Of wee sweetie mice and men

by Colin Bateman

  'No hi-tech surveillance?' asked Matchitt.

  'Not according to Savant,' I said.

  'But can he be trusted?'

  I shrugged.

  'The stun grenades will put the doormen down and out for a couple of minutes. Then some tear gas. Then I suggest we storm straight up the stairs to the top. We ignore the elevator. Too much can go wrong with it.'

  Matchitt sniggered. 'Yeah, it'd be a shame if someone wanted to get on halfway up.'

  Smith ignored him. 'If we're lucky we'll get to the fifth floor without too much trouble, we'll fire some more tear gas up to the next floor, disable the guards outside Mary's room one way or another, and then get into the room and get her out. Then we go back down the stairs and out.'

  'Simple,' I said.

  'No offence,' said Matchitt, resting his elbows on the desk, 'I've voiced my concerns about Starkey here, but what about yourself? You're not what I would call in the peak of physical condition.'

  'And you are?'

  'Compared to you. I genuinely don't mean it as an insult, but can you see yourself racing up five flights of stairs in your gas mask?'

  'Don't be misled by what you perceive to be my physical state, Stanley. I think you'll find I measure up.'

  'I'd hate to find out otherwise when it mattered most.'

  'Well, we'll just have to trust each other, won't we? All I know about you is what Starkey here tells me. You may not be the psycho he says you are. You might be a wimp. I'm not saying you are, but you might be.'

  'I'm no psycho.'

  'Whatever you say. I'm just making a point. We're all three of us very different, but we're working together for a common aim and that aim is to get that poor woman away from the Sons of Muhammad.'

  'Do I take it,' I ventured hopefully, 'that my role in this is restricted to sitting in the car outside, for the quick getaway?'

  'No,' they said together.

  'One for all,' added Matchitt helpfully, 'one for all. The Three Musketeers.'

  The office door opened. Sissy entered carrying a tray and three cartons of coffee and three chocolate doughnuts. Smith pushed the assorted weaponry out of the way with his forearm. She didn't give it a second glance as she set the tray down.

  'How's Duncan?' asked Smith.

  'Profitable.'

  'Who do you love?'

  'You.'

  It had an air of ritual about it. They smiled warmly at each other. Smith put an entire doughnut in his mouth. 'Helff yourselllf,' he spat out round it.

  I picked a doughnut, left the coffee. Matchitt did the same. 'Not a coffee man?' he asked.

  I shook my head.

  'More in common than you think, Starkey.' I shook my head. Swallowed. 'I doubt it.'

  Smith took Sissy home for dinner. We went back to the hotel and got changed into our darkest clothes. It seemed the thing to do. McMaster was asleep. McClean was jumpy. Now he wasn't sure if any of it was a good idea. While we were storming the Shabazz he was to shepherd the big man to CBS Studios for a TV interview to be beamed live across the nation. Some chat show. David Letter box. Jay Lemon. Whatever. The idea was to repair some of the damage caused by McMaster's perceived racism. He was to be Mr Nice Guy.

  About eight I took Matchitt to the Broadway Grill just off Columbus Circle. We got a couple of cheeseburgers and waited for Smith.

  Stanley looked like a struggling poet: cropped hair, a black sweater baggy enough to hide the little pot belly, black jeans, some off-the-rack stubble. He flicked some-salt off the table.

  'There really isn't that much to worry about, Starkey,' he said.

  'That's easy for you to say.'

  -'Just go in there and do it. It'll come easy, once the adrenaline gets going. I remember the first time. ..'

  'I don't want to know, Stanley.' He shrugged.

  I nodded and sipped at my Diet Coke. I was trying to fool myself that it was the antidote for cheeseburger. As if it mattered. I was about to get shot and I was worried about my cholesterol level. I shook my head and snorted. Maybe I would get lucky and have a stroke on my way to the raid. Or possibly during it. And get left behind.

  'Are you married, Stanley?'

  'No.'

  'Family?'

  'Oh, I'm sure there's wee ones dotted about the place. None

  I'm going to pay for.'

  'So who'll miss you when you die?'

  'If they miss me, I won't die.'

  'It's good of you to do this for Bobby.'

  'I'm being paid.'

  'It's more than that.'

  'Yeah, well. What can I say?'

  'And she's a Catholic.'

  'Who is?'

