Killer Year

by Lee Child

  I ever killed, he didn’t even look remotely like him but something in

  his gestures, I dunno. A Mexican, named José, he’d tried to stiff me

  on a deal and it was the first time I got to use a knife. I wasn’t very

  adept then and it was messy, stuck him in the throat first and of

  course, geyser of blood, been a time since then but they say, you

  never forget your first. He sometimes came in my dreams, a gouging

  spilling hole in his brown neck. I’d kinda liked old Jose, made me

  laugh.

  The porter was showing me the amenities and I slipped him ten euro,

  got rid of him. I unpacked my holdall, one white shirt, black Levis,

  and my Converse. Picked up the phone, got room service, ordered

  a bottle of Jameson, club sandwich, ice and they said it would be

  along in jig time.

  I was in the shower when it came and I shouted,

  “Kick ten bucks on for your tip.”

  Heard warm appreciation.

  Clean, change of clothes, and double Jameson over ice, I let my breath

  out, said,

  “Good to go.”

  Had me a warm-up jacket from the Yankees and slipped that on,

  checked my reflection in the full-length mirror. Tousled blond hair,

  even features, bordering on bland and tallish. My beer gut holding,

  barely. Crinkled my eyes, gave me that warm look, your regular affluent

  but not showy guy.

  Next three days, I hit the shops, hit them hard. Galway’s a walking

  town and suited me. Lots of quaint pubs, some cobbled streets, and

  a definite carnival buzz. It was May, summer walking point.

  Brown Thomas, a department store, with prices to rival Fifth Avenue,

  took care of my wardrobe. The American gig was gold, I’d go,

  “Charge?”

  Flash the plastic and they even delivered the shit to my hotel. Got me

  all the GQ designer crap, and what the hell, a pair of Ray-Bans.

  Through the shades, I stared at Hartmann’s, an old-time family jewelers

  with a sign to light me up

  EXCLUSIVE ROLEX DEALERS

  I like a touch of tradition

  The cops, called guards, were unarmed

  I fucking loved Ireland

  Third night, I was in the pub, one of the ones advertising the craic. Not the dope, the Irish term for a good time, party on. I had a table by

  the wall, tipped the waitress and she protested, placing a pint of

  black and Jameson back before me,

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  Dragging up that boyish smile, I said,

  “But I want to.”

  Bitch lapped it up

  She wasn’t bad looking, had that Irish colleen vibe going. Good legs,

  good breasts, and nice pert arse … shit … ass … gotta focus. Her

  age, late twenties I’d hazard.

  She’d do

  Her name was Aine, pronounced, you ready for this, Awn-neh … Jesus,

  I thought maybe she was Hebrew. I’ve no beef with them, you understand.

  I asked her what it meant, like I gave a fuck, she said,

  “’Tis Irish for Ann.”

  Nearly fucked up by asking,

  “So I can call you Ann then?”

  Got the look and,

  “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  Why indeed-y?

  You throw the green around, let that “gee shucks” mojo out there and the

  predators gather, chum in the water. Near closing when a skel made

  his strike. Slipped into the chair beside me, like a quiet virus, said,

  “Welcome to Ireland.”

  Different country, same species, bottom-feeder. He was late thirties

  and most of them bad, worse teeth and a worn combat jacket. His

  hair was in full recession, the eyes, cold and cash-registered.

  I put out my hand, said,

  “Thanks buddy, I’m Teddy.”

  Yeah

  His handshake was the cold fish school. He said,

  “Ah, shure we still love Ted, with all his crosses.”

  I offered him a drink and he allowed he might try a small brandy,

  Martell if they had it. Aine brought it and I caught the rapid look

  between them, double act, just the way I liked it.

  Ever catch that Mamet movie … House of Games?

  Man, I studied it, the line … and two to take ’em, carved on my heart.

  I put a fifty on her tray, said,

  “One for you, hon.”

  She gave a radiant smile, not a bad-looking babe after all and gushed, “Aren’t you the terrible man?”

  She had no fucking idea.

  That Kraut poet, Rilke, got himself a line, Each angel is terrible . . .

  meant me.

  The shark gave his name as Seamas. I didn’t ask for translation, I knew

  that was Jim. He worked in communications and I wanted to go,

  “You’re a natural.”

  Second brandy in, my shout of course, he made the pitch,

  “Well now, Teddy, cara, they treating you all right over in that Great

  Southern Hotel?”

  He leaned a little on the Great.

  Fun guy

  I hadn’t mentioned where I was staying

  Game on

  A time, they had me in that secure facility, yeah, the madhouse, the home for the bewildered, and the shrink, he’s giving me all these tests, leaned back, said,

  “You show latent sociopathetic tendencies.”

  The shite these guys talk

  So I went with, asked,

  “Gimme fifty bucks.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Give me fifty bucks or I’ll slice your jugular.”

  The alarm bell right there on his desk, his hand hovering and he

  asked,

  “Are you serious?”

  I stared at his hand, said,

  “Depends on how latent those tendencies are.”

