I watched them go, then returned to my room for a drink. I only had a couple. I slept. I dreamt of Smith. Saw his corpse. Saw the others lying dead in the mosque, dead for no good reason other than the ineptitude of a bunch of amateur commandos. I woke bathed in sweat. Slept. Dreamt of Patricia. Dreamt of her in bed with Tony, them making love, me crashing into the room, pulling him off her, then realizing it wasn't him at all, but Smith, and he'd blood coming out of his mouth.
I woke with a start. Dawn was on the way. I lay on top of the covers for a while, thinking about Smith. I hardly knew him. I didn't know his wife Sissy at all, save for a nod or two, yet I felt heartbroken for her, for the loss of their obvious love. Maybe it wasn't lost, it was still there, just intangible. It wasn't thousands of miles away, like mine, it was beyond the edge of the universe, and then some. I didn't even know when his funeral was. I didn't know if the police were investigating his death. I'd no idea where Smith lived, so hearing his voice was pretty strange. I called his office on the off-chance and got his answering machine. As soon as I heard his throaty growl I slammed the receiver down and shivered. Uhhhhh.
I got up. Showered. Got into a pair of fading blue denims, a black sweatshirt, my new trainers. Then I ordered breakfast in the room. I wolfed it down, and after a while I started to feel better. Yeah, I was doing okay. Geordie McClean was right. I could achieve more in the city. Start some serious writing, for one thing. Wean myself slowly off the alcohol without the temptations of a new town, even if it was only an out-of-season holiday resort. I could maybe even do some sightseeing if my attempts to track Mary down proved fruitless. At least on that point, Stanley wasn't far off. What could I do, besides write Mary an interesting obituary? I could make some enquiries, try to mix a bit with the Irish community, put out some feelers. But the Irish community wasn't some tiny, tight stronghold where everyone knew everyone and struggled by at odds with the greater city, cut off by language and tradition like so many other nationalities in New York; it was a massive, pulsating city within a city, bigger, in fact, than Ireland itself. I was looking for an emerald in a haystack.
The phone rang. I hesitated before answering. I had a crazy feeling that Smith might be on the other end. Looking for revenge, or maybe just hoping to get paid.
I was relieved to recognize a voice from home, or an accent at any rate; then I remembered I shouldn't be relieved, that I should be a little excited and a little afraid, so I got that way instead.
'I'm looking for Bobby McMaster.'
The accent wasn't Belfast. More like Derry mixed in with a couple of years at a mainland university.
'He's not here right now. Can I take a message?'
'Who're you, FBI?'
'NUJ.'
'I'm sorry?'
'Nothing. Do you want to leave your number and I'll get him to ring you back?'
'Are you trying to be fucking funny?'
'No. Not at all. I'm sorry.'
'Do you know what this is all about?'
'I think so, yeah.' It would be a shame to go through the whole rigmarole if it was only Bobby's long-lost brother on the phone.
'It's about Mary, right?'
'Right.'
'The training camp has moved up the coast. For safety. They left me behind to take your call.'
'I need to speak to Bobby personally.'
'I can pass...'
'Personally.'
'Is she okay?'
'Personally.'
He wasn't in chatty form. I gave him the number McClean had left with me. He hung up. I lay on my bed for thirty minutes, then phoned Princetown. Matchitt answered.
'Did you hear from the boys, then?' I asked. 'No. Did you?'
'I gave them your number half an hour ago. They seemed in a bit of a hurry.'
'Well, they didn't call here. You sure you gave them the right number?'
'Yes, Stanley.'
'Well, I've been here the whole time and no one's phoned.'
'Maybe they need a little time to discuss your move up to Cape Cod amongst themselves. Maybe they think we're trying to pull a flanker. How's Bobby?'
'Morose, but knocking people out of the ring with it.'
'And how's the weather?'
'Sunny, with widespread terr-'
'I get the picture, Stanley. What about the set-up there? Poodle's boys up to scratch?'