  'Mary.'

  'Seriously?' He kept the serious lookup for ten seconds, then a smile slipped onto his face. 'She's his wife, isn't she?'

  'Wouldn't go down with your old company.'

  'No, I don't suppose it would. But things change. People change.'

  He nodded absently, momentarily lost in thought, then his eyes focused again. 'How's your wife, Starkey?'

  'Okay,' I said.

  'She's a bit of a good looker.'

  I shrugged. Then thought out loud: 'How would you know?'

  'Oh, you'd be surprised what I know. Still in the tax office, is she? Still do her shopping at Bloomers on a Thursday night? Still a Smirnoff and Diet Coker?'

  Someone walked over my grave. 'What're you saying, Stanley?'

  'We had you checked out once, Starkey. The boys, y'know?'

  'Checked out for ... ?'

  'What do the boys do, Starkey?'

  'You cut throats. You shoot people.'

  Matchitt nodded. 'So we had you checked out. One too many sarky comments in the paper. So your name got added to the list. Fortunately for you it was a long list. Mind you, as far as I recall, we did do a couple of dry runs. It's amazing what can upset a murder plan. Traffic lights. Double parking. A traffic warden. Someone forgetting the gun. It was only a matter of time, though.' He ran a finger across his jugular.

  I sat back. The walker had become a dancer. 'You look a little pale.'

  'I'm always a little pale. What happened I never made the top of the list?'

  'Don't know. Priorities change. Maybe you made a couple of digs at the IRA and you got a second chance. Maybe we all went to prison. I can't remember. I just thought you'd like to know.'

  'Thanks,' I said.

  'Once I might have slit your throat, and not thought twice about it, and here we are sharing cheeseburgers in New York. Funny old world, isn't it?'

  'Hilarious,' I said.

  23

  Somewhere on Led Zeppelin's 'The Song Remains the Same' there's a twenty-minute drum solo by John Bonham. It's as annoying as most drum solos, but it's damn loud and there's a murderous beat. My heart was playing pretty much to the same rhythm as we parked the fishing boat a block from the Shabazz and did the Harlem shuffle up Morningside towards our date with destiny. Matchitt and I walked in Smith's wake. His black trench coat flapped about him in the icy wind. Observed from the front, we wouldn't have been observed at all.

  When we were twenty yards from the rear entrance to the Shabazz, Smith said simply, 'Masks.'

  Like the team we weren't, we produced the gas masks on cue. I'd practised the. quick application of the mask five or six times in the course of the afternoon and felt only moderately uncomfortable, but although I slipped it on with ease, it still felt like someone had pounced on me with a roll of clingfilm and was winding it round and round and would only stop when all life had been extinguished. I stopped for a moment, just to steady myself, but Matchitt caught my arm and propelled me forward with a muffled grunt. He had a pistol in his other hand. In the shadow of the Shabazz, with the wind cut off, Smith produced a shotgun from the folds of his coat, swinging the barrel up towards the open doors. I put my hand in my pocket and took out a revolver. I'd practised with it as well. I could hit a stationary target at fifty yards, lifting, aiming, squeezing the trigger and saying bang. May
be having to use bullets would be different.

  A half-finished cigarette was thrown out the door. An exchange of voices, one commanding, one subservient, then a tall, thin fella in a bobble hat and tracksuit appeared, descended the four steps with one stride and bent to retrieve the butt. Then he looked up at us. Eyes widened. Words failed him. Smith shot him. He flew backwards through the door. Smith stopped, Matchitt behind him. They both threw stun grenades through the gap, then crouched down. I joined them. Crack. Bang. Flash. Wallop. Smith waved us on.

  Matchitt beat him to the door. He rushed in, pistol out in front. We crowded in behind. Four men lay on the floor, out of it; a fifth had a huge hole in his chest.

  We hit the stairs, Matchitt first, then Smith, I brought up the rear. On the fourth step Smith turned and tossed the tear gas back into the lobby. I'd forgotten to do it.

  Smith was fast, but not fast enough. The stairs were wide, but not wide enough. Now that I was in the action, I wanted to be racing up, keeping fast, bobbing and weaving, not having to continually check back as Smith pulled his considerable girth onwards and upwards at a steady but gratingly lugubrious pace. I was stuck behind him, a Ford Fiesta in' a back alley behind a bin lorry. I turned, my pistol trained on the stairs behind, but there was no movement.

