I lifted mine onto the bed, unzipped it and made a show of searching through it. Davie was more reckless. He unzipped his bag, then emptied the contents out on his bed. It only took me a moment to realise that the towel in which the gun had been wrapped was missing. If Davie noticed, there was no visible reaction. He merely nodded down at the array of clothes on the bed then turned and smiled at the police.
'Nope, it's all there,' he said.
'Excellent,' said the cop. 'Then if you don't mind, we won't bother with a report.'
'No problem,' said Davie. 'I used to be a cop back home. I know what it's like.'
The other cop, the smaller one with a thin moustache said, 'Oh yeah? And home is where — Ireland?'
'Belfast,' said Davie.
'Cool,' said the cop. 'Plenty of action there?'
'Too much,' said Davie.
The other cop said, 'And what about you, sir, you a cop as well?'
I shook my head. 'No, I don't think so.'
'Don't mind me asking, what are you?'
'Well, I started out in journalism and built up a bit of a reputation but I kept getting into trouble so I chucked it in and started writing biographies and stuff that doesn't sell so I'm thinking of going back to the journalism. At the moment I'm working on a website for the Northern Ireland Tourist Board called Why Don't You Come Home for a Pint?.'
They looked like they were about to arrest me for boring them to death. Instead they made hurried excuses and left. Davie shook his head at me, then started to put his clothes away in the cupboards. I stashed my bag back in the wardrobe.
'Well,' Davie said, 'that was a stroke of luck.'
'You can say that again. You sure there's nothing missing?'
'Nah, it's all there.'
'Brilliant,' I said.
I laid down on the bed. Davie had had a gun. Now it was gone. He didn't seem upset about it, but that was probably an act. What was he going to do next? Acquire another gun, or choose some different means of topping himself? I was going to have to watch him like a hawk. Starting tomorrow, of course — I was too drunk at the moment. Davie climbed into his bed. I thought about turning the TV on, but decided against it. Davie was right on one count, I hadn't been sleeping properly. I would try now. I closed my eyes. Sleep came surprisingly easily. But I should have known better. I had a long and involved nightmare about a heavily armed pancake chef.
12
As far as Davie was concerned I spent the next three days sunning myself by the pool. He made a show of joining me for the first hour or so, but as the sun climbed he made excuses about not being a sun baby and said he was going off for a dander or a drive. But where he walked, I followed. Previously I had not been making any effort to mask the fact that I was keeping an eye on him, but now I stalked him like a private eye. I didn't look a hell of a lot different, but I walked like a crab and kept to the shadows. When he drove, I also followed. I had my own wheels now, thanks to a deal with the Cuban. I'd asked him about renting a car, he'd asked about my licence, I asked about renting a motorbike and he said I could borrow his for a hundred bucks a day. It was daylight robbery, but he could tell I was in a bind. I also had to hire a helmet off him, which he eventually rooted out of a closet. It smelled like ducks had laid eggs in it. That cost me an extra ten a day, but I didn't quibble; you didn't need a helmet in America, but I did.
You can buy anything in America — motorbikes, helmets, people. As before, Davie trudged along the sand to the Don CeSar and then disappeared inside. I followed at a discreet distance with a straw hat pulled down low over my eyes, then hired a sunbed on the beach in front of the hotel. I asked the boy in charge if he could recommend someone who could tail a person round the hotel. He looked a bit shocked, but I reassured him that the man in question wasn't a guest and so I wouldn't be intruding on anyone's privacy but the unwelcome intruder I was after. He said he'd see what he could do; it was a hotel which prided itself on service, and although I wasn't strictly speaking a guest, I was a paying customer.
I had no alternative but to hire someone. It was a big hotel, but not so big that you could follow someone into a corridor or into an elevator without being spotted. A bus boy with a tray was the perfect cover, and that's pretty much what Mikey was. He was nineteen, on a summer break from college, and eager to please. He thought I was some sort of private eye, and I didn't correct him. I gave him a perfect description of Davie and set him loose with an advance of twenty dollars and the promise of lavish financial rewards. Then I put up the flag on the back of my sun-lounger and ordered a drink. Getting a tan, enjoying a drink but still managing to track a head the ball with suicidal thoughts. It was a tough life, but somebody had to do it.