'I've seen worse. It's this place is a bugger. Nice house, but an old wooden number, would go up in flames in seconds. Nice neighbourhood, but it's all higgledy-piggledy, impossible to keep an eye on everything at once. We haven't been round the town yet. It looks sleepy enough, but you never know. Look at Crossmaheart.'
'I try not to. Still, you have your work cut out, I won't be seeing you for a while.'
'Don't bank on it.'
It was time to forget literature and do some old-fashioned leg work. I was never a great phone user. I always found liars easier to detect face to red face. I pulled on a denim jacket, buttoned it up to the collar, then donned the leather gloves and left my room. It felt slightly odd out in the corridor: no guards by McMaster's room; no Matchitt lurking by the lift. It wasn't that I felt unprotected, just somehow alone. Imagine, lonely for Stanley Matchitt. I managed a laugh and made for the Great White Way. There were still some die-hards left holding banners outside the Mirage. The contender's departure had been well publicized, his destination described as mystery, but then some people never did believe what they saw on the telly. I managed to keep the look of mild disdain off my face as I left. I hated blind loyalty like that. We had enough of it at home. They were the sort thought Elvis was still alive, that he was rocking around somewhere with Sid and Nancy and Eddie and Gene.
I put my head down and brushed past them mid-chant. It was still all vipers and snakes. I was on the trail of a different type of viper, the poisonous ones St Patrick hadn't managed to drive out of Ireland. I'd thought about starting the trail by picking a few brains on one of the Irish papers in New York and had managed to traverse all of four blocks when I realized I was being followed.
Now, God knows, I'm no expert on professional surveillance, but this lady was right up with the worst. It wasn't so much that the ground shook when she moved, but that everyone's eyes homed in on her. As I walked along I couldn't help but notice people's eyes widen as they saw her advancing towards me. I glanced back, once, quickly, and it was enough. Her eyes bore into mine for just a second, then danced away, too quickly, too nervously, too obviously trying not to look. She was enormous. Her hair was pulled brutally back. Her dress, black, billowing in the wind, had less form than a circus tent. She'd been at the hotel when I'd been leaving. I'd seen her at reception, talking animatedly at the desk. I knew from the first that she was a Grandmother of Muhammad. She had the glassy-eyed look of a woman who had lost a son or a husband and needed some form of revenge before she could stop her mourning. And if you couldn't get the white devil, get the white devil's press agent.
There were a couple of ways I could play it. I could dive into a shop, just to be a hundred per cent certain that it was me she was following. But with that I ran the risk of getting cornered. I could turn and confront her, but that had the risk of getting flattened, or shot, or at least being drawn into an unwinnable argument about race. Or I could forget my casual saunter up Broadway, break into a sprint and lose her within a block. This last seemed the most appealing, if least dignified, escape.
And I had my left, new sneaker poised to bounce me athletically forward when her voice rolled up the pavement and slammed into my back, 'YO!' and instead of ignoring it and getting going like a wise man should, I turned.
'You talkin' to me?' I asked in my best De Niro.
She moved right on up until she towered over me. 'I know you.'
I shook my head. 'I think not.'
'You're with the boxer, aren't you?'
'Boxer?'
'Don't fuck with me, son. You're one of the boxer's men. I seen you before.'
I gave a half-he
arted shrug. She didn't look like she had any concealed weapons. Just obvious ones. 'Maybe,' I said.
'Sure I did. You came to my husband's office coupla days ago.'
Gulp. I peered into her face. Tried to picture it with a smile and make-up. 'Sissy?' I asked, half incredulous. She nodded.
It was a face you could only get by draining blood out of it. The face of true love in mourning. I put my hand out. 'Jesus,' I said, 'I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you.'
She took my hand and squeezed it gently, quickly, and let go. 'That all you got to say?'
I nodded. I was speechless. What do you say to someone whose husband you've helped get killed for no good reason?
'You want to know what I'm doing here, instead of crying at home?'
I nodded again.
'I can't stand all that nonsense. He's gone and that's that. God got him now. I'm here because he was working for you when he died, and he died with the job only half done. I'd like to help finish it.'
'Honestly, there's no need. . .'