  The first floor was clear, so was the second. We stopped on the third-floor landing. A muffled clatter of descending footsteps and anxious babble. Amateurish. Professionals would have stood their ground, made use of the height advantage. Smith shook his horse's head and laced a couple of stun grenades up the stairs, then wheeled, a small planet on its axis, into the shelter of the wall until the crash-bang-wallop had laid the guards low as well.

  Then on up the stairs. This time I slipped ahead of Smith and in behind Matchitt. Four guards lay prostrate on the fourth-floor landing. I flipped a gas canister towards them. We moved on.

  Matchitt hit the fifth-floor landing first. He put a hand out behind him to stall us as he peered forward, then waved us on. The landing was clear. A long corridor led off it. He held up his hand. Three fingers. Third room. Smith grunted. We raced onward. I dropped my gun. It slipped through the sweat. I retrieved it. Smith and Matchitt were at the door. Matchitt pushed the handle down. Locked. Smith raised his gun and blasted a hole in it. Matchitt kicked it in. The shotgun blast had destroyed the lock and taken most of the head off the fella standing behind it. A gun lay beside him. Otherwise the room was bare. Matchitt nodded at a door on the other side of the room. Smith shook his head and nodded at a filing cabinet against the left wall. Matchitt nodded and they both moved towards it. I stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on the corridor and trying to keep my shoes out of the advancing puddle of blood.

  As an exercise in camouflaging a secret room it was pathetic. My comrades in arms shifted the empty filing cabinet. An ordinary door. Unlocked. Smith pushed the handle down, then they both moved to either side of the door as he opened it.

  A tremulous voice said, 'Don't hurt me.'

  If it was Mary, she'd been at the hormones.

  Matchitt and Smith moved in. I followed.

  A small fat white man, bald-headed, thick glasses, white coat, stood shaking in the centre of the room. 'I'll come peaceably,' he said. .

  There were trestle tables on three sides of the room. Each supported a range of quietly bubbling flasks and test tubes. Maybe he was a scientist looking for the secret of life. Maybe he was producing designer drugs for the great unwashed. Maybe they were one and the same thing. There were a lot of maybes, but the one certainty was that he wasn't Mary McMaster.

  'Werafugishe?' snarled Matchitt.

  Smith raised his gun menacingly. 'WeraMarMasha?'

  The whitecoat's brows furrowed. He pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. He coughed. 'I don't...'

  'WERAFUG?' Matchitt screamed.

  'ITZAFUGGINCRAKDEN!' Smith wailed. The whitecoat threw up his arms. 'FBI?' He spluttered.

  I pulled up my mask. 'What the fuck now?' I shouted.

  Matchitt ran forward and pushed his gun into the whitecoat's face. 'WERAFUG . . . ?' he demanded.

  'Stanley!' I shouted. 'Pull up the mask. He can't understand ...'

  Matchitt yanked at it. I coughed. I spluttered. Smith shook his head. Someone appeared at the door. Smith shot him. He fell.

  'WHERE'S MARY MCMASTER?'

  Whitecoat took a step back. The gun went with him. 'I don't know who.. .'

  'WHERE IS SHE?'

  'I don't know...'

  Matchitt shot him. He crumpled. 'Fuck it!' Matchitt said. He turned to Smith. 'What the fuck is this?'

  Smith looked round him. He pulled his mask up. A look of grim resignation on his face. He turned to me. 'Fuck Barry Manilow,' he said.

  More footsteps outside. I turned for the door. Without looking I tossed three stun grenades through the gap. They hit the far wall and bounced back into the doorway. CRACK. BANG. WALLOP.

