The Angel Tapes

by David M. Kiely

  “What’ll we do, Dommo? It’s us the fuckers are after.”

  Dominic’s eyes were flickering from side to side. He placed the gun under Blade’s chin.

  “Talk,” he said. “Tell your mates you’re still looking. No codes, just plain English, or your brains’ll be decorating that wall behind you.”

  Paddy Price held the radio to Blade’s ear. Both men were sweating.

  “Nothing here, either,” Blade said into the mouthpiece. “Try the fourth floor. Over.”

  “The fourth, sir? Are you sure? Over.”

  “Yeah, you heard me: the fourth. We’re just about done on the third. Over and out.”

  Paddy Price moved the radio away from Blade and nodded, satisfied. Blade’s mouth was dry and his limbs were beginning to ache. He started to alternately tense and relax the muscles of his arms and thighs, keeping the circulation going. Numbness was the last thing he needed. He became aware of Redfern’s breathing; it was slow, deep, and measured. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the American was now squatting on his heels.

  Dominic Price had returned to his chair. “Right. You did grand, copper. Just as well, too. Now, let’s have some real answers. So it’s us, is it? Why?”

  “Murder.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “Really, Dommo.”

  “And who are we supposed to have murdered?”

  “Gerry Merrigan and Michael Byrne. On the first of July, 1989.”

  Dominic, without taking his eyes off Macken, addressed his brother. “You hear that, Paddy? I take everything back I ever said about the Guards being a slow bunch of fucks. On’y nine years and they’ve already cracked the case. Fucking marvelous. Do we have an alibi for that day, Paddy? I’m sure we do.”

  “Ah yes,” said his brother with a smile, “I remember distinctly. Weren’t you and me making our Confirmation that very day? Or was it our Holy Communion? I do get confused between the two sometimes. Mind you, I still have the tenner Aunt Cora gave me.”

  Play for time, Blade; keep the shaggers talking.

  “You probably got the dates mixed up,” he said, “so I’ll jog your memory. It was the little job you did for Jim Roche. In Kildare House.”

  Dominic Price had stiffened. “Roche?”

  “Certainly,” Blade said with a confidence he was far from possessing. “Roche was only too happy to talk about it. I suppose it’s been on his conscience this past while. Maybe you can look him up when the pair of you are out of the Joy. That’s if he hasn’t died of old age by then.”

  “Jayziz, copper,” Dominic Price said, “you’ve the brass balls of the fucking Devil. If you think—”

  He stopped. All four men had heard a sound from outside—the unmistakable, metallic clatter of an empty beer can kicked by a careless foot. John and Joe.

  The brothers’ attention directed itself at the window, an action of a split second’s duration. It was enough for Lawrence Redfern. Macken saw only a blur of limbs; the Americans’ body uncoiled like that of a cobra, as he launched himself from the floor.

  The shotgun roared deafeningly and blew a ragged hole in the ceiling, both barrels spent. It spiraled out of Dominic’s grasp as Redfern took him full in the chest and the chair toppled backward. Blade was on his feet and throwing himself at Paddy Price’s legs.

  But Price’s brother had delivered a blow to Redfern’s chin, sending him reeling. Dominic was on his feet again, lashing out with his foot at Redfern’s ribs. The American rolled away. Blade, meanwhile, had forced a knee into the small of Paddy’s back and had twisted the man’s arms behind him. He was powerless. Macken could observe Redfern in full battle frenzy.

  He saw two shaved heads appear outside the window.

  Redfern had regained his footing. His hands dropped loosely to his sides. He emitted a cry, leaped in the air, feet level with Dominic’s belly, and kicked the man full in his beard. Dominic staggered. But he was a fighter and dodged Redfern’s next attack, sidestepping as the American’s kick scythed the air harmlessly in the place where Dominic’s head had been.

  The door opened and the two narcotics men came in. They saw the flailing arms and legs of Redfern and his antagonist. They stepped aside, out of the way.

  Redfern screeched again, pivoted on one foot, sending the other in a lethal arc that glanced off Dominic’s head.

  Dominic slipped on some food remains and lost his balance. He pitched sideways—and blundered into Blade. Blade’s grip on Paddy Price’s arm loosened. Paddy took full advantage. He rolled out from under Blade. A knife appeared in his hand.

  The brothers became a deadly fighting duo. Paddy Price skipped nimbly to one side