"
"Old man! Old man! That is abuse! Police brutality! He twisted his head from side to side, spitting his indignation, looking for an assist.
Thankfully they had run far and the only person close enough to offer any help to Number Four was a man sitting up against the bridge wall nursing a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. A scrawny dog sat beside him. Both seemed amused rather than alarmed by the spectacle of the two men grappling.
Finn wound his fist into Number Four's shirt, raised him up onto his feet, danced him back to the railing and put the old coot up against it. The railing hit the old man mid-back, and Finn knew it wouldn't take much if he wanted to send Number Four over the edge. But Jane Doe was shorter by four inches and she was hurt, not sick as Taylor thought. It would take some strength – some intent – to lift her up and over. There was no doubt that Number Four had that strength because old did not mean feeble in his case. Intent was another matter. If he had driven through her in a rage that was one thing; panic was another thing altogether. Right now the old man was panicked.
"Don't kill me!" Number Four screamed. "Don't kill me. My people will rise up if you—"
"Quiet. For the love of God, be quiet," Finn pleaded as he ran his hands over the man's hips and down his legs to check for weapons, wishing all the while he had time for the gloves because it was a certainty the man had not seen a bath in a while. "I won't be killing you unless you make me crazy with your caterwauling."
"Punch him." The man with the bottle hollered at Number Four and flailed his arms as if trying to show him how it was done. "Kick him in the nuts and run."
"Stay quiet! Both of you!" Finn roared and shot the sitting man the steeliest of ice blue glares.
Number Four shrugged, unimpressed. The man with the bottle shrugged, too. The dog lay down to nap. Insult to injury Finn thought. He was not even frightening enough for the dog to bark at him.
"I'd punch you," the man said to Finn. "Then you'd punch back and the city would pay. A punch from a cop is worth an easy ten grand."
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I should have been a priest," Finn muttered.
"What? You're a priest?"
Number Four stopped struggling and started saying a Hail Mary. The man on the ground put the bottle to his lips and watched Finn take hold of Number Four's shirt to turn him around. They all heard it rip.
"Ah, my shirt," the old man cried as he went limp.
He sank to the ground, all the fight gone out of him. Finn kept hold of him all the way down. Only when he was seated did Finn let go. Still, he had learned his lesson and stood over Number Four, legs splayed, eyes tight on the miserable old man.
"Are you going to be good, now?" Finn asked.
"My shirt."
The old man grieved for the blue shirt with the embroidered cherries on it. Finn took advantage of the moment. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the picture of the dead woman. He wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth, licked his lips and then bent down so Number Four could get a good look at the picture.
"Did you push this woman over the bridge?"
Number Four's lower lip pushed out and he shook his head so hard that his beard trembled.
"I went after her. I surely did. But I didn't touch her," he said. "Least I don't think I touched her. Then she was just gone. God's doing. You can't chase God. You can't abuse God. So now you know the truth. God's doing."
Finn pushed the picture closer.
"Did you see the man push her?"
"He was helping her. I saw him lift her up and then she took hold of the rail and then she was gone."
Finn stepped back from the old man.
"Did you see him hit her?"
"Got me you bald headed bastard." The fight was coming back into Number Four. "If she didn't go over, I would have pushed her off the damn bridge. They couldn't stay. Maybe I kind of shoved her, but I don't think so. What can I tell ya? I just don't know. I think you should talk to Horace. That man looked like Horace. Horace sells protection. I heard he runs women. Maybe she wasn't doing her job. Maybe it was Horace up here teaching her a lesson. Maybe she didn't pay up. Can I go now?"
Finn let out a breath. His chest caved, his hand fell to his side. He moved off the old man and leaned against the wall. Number Four got up and shook himself like a dog. He put his hands in his pocket, smiled at the man sitting on the ground, wished him good evening and then ambled back down the sidewalk. From the freeway below came the whooshing sound of the traffic. Number Four had given him a run for sure, and Finn got next to nothing for it.
Down the way Cori was talking to a woman in a red bandana who was wearing ten layers of clothing if she was wearing a stitch. Taylor was lying down on the sidewalk, the pizz
a stand and towel in place. Number Four's tent was standing again.
"She's dead, huh?" The man raised his bottle toward the picture.
Finn looked at him and then at the copy of the autopsy photo in his hand. It seemed obvious to him that the woman in the photo was not among the living but he answered anyway.
"Yes, she's dead."
The man nodded.