Mikey was as good as gold, not that he could expect to see any. He watched Davie as he sat in the piano bar on the ground floor. He fetched him water as he sat in the seafood restaurant and ate lunch. He didn't get in the same elevator as him, but watched what floor he went to, then followed up, tray of drinks in hand like he was doing room service. He followed him to the seventh floor, where Davie walked from one end to the other without knocking on any of the doors. Then he went out onto the fire escape, which was really a set of partially enclosed steps leading down one of the pink towers that made the Don CeSar look like a castle. Davie pushed the door open at the bottom and emerged behind the pool, then waited for the door to close and tried to open it again from the outside, but couldn't. It locked automatically. A couple of minutes later Mikey pushed through the fire-escape doors and spotted Davie at the pool bar having a beer.
He reported all this, then looked at me like a dog expecting a treat. If he'd had a tail he would have been wagging it. I took out twenty dollars and paid him a second instalment, then gave him an extra ten for a tip. That was fifty dollars for about an hour's work; maybe the high rollers tipped like that all the time, but more than a few days of it would bankrupt me. We both turned away as Davie came down the sloping path to the beach, and then cut through the sun-loungers a dozen yards away from me and began to walk back towards the Hotel del Mar.
I told Mikey he'd done a good job and did he ever think of becoming a private eye? I shook his hand warmly, then followed Davie. I stayed pretty close behind; he was walking with his head down, lost in thought, not taking in the sights at all. I held back as he approached the Del Mar; he made a quick circuit of the pool to see where I was, then headed for our room. When he came back out again I was standing at the beach bar ordering a drink.
He came up, smiling. 'All right? I was looking for you.'
'Just catching a few rays, checking out the talent. I'm starting to get into this holiday. Do you want a drink?'
He thought for a minute, then nodded.
'So,' I said while we waited, 'what'll we do this afternoon?'
Davie shrugged. 'I was thinking of going for a drive.'
'Do you want me to come?'
'Nah, you relax, mate. I'm just gonna drive about a bit.'
I nodded. 'Whatever you want, your holiday too.'
We had the drink, then he went out driving. A minute later I pulled out of the Del Mar car park and took to the highway in pursuit. In my own head I was Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, even though I was probably more Donald Pleasance. But Davie wasn't driving a speed wagon, he was in a rust-bucket. If he went over forty, bits would fly off.
He seemed to know where he was going. He passed over the Corey Causeway then turned right on Central and within a few minutes we'd entered the outer environs of the city of St Petersburg. He didn't head for the harbour or the shops like a tourist would, but instead turned north into a low-rent retail strip. He pulled into a car park which mainly fronted a Publix grocery outlet but which also featured a Walgreens drugstore and a video shop. I cruised on by, then turned left at the next intersection which ran along the side of the video store. Davie stopped the car opposite a separate neon-lit entrance for shy customers wanting to peruse a basement selection of adult videos. I thought, Great, we're on the porn trail aga
in, but as I circled back around and entered the car park I saw that Davie hadn't gotten out of the car, but instead two black guys had emerged from the video store and climbed into the back. Davie set off again. I followed the car for another couple of miles, then lost them at a set of traffic lights. I tried to jump the latter, but nearly got cleaved in two by a huge truck for my trouble.
Back at the hotel, I stashed the helmet behind the counter. I was annoyed with myself for losing him, and confused as to what he was up to. I collected a couple of Buds from the fridge and wandered out to the pool. Davie was standing at the beach bar, drinking a beer. There was no sign of the black guys.
He said, 'Dan, where you been?'
'Ah, just went and wandered round the shops.'
'What, you're that bored?'
I nodded. 'I was thinking, maybe we should hit the road again. We've kind of done St Pete's.'
'Sun, sand, what more could you want?'
'Seems a shame not to see more of the country.'
Davie looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. 'Yeah, maybe you're right. But I'm just starting to relax myself. Give it a couple more days, eh? Then we'll go on a trip.'
'Fair enough,' I said.