'Sure, there's a need. He promised to get that woman back, and as far as I know she ain't back yet. That right?' I nodded. 'His promise is my promise.'
'It's very kind of you, Sissy, but really there's no need. If it's a matter of the money I'm sure Mr McClean would be glad. . .'
'It's nothing to do with the money. I've been paid for the work that was done, plus there's the insurance coming my way. But I still got a business to run. A family to feed. A job to finish.'
I took a step back. I needed my own air space. 'I'm not trying to be unkind, Sissy, but what could you do?'
'Chop you in two, for a start.'
I took another step back.
'Please, Sissy, it's a nice thought, but. ..'
She took a step towards me. It was worth two of mine. She forced her face down into mine. 'You know why we were asked to leave the New York Police Department?' she growled, and suddenly she was neither the mourning widow nor the happy-go lucky pink-spectacled jolly wife, but the mother of all menace, as capable with a pair of garden clippers as her late husband.
'I didn't know you were...'
'We were two of the best ... you know why they made us leave?'
I shook my head. I thought about Smith's interrogation technique. 'Cause we were too heavy.'
Savant's grilling had been the heaviest I'd ever sat through, and then some.
'Told us we were a disgrace to the uniform.'
I could see Smith nonchalantly dropping Savant's little finger into the waste basket in his apartment.
'Told us we ate so much, they didn't have uniforms to fit us any more. Told us to diet or get out. We were the best in that damn department! We took it as a fundamental infringement of our rights as American citizens and we got out. We set up in business ourselves, doin' what half those motherfuckers'll never know how to do, and doin' it damn well at that, even if we didn't make no money to speak of. And now some motherfucker's shot him dead and the job's left not half done, and, goddamnit, I got something to prove.'
Tears sprang from her eyes and her huge shoulders began to vibrate and for a second I feared she might topple over on top of me and I would die flat, but she held on, swaying gently from side to side like the biggest tree in the forest dancing with the slightest of breezes. 'I'm sorry,' she said, her voice shaky.
I reached up and patted her on the elbow. 'Can I buy you lunch, Sissy?' I asked.
The higher up you go in the Mirage, the finer the restaurants get. Needless to say we had grown used to eating on the ground floor, where quantity ruled over quality. Sissy, despite her size and doughnuts aside, was a connoisseur of the finer things in life - either that or she wanted to exploit my invitation to the limit, which was fine by me. I felt guilty enough about her husband's unwarranted demise and a slap-up meal was the least I could do. Besides, Geordie McClean was paying for it.
She rejected one menu after the other as we gradually made our way to the enclosed rooftop restaurant. It was small, surprisingly unstuffy. We were shown to a window table set for four. We ordered drinks immediately, she a Martini, me an imported Harp, then hid behind the menus for a while to think about food and how best to move the conversation onto a less gloomy subject than her recent descent into widowhood. I was still happily scanning the entrees when Sissy's head appeared over the top of my menu.
'What about the hostage?' she asked.
'I've heard nothing.'
'Very expensive,' she said, her head nodding appreciatively. 'Could turn out that way.'
'I expect it depends on how it's done,' said Sissy. 'Fried, do you think?'
I looked up. 'That might be a bit rash,' I said, 'they've only had her a few days.'
She nodded. 'Not very healthy,' she said and sank back below the horizon. Just for a second. Her head popped up again. 'How do you know she's female?'
I lowered my menu. Maybe there was more than just tears to her mourning. Maybe she was doped up with Valium. Or dope, for that matter. 'She's McMaster's wife. Of course she's female.' She closed her menu and set it down. She looked a little confused. Her jaw hung just a little too low, her eyes a little bit wide.
'This is very strange,' she said and took a gulp of her drink.
When she replaced it it clinked against the cutlery and she looked anxiously round.
'It's okay,' I said, 'take your time.'
She gave me a little unsure smile and re-opened her menu.
'Maybe it wasn't such a good idea,' she said.
'It's okay,' I said. 'It's good to get out.'
'No, I mean about the ostrich.'
I closed my own menu. 'Which ostrich?' I said it softly. With care. I let my eyes wander lazily about the restaurant.