"It happens."
The dog looked up at Finn. Then the man put one hand on the animal's head and offered Finn the bottle with the other. Finn shook his head, appreciative of the gesture.
"I think I'll pass," he said. The man smiled, happy that his generosity had been rewarded with more for himself.
Finn left the man and his dog to their evening cocktails. He bid good-bye to Taylor and Number Four, leaving cards with them though it was, he knew, a waste of ink and paper. When he joined up with Cori, he looked back at the man way down the bridge and took inspiration.
It was time to drown their sorrows – or at least wet their whistles.
CHAPTER 7
"Come on. Come on now, O'Brien."
Geoffrey Baptiste rolled one elbow off the bar where he was leaning, threw his arm over his head and waved as Finn and Cori came through the door of Mick's Irish Pub. Finn dropped his chin and chuckled as the door closed behind them. Finn put a hand to the small of Cori's back.
"There's no such thing as sneaking into this pub," he said.
"At least we're not undercover," she said as they made their way down the long aisle between the tables on the right and the impressive bar on the left.
"Geoffrey wouldn't care if we were. Sure, there aren't any bad guys in here to worry about at this hour anyway," Finn noted as Geoffrey's hey-ho echoed off the walls of the nearly deserted establishment.
When they reached the end of the bar, Cori took a seat and Finn slid onto the stool next to her. All the while, Geoffrey grinned at them, his gold tooth glinting like a headlight in the midst of his pearly whites.
"Ah, O'Brien, you bring de wife. I be wonderin' when you bring de wife. Geoffrey Baptiste." Geoffrey held out a be-ringed hand to Cori. "Geoffrey bein' from Trinidad. De Beanie Man is how dey call me because of de beanies on my head. And you be de Mrs. O'Brien. A beauty, O'Brien."
Cori put her purse on the bar and gave his hand a shake.
"The partner, not the missus," Cori corrected him. "Name's Cori."
"Ho-ho, O'Brien you work wit dis beauty all de day?" Geoffrey leaned toward Finn and wiggled his brows. "Dat girl real bess, O'Brien."
Finn translated: "He thinks you're very beautiful."
Geoffrey snorted, "O'Brien don't know real Trini. Dat mean you be sexy. Real bess."
"Well thanks to you, Geoffrey. Nice someone noticed," Cori laughed.
"You don't worry about O'Brien. He notice. He just don' say nothin'. He be the quiet type."
"You're going to be getting me in trouble, Geoffrey," Finn admonished. "I've had a hard enough day without upsetting this woman with your nonsense."
"She not bein' upset." Geoffrey tapped his nose and then pointed at Cori who laughed along with him. The man could see right through her. "But if you need to be havin' some courage, you come to de right place. Guinness for you and for Miss Cori?"
"Got bourbon on the rocks?"
"I got anytin' you want. I got drinks, and food, and I got de ear to listen to your woes. I think you have some of dem today."
Geoffrey laughed in syllables and kept talking to himself as he filled the order. Cori crossed her arms on the bar and smiled at Finn. He smiled at her.
"Nice," she said.
Finn nodded, happy she found Mick's agreeable. Geoffrey's tsunami of a laugh eased down to a little wave of amusement as he worked. Finn hooked the heel of one boot over the rod on the high stool. He pushed back his jacket and looked around at the one place he was welcome without question.
In its heyday, Mick's was a fine establishment of the old order. The space was longer than it was wide and the natural light coming through the front window was diffused by the image of a giant Leprechaun painted on it. The walls were lathe and plaster, the bar carved mahogany, and the ceiling covered with stamped tin. At one time the bartender had probably been named Sean or Barrie, an immigrant who served up Irish wisdom along with the beer and shots. In the early days it was politicians and journalists who stopped in for their libations. By the looks of the headshots framed on the wall, Mick's Irish Pub had its turn as a Hollywood hot spot in the late sixties. Now Geoffrey Baptiste from Trinidad, dark skinned and lavishly dreadlocked, superstitious and sage, owned the pub. His clientele came from the surrounding neighborhoods and the small businesses nearby.
Today the place was quiet in between late lunchers and early drinkers. A woman in a business suit spoke on her phone at a front table. The fading sun drifting through the painted Leprechaun put her in a kindly light and made her look ten years younger than she probably was. She had a tall glass in front of her that could be tea, but by the look on her face and the way her lips were moving Finn was thinking it was full of liquid courage. Two young men in jeans and T-shirts were deep in conversation. Either they didn't much care for the way Geoffrey made a hamburger or whatever they were talking about was mightily important because their plates had been pushed aside, the food barely touched. Finn turned toward the bar again when he heard the slide of glass on wood.