I ordered a beer. He was just buying time. My suspicions were confirmed when I went back to the room and checked his bag. Sure enough, as badly hidden as before, a gun. While out on one of his drives he'd made contact with a couple of shady characters who'd agreed to sell him another one. Once again I was on suicide watch.
Except, I was still intrigued by his visits to the Don CeSar. It was the only thing which didn't quite gel with my suicide theory. If he was so keen on doing himself in, then why did he keep going back there? Did he want to go out in a blaze of glory? What if he was thinking about going in there and shooting the rich and famous, then topping himself? He'd talked some nonsense on the plane over about bombs and how he could make them, but I hadn't taken him seriously. My original theory that there was a girl involved didn't play out either. Mikey saw no evidence of a girl the next morning, or the next, the third day of observing my friend. Each time Davie had a drink in the piano bar, ate in the seafood restaurant, and then took the elevator to the seventh floor, which he walked the full length of, then exited by the fire escape.
I said, 'And you're sure he didn't see you?'
Mikey looked pleased with himself. 'I sub-contracted. I got another guy to follow him.'
'You're one smart cookie,' I said.
He smiled bashfully.
'So what's so great about the seventh floor, Mikey?'
'That's where they have the suites. More expensive. Thousand bucks a night.'
I had a thought. Which is rare, and deserved to be framed. 'Can you find out who's staying there right now?'
'In all of them?' I nodded. Mikey thought for a moment, then shrugged. I gave him some more dollars. I was peeling them off while he watched eagerly. 'Stop me any time,' I said jovially, but he didn't. I called a halt. Much more and I'd have to eat at McDonald's. But he was pleased enough. 'That's great, Mr Petrocelli,' he said. 'You know, I'm kind of enjoying this.'
He was a good kid, eager to please, but with aspirations, which is an annoying combination, unless you want to become President.
'Well Mikey,' I said, 'I'm glad you are.' I started in on the small talk, figuring that if we became mates I wouldn't have to pay him so much. 'You have a girlfriend, Mikey?'
'I'm not gay.'
'I didn't ask if you were gay. You have a girlfriend?'
'Not at the moment.'
'Good-looking boy like you?' He was handsome, blond, muscled.
'Are you gay?' he asked.' Because I'm not into all that shit.'I wasn't sure if he was being literal or metaphoric, or if he was capable of understanding either concept.
I shook my head. 'No, Mikey, I'm not gay. But if you get me that info about the suites, I'll shag your butt off.' He looked at me with blank-eyed confusion. I punched his shoulder and said, 'Relax, I'm only raking. Joking.'
He laughed hesitantly . 'I like Monty Python,' he said.
'That's good, Mikey, that's good. Now what about that list?'
'Coming right up.'
He bounded happily away. I was back on the beach, enjoying a cocktail and trying to work out what Davie was up to. Maybe the list would give me some answers. At the back of my head I was thinking, what if Davie's ex had held onto the honeymoon tickets, and come out by herself to recuperate from the break-up? Or what if she'd come out with another man? What if they had squirrelled themselves away on the seventh floor for a couple of weeks of exciting new-relationship sex and Davie had got wind of it? Out of a job, and now having his face rubbed in the sand by his ex, he'd concocted the whole story about being left with the honeymoon tickets in order to follow her out here. Now, overcome with jealousy, he was building himself up to not only shooting himself, but her as well, and maybe her lover too.
It was a plausible enough explanation, given the crazy world I often found myself living in, but where did I fit in? Why drag me across the ocean just to implicate me in the carnage?
I was coming up with a different theory every day, one to suit every move Davie made. They say history is bunk. You can bracket theory with that as well. It's like doing surgery based on a textbook: it means bugger all until you're out there putting it into practice. So far I'd had Davie secretly meeting up with a girl, planning to commit suicide, planning a massacre and now preparing to execute his ex. It couldn't go on. I needed answers.
By the time I finished my cocktail Mikey was back, clutching a piece of paper. I scanned the half-dozen names but none of them were familiar.
'Do you know any of these people?' I asked.
Mikey shook his head, but then pointed to the third name down the list.