  Ah, for the good times

  Seamas was waiting for my answer. I peered at his combat jacket, First

  Airborne and Paratroopers insignia. I needled a tad, let his balance

  stay precarious, asked,

  “You were in the service?”

  Nailed the fuck but he rallied, said,

  “My, am … own small tribute to the boys doing their bit.”

  The sarcasm leaking all over the words

  Good, I like a player.

  Was going to run with

  “The grunts in Baghdad, the nineteen-year-olds from Idaho and Montana,

  I’m sure it helps, knowing you’re sitting there, slurping cognac,

  talking garbage.”

  But I needed him

  He was on the same hymn sheet, went for flattery, smiled, glanced at

  my feet, his teeth accessorising his jacket, green in neon, said,

  “I like your trainers.”

  I’d briefly zoned

  Happens

  I go away sometimes, like a white blankness, a space apart, with some

  episode from the past narrating on the side.

  A college broad I was fleecing, trust-fund mama, met her on that

  spring break gig they do. I was in my professor year-out sabbatical,

  writing the novel shtick, right down to the leather patches on my

  corduroy jacket.

  Easy role

  Crib some Updike, Cheever, sprinkle with Blake, it’s a lock

  Blake I learned from Thomas Harris, Red Dragon

  Go figure

  Blake is a shoo-in, they suck that right up

  Took her nine large but it went south

  Had to drown the bitch and in the shower, you think that’s easy, damn

  soap makes every
thing slippery and you’re a bit woozy after the sex.

  The upside, it’s a clean kill.

  My own reading stretched to Julia Philips, You’ll Never Eat Lunch in

  This Town Again. She has a story in there, hanging with Coppola,

  him doing forty shots of espresso daily … the fuck kind of jones

  is that?

  I snapped back, levelled my eyes on Seamas, said,

  “Converse Originals, Chuck Taylor endorsed.”

  They were

  He went,

  “Who?”

  “Never mind, my hotel is good, they’re treating me real fine.”

  He finished the brandy, relaxed, said,

  “You need anything, anything at all, I’m yer man.”

  The hook

  Before I could launch, he said,

  “In Ireland, we speak Irish English, like the Brit version but loaded,

  you with me?”

  How complicated was it? I nodded and he continued,

  “For example, we say ‘They say you coming,’ means, you’re ripe to be

  ripped off. Now I wouldn’t want that to happen to a nice fella like

  yer own self.”

  I said,

  “I’m here to spearhead a major distribution deal in …”

  I gave him the full look, ribbed my nose with my index finger

  He nodded, he was a clued-in guy and I continued,

  “And … we need some people we can rely on. We ask them to front a

  small amount of cash, say two large, and entrust them with a sizable

  package to see how they manage. The profits are enormous … .”

  I rubbed my eyes, getting that sincerity in there, then,

  “The people I select need to prove their worth so we ask them to come

  up with the cash in twenty-four hours … most don’t, or can’t, and

  we know from the off, they’re not the people we need.”

  I let him digest this. The guy hadn’t seen two large in one place in his

  whole lousy life. He asked,

  “What’s to stop you taking off with the cash, if I could produce the

  readies?”

  I smiled

  “See, you’re the kind of guy I feel I’m seeking. You’re thinking outside

  the box. As a sign of my good faith, I’ll let you hold my passport

  and driver’s license. Where am I going to go without them?”

  I ordered a last round of drinks, let him see a mess of credit cards and

  a thick wedge of notes. He gulped his drink, then,

  “Twenty-four hours, Jesus, hard to come by two large in that time.”

  I raised my glass, said,

  “Well, we move on, you’ve had a nice evening, we say good luck and I

  move on.”

  His hand was up and he protested,

  “No, no, I’m in, I’ll get it.”

  I indicated Aine and said,

  “If she can raise similar, you’re in for twice the payoff.”

  Now he smiled, asked,

  “What makes you think I know her that well?”

  “It’s my speciality to know people.”

  He was impressed.

  One, as they say … jarring note. Apart from the zoning out that happens

  to me, I’m pretty much on top of my game, I’ve been doing this shit a

  long time and am, very, like, very good at it. As Seamas and I finished

  off our drinks, a guy who’d had one too many nearly smashed into

  our table. He had that highly concentrated drunk walk of watching

  every step and then it suddenly gets away from you and you’re doing

  a reel and a hornpipe. He hit the table hard and as he was that rarity,

  a good-natured souse, he was all apologies and he’d buy us fresh

  drinks, the whole pathetic nine and, being caught unprepared, I said,

  “No sweat, guv, don’t worry about it, mate.”

  In full glorious Brit/London voice

  Fuck

  What it sounded most like was natural, like my real tone

  I laughed it off as I got an odd look from Seamas. I said,

  “I do a lousy Brit accent, you think buddy?”

  A heartbeat, then he said,

  “Don’t we all.”

  It nagged at me but then I reasoned, Seamas was a dumb schmuck,

  why I picked him.

  We agreed to meet the following evening. I’d bring the product and

  he and Aine, they’d bring whatever cash they raised.