"Der you go. On de rocks for Miss Cori. Guinness for O'Brien. Always Guinness for O'Brien."
"When he loves something he's loyal, that's for sure," Cori said.
She picked up her glass, tipped it toward the men and then took a healthy drink. Geoffrey crossed his arms and leaned over the bar. His skinny butt swayed, and the dreadlocks that weren't stuffed up into his pink and orange knit beanie fell over his shoulder.
"So, what bad tings been goin' down on de streets of de city?" Geoffrey asked.
"We've got a Jane Doe—" Finn began.
Before he could explain further, the front door opened and another patron stepped into Mick's. All heads turned to look at the man in the doorway and they kept looking because he was a far cry from Geoffrey's usual customer. Silhouetted as he was, the man looked like something out of a horror movie. His shoulders were broader than any man's should be, his hips narrower than were natural. A Mohawk scraped down the center of his skull like a mutated rooster's comb.
"Now that's interesting," Cori muttered into her drink.
Finn narrowed his eyes, wondering if the gentleman had mischief on his mind. But when the door closed, he found himself looking at Mick's resident wannabe movie star and he barked a laugh.
"What have you done to yourself, Andrew?"
"Dat be Andrew?" Geoffrey whistled and smacked the heel of his hand to his forehead.
Cori turned full around to get a good look. Andrew grinned, spread his arms wide and strutted toward them like a runway model.
"I know, huh?"
His flack jacket was three sizes too big, the shoulders winging out so far it made the bottom half of him look scrawny in his skinny jeans. His T-shirt was screen-printed with every four-letter word known to man and those words surrounded a very large hand with its middle finger pointing upward. Bicycle chains were draped around Andrew's neck and wrists. On his hands were old leather gloves with the fingers cut out. This was a far cry from his usual khakis and polo shirts.
"Check this." Andrew turned his head and pointed to a tattoo running up the side of his neck.
"A bull," Cori drawled. "Does that mean you're full of it?"
"Whose the funny girl?" Andrew asked.
"You be cautious, Andrew," Geoffrey warned. "Dis be O'Brien's partner, Miss Cori. She be a tough girl."
"Darn right, Geoffrey." Cori smiled that glorious smile of hers. She tossed back her big hair along with the rest of her drink. "Nice to meet you, Andrew." She pushed the empty at the bartender and said, "I better have another."
"Is it good to get tatted up like that, Andrew?" Finn asked.
"Given your business and all."
"It's fake. This, too." He pulled one earring off to show his ears weren't really pierced. "My agent got me a shot at the new Mad Max film. I just came from the audition. I think I knocked it. I hope I knocked it."
"You sure am bein' in da moment." Geoffrey gave Andrew an admiring up and down. "I be givin' you a beer for luck, mon. You need de luck, ent?"
"I hate it when you talk like that, Geoffrey," Andrew grumbled and took a stool next to Cori.
"Ain't it right is what dat mean." Geoffrey presented Andrew with his lucky beer. "De hair be good, Andrew."
"I think the Mohawk was the way to go. You know, it shows the producers how committed I am. I wanted them to know I had a vision."
"Sure, you've done that," Finn muttered into his Guinness.
"Yeah. Well, I'm not taking any chances," Andrew sighed. "I swear if I don't get this one, I'm going back to Montana. The part is friggin' great. Five lines. Man, I'd kill for five lines." Andrew sighed again. "I'd hate to go back to Montana. I need that part. What do you think, Finn?"
Finn took a minute to consider which part of the question was in play. What did he think of the outfit, Andrew's chances to win a part, or the idea that a person of his age should go home to Montana and settle down to a regular job? Since Finn believed that none of his honest answers would set well with a man so pleased with himself, he decided to stay quiet. Geoffrey refreshed Cori's drink and just before Finn suggested they find a quiet table to discuss the day's events, Andrew caught sight of Finn's hand.
"Hey, what happened?"
"Burned," Finn muttered.
"Let's be seein', O'Brien. Come on, come on." Geoffrey leaned on the bar and craned his neck as he tried to see what Andrew had seen. Before Finn could decline to be the center of attention, Cori took the cuff of his jacket and pulled his wrist up.
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