  I was on the stairs. Matchitt was screaming in my ear, 'Move, you fucker!' I stumbled on. My mask was gone. So was his. Choking. Crying. Gagging. More than tear gas. I looked back. A great black cloud swarming towards us ... no ... only Smith, Smith moving backwards down the stairs, shooting ... flames licking out around him ... like a descent into hell ... before us more smoky gloom ... my head pounding ... Matchitt had me by the arm ... I stumbled on the steps ... forward ... flopping about, anchored only by Matchitt's iron grip ... more figures in the mist ... Matchitt fired twice, three times ... we hit the ground floor, a hint of neon through the door, I fell again, looked down ... a bloody corpse ... Smith behind us then, his giant form propelling us through the door and out into the blessed night air. I fell to the ground, coughed something up. Matchitt was on his knees beside me, heaving. We looked up into the faces of a teenage gang, as surprised by us as we were by them. Bang-bang from behind. Smith fell, slowly, a barrage balloon deflating, his shotgun clattering. Matchitt pushed himself up off the ground and fired three times towards the doorway. Smith was on his back. Blood bubbled briefly at his mouth and then his head fell to the side, eyes open. Fuck ... fuck ... fuck ... I pulled at him, pulled at the lapels of his trench coat ... couldn't budge an. .. Matchitt grabbed me. 'Leave him!' he yelled. I held on. 'Fuckin' leave him, Starkey!' He got me away. We ran. We ran like fuck. Shots trailed after us. Round a corner. Round another. The car. Four wheels missing. 'Fuuuuckkk!' yelled Matchitt. He stepped into the middle of the road. A yellow car was cruising by. Matchitt raised his gun. The car screeched to a standstill. Matchitt ran to the driver's window. 'OUT THE FUCK!' An elderly woman opened her door and climbed out. Matchitt jumped in. He leant across and opened the passenger door. I collapsed in. 'I'm sorry,' I said to her, then closed the door. We shot forward. 'Jesus,' I said.

  Head pounding. Neon blinding. Police sirens like wild animals.

  'Starkey?'

  'What.'

  'I'm shot.'

  'Good.'

  'Thanks.'

  'Don't mention it.'

  'I'm serious. My sleeve's red.'

  'You've probably been shot.'

  'You're probably right.'

  'Does it hurt?'

  'A bit.'

  'Good.'

  'Thanks.'

  'Don't mention it.'

  'I should see a doctor.'

  'You'd get arrested.'

  'Jackie Campbell's a cuts man. He could patch me up.'

  'Jackie's a boxer's cuts man. How many boxers get shot?'

  'Bobby, maybe, after this.'

  'Smith's dead.'

  'I know.'

  'What are we going to do about it?'

  'Nothing. I'm sorry he's dead. He's a casualty of war.'

  'What are we going to tell his wife?'

  'Nothing. Geordie can do that. It was his idea to hire him.'

  'I couldn't face her.'

  'She'd have our guts for garters.'

  Matchitt flexed his fingers above the steering wheel. Bunched them up. Spread them out. 'I couldn't do this
if I was badly wounded, could I?'

  'Give it time to work its way in.'

  He shook his head. 'All those years back home, never got so much as a nick. Now look at me.'

  'All those years picking on defenceless Catholics. Must be an eye-opener coming across someone with more sophisticated weaponry than a hurley stick.'

  'Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, Starkey.'

  We pulled into a petrol station. Matchitt gave me ten dollars and asked me to get as much gas as I could with it. Another time I would have argued which to use, gas or petrol, but I was beyond that; another time I would have refused point-blank to do anything at all for him, but I was beyond that as well. I went in, put down some cash, and filled a handy plastic container.

  We drove back to the hotel. A couple of blocks short of it we found a back alley. Matchitt pushed himself out of the driver's seat with a grunt. I handed him the container. He flipped up the lid, then sprinkled the inside of the car liberally. Using just the one hand, he flicked a match and tossed it into the back seat. We stood back as the car burst into flames. In a couple of seconds any evidence linking us to the stolen vehicle was gone. It was standard Belfast practice.

  Back at the hotel we went straight to McMaster's room, but there was no sign of him. McClean wasn't back yet either. Matchitt tutted and kicked Geordie's door. 'You think they'd show some fucking interest, wouldn't you?'

  I followed him to his room. He pulled off his jacket. The shirt was a mess. But the bullet had done more harm to his clothes than his body; it wasn't much more than a gash. He washed in the bathroom. I took four baby spirits from the mini-bar and beheaded them all. I gave him one. He splashed it on his arm. I went back into the bedroom and drank the other three, one after the other. He called to me as I flipped the TV on. 'Don't worry, Starkey, it might only look like a graze, but I'll probably get a blood clot before morning.'

  I didn't reply. The Shabazz was on the Channel 4 news. It was burning well. 'You'll probably want to see this,' I called and turned up the volume. He appeared in the doorway with a small towel wrapped around his arm.