'The one your boxer is married to.'
'Are you feeling okay, Sissy? Would you prefer to leave?'
'I'm fine. You said Bobby McMaster was married to an ostrich.'
'I did not. I said he was married to Mary. You said he was married to an ostrich.'
'Mary the ostrich.'
'Mary McMaster. The human. Are you feeling okay?'
'I'm feeling fine. Are you sure you're feeling okay?'
'I'm absolutely positive.'
'Then what are we talking about?'
'I don't know. You asked me about Mary...'
'I asked you about the ostrich.'
'What ostrich?'
'The ostrich on the menu.'
She opened her menu and pointed. I followed the approximate direction of her finger as I re-opened my own.
'Right enough,' I said. Ostrich was listed. Plain as day. 'I thought you said something else.'
'Like what?'
I thought back. There was the possibility that I had misheard.
It wasn't unknown. 'I thought you said hostage. But you said ostrich. I'm sorry.'
'Never mind. It's an easy mistake to make. Maybe I said hostage by mistake.'
We sipped our drinks in silence and avoided each other's eyes. Outside it was getting gloomy. Winter was showing little enthusiasm about giving way to spring.
'I understand it's relatively inexpensive to have one's ears syringed,' said Sissy.
And we both burst into laughter. Big ripply laughs cascaded through her, like her body was billowing in the wind. She wiped a tear from her eye. 'I'm sorry,' she said when she finally regained control. She raised her glass. I raised mine. We clinked.
'To what?' I asked.
She thought for a moment, then raised her glass again. 'To Terry Anderson and Terry Waite.'
'To Terry Anderson and Terry Waite,' I repeated, then added, 'Why?'
'They were Beirut ostriches.'
And off we went again. She was for the moment the lovely big woman with the smile on her face, the way she should be. Maybe I could work with her. Maybe it would do us both good. I took another sip. 'And to Mary McMaster, the New York ostrich. May she soon be free.'
'And not fried.'
'Cheers.'
The waiter must
have been used to it, but he still allowed a mildly irritated look to drift across his angular face when we enquired about the ostrich. 'From Scotland, sir,' he said.
'Not Australia?'
'No, sir, Scotland, sir. We buy all of our ostrich from an ostrich farm in Scotland. I'm sure there's a good reason for it.'
Sissy was less interested in the country of origin than the taste. 'Our ostrich is pan-fried in fresh herbs and served with wholegrain mustard. You have a choice after that, madam. If you remove it from the pan in the early stages of cooking, when it has just been sealed and is still pink, it will taste like beef or pork. However, if it is allowed to cook longer the meat will taste more gamey, a cross between wood pigeon and venison.'
'So it never actually tastes like ostrich?'
'Yes, of course it does, madam. I was only suggesting what range of meats it falls into. It does, of course, have its own very distinct taste.'
Sissy was keen. I was less sure. There was something vaguely unsettling about eating an ostrich. I was never one for experimenting with food anyway, but there seemed to be something particularly taboo about eating an ostrich; maybe it was the beak and the deceptively skinny legs; of course you didn't eat either, or so I presumed, but they sprang to mind as I pictured an ostrich on my plate. Maybe it was the fact that an ostrich could run at forty-five miles per hour. Or that it was well capable of killing a man. It wasn't a claim you could make about many other animals that eventually ended their days on a dinner table. I mean, no one was ever killed by a cow, unless it fell on them from a great height, and sheep aren't famed for putting up much of a fight. Pigs are feisty enough creatures, but they've never killed anyone, unless you count the kind that race around in green uniforms. I scanned the menu again. Maybe there was a way around the ostrich question without appearing unadventurous. I looked for an ostrich egg. An ostrich egg in a cup. A bloody big cup. It wouldn't be a question of having a few soldiers with a boiled ostrich egg, but an entire battalion. And what about Ireland, what did we have there with our eggs, soldiers or terrorists? Ireland, God, I hadn't ...
'Sir?'
'Hamburger and fries, please.'
'Chicken,' said Sissy.
'Chicken?' asked the waiter.
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