'But this guy, he's from Ireland. He has the same accent as you. Sort of whiney.'
I let that one pass, and took a look at the name. Robert Quinn. Never heard of him.
'I've only been here a few weeks this summer — but he's been here the whole time. Tell you the truth, Mr Petrocelli, most of the people who stay here aren't really high rollers at all — they splash out on honeymoons or special anniversaries, bring their wives down here, give them a few days of luxury, then relocate to somewhere cheaper along the strip. If you really have money you don't come here. You go to the Caribbean or Hawaii.'
'So this guy Quinn being here . . . ?'
'Three weeks, in a suite by himself? More money than sense, Mr Petrocelli.'
It didn't matter to me how people spent their money, but it seemed like quite a coincidence that someone from a goldfish bowl of a country like Northern Ireland should be staying on the very floor that an ex-cop like Davie Kincaid was patrolling on a daily basis.
'Where's Davie now?' I asked.
'He's sitting at the pool bar.'
'And this Robert Quinn?'
'He's in the pool.'
'You think he's watching this guy?'
Mikey shrugged. 'He's facing away from the pool. But he could be watching him in the bar mirror. Kind of less obvious, I suppose.'
I was feeling a buzz in my stomach, an odd mixture of excitement and terror. Davie was watching someone from back home. It seemed suddenly perfectly clear that he hadn't stumbled upon him, he had deliberately sought him out. That was why he'd been so keen to stick to the itinerary, that was why he'd spent so much time out of my company, and clearly that was why he'd gone to the trouble of getting a gun, and then replacing it after it had been stolen. He was planning something, something terrible. I had to talk to him. I had checked his travelling bag that morning and the gun was still there — so he wasn't going to do it right away. But it was only a five-minute stroll back down the beach if he wanted to collect it. It was time to get up off my lardy arse and do something positive, get him away from the bar and talk some sense into him before he did something really stupid.
I was just in the act of standing up when Mikey hissed, 'Here he comes.'
I pulled my hat down sharpish and turned away. Scuffed feet in the sand. I thought he was talking about Davie, but as I chanced a glance after him the figure that passed by barely fifteen feet away was both smaller and rounder than my friend. I could only see him from the back at first. He was well tanned, short, slightly overweight but wearing a swimming costume a couple of sizes too small for him which made him appear fatter than he was. He was looking for a sunbed to lie on, but it was the hottest part of the day and they were all booked up. He started giving off stick to one of the beach boys; Mikey was right — his voice was Northern Irish, whiney and familiar. But it was only when he turned to point to where he wanted a sunbed put, right now, that I finally saw his face.
And immediately the power went from my legs.
I sat back down heavily on my bed. Whatever colour I'd managed to attain drained away into the sand.
'Mr Petrocelli, are you okay?' Mikey asked.
But I couldn't answer him. I reached for my drink, but my hand was shaking so much it slipped from my grasp.
I knew him.
Not only did I know him, I hated him with every cell in my body.
He wasn't Robert Quinn.
He was Michael O'Ryan.
The Colonel.
The man who had murdered my son.
13
I never saw the body of my son. Couldn't face it. In the long cold nights since, I've often debated whether I made the right choice; whether to see his cold dead face in actuality, or imagine it a million different frozen ways for all eternity. I think maybe I got it wrong.
He was not my son by blood, but my son by love. It did not matter that his cells were not mine, but that they were Patricia's, the love of my life. He was my boy from day one and I doted on him. I thought that whatever mess I got into he would always be fine, because Patricia had her head screwed on as tightly as mine was loose.
And then one day in a Dublin hotel a terrorist, a gangster, a hood of the highest or lowest order had laid out Polaroids showing my wife and son being held hostage. If they were to survive I would have to murder a film star who was making a biopic about him: he had picked upon me, my wife and my son, for no other reason than I had temporary access to that star. I was writing his biography. So I killed him. Or thought I did. The news that he was dead was communicated to Michael O'Ryan, by now sitting in a police cell, and he finally revealed the location of the bunker where my wife and son were being held. But it was too late. My wife survived. My son died. They buried him in a little white coffin and they sent The Colonel away to prison for life.
Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Page 10