  He said he had a van and would pick me up on Shop Street around

  seven, we could do our business without prying eyes.

  I clinked my glass against his, said,

  “Here’s to the Galway connection.”

  And he said,

  “God bless the work.”

  My basic scam is hit a place, select some skels, lay a line of patter, offer

  a slice of the large pie, let ’em in for two, three Gs and five times

  out of ten, I hook. Mainly, I get about half what I asked and four

  towns later, I’m usually ten to the good.

  The beauty is … who they gonna call?

  Sure it’s fraught but I relish the edge, love the mind fuck.

  Women are best, get a few of ’em, get a bitch-fest brewing

  Next day was R-day, Rolex time. My mouth was dry, I was hitting the

  precipice, going out on the wing, not entirely sure if the plastic

  would take the weight.

  But, it went like, dare I say … clockwork

  Walked outa the jewelers, the gold Rolex on my wrist and Mont Blanc

  in my jacket.

  I’d pushed it, got cocky, adrenaline roaring in my ears, blinding me to

  the risk. And, too, I was fucking dazzled by the watch. You’d shit a

  brick to hear the price. Lemme say, a town’s worth of scam.

  Sitting in a coffee shop after, wolfing a Danish, double espresso to

  chase, I eased a notch. I was going to have to split sooner than

  planned. The credit card would be flagged. I’d, maybe, forty-eight

  hours to the good.

  Maybe

  Dublin would be next, do some sightseeing, pluck some fresh meat.

  For the rendezvous, I dressed to impress, my new leather Boss jacket,

  Tommy Hilfiger chinos and soft tan loafers, Italian of course.

  That afternoon, I’d arranged some protection, level the playing field.

  I’m not too big on trust.

  There’s a lot of shysters out there

  Got me a knife

  I had a younger brother, Darren, snivelling little bastard, always in my

  face and worse, getting the shine from my folks. Back then, their attention

  seemed worthy of merit.

  So, I drowned him

  Doesn’t take long, you do it right, even looks like you tried to save

  them, like you were trying to help.

  Tragic accident

  Golly gosh, gee whiz.

  Backfired

  After, the old man got sucked into the bottle and never came back. His belt began to appear and my mom, she found mother’s little

  helpers and that’s all she wrote. I think of cute Darren sometimes,

  the look in his eyes, those moments before the close. I learned

  then, a plea is a piece of shit.

  Wished he could have seen the Rolex though

  Shop Street, the main pedestrian gig in Galway, they have a camping

  store. Got me a fine blade, hand-tooled and the guy asked,

  “You backpacking?”

  I’m wearing a fucking Rolex, was he blind? I said,

  “Packing all right.”

  If Seamas had any other alternative, I’d gut him like a Galway salmon.

  Learnt the finer points in Brixton, have a scar on my abdomen to
prove it.

  Hit real low, rip up, fast, steady and then, buddy, pull way the fuck

  back. Those entrails are going to splash

  And Aine, who knew?

  This were a novel, the critics would say … the female character is only

  a cipher … are they kidding, aren’t all women? What’s to describe?

  They nag, end of story.

  I could ball her, have me some Irish but it wasn’t a priority. She got

  lippy, well, I’d use my hands, watch the Rolex catch the light as I

  squeezed.

  As you can see, I was primed

  They picked me up off Shop Street, in a van that needed a major overhaul,

  not to mention a decent wash, fucking nowhere people.

  Seamas, in the driver’s seat, and I squeezed in beside Aine, got a little

  hip action grinding, she was hot

  Aine said,

  “Looks like rain.”

  The micks and the forecasts.

  Seamas said,

  “We’ll drive out a ways, no need for prying eyes.”

  We pulled up on the outskirts of the city, Galway Bay spread before us.

  Seamas produced a flask, said,

  “’Tis poteen, we call it uisce beatha, holy water and it’s a miraculous

  bevy all right.”

  He offered me the flask and seeing my hesitation, Aine whined,

  “You won’t drink with us?”

  What the hell, I grabbed it, took a healthy wallop and it kicked. I

  gasped, asked,

  “That’s what, like Irish moonshine?”

  Aine gave me a glorious smile, said,

  “More like good night.”

  Came to with my head on fire, throbbing like a bastard and then the

  cold, my whole body frozen.

  My naked body

  I sat up and pebbles embedded in my ass. I was on a beach, not a shred

  of clothing and checked my wrist

  No Rolex

  Dawn was breaking, the light creeping over the bay. I began to get

  slowly to my feet, dizziness and nausea hitting in waves, saw the

  note, wedged under a stone. I grabbed it, read,

  Teddy, mate, guv

  We saw you coming. We’re Irish but

  Not green …

  And that knife …

  Not nice

  We confiscated it, lest you hurt yerself. Now, that would be no way to treat a Brit, would it?

  You better get your arse in gear, rain is forecast.

  I crumpled it and said aloud,

  “Always with the bloody weather talk.”

  Slice of Pie

  by Bill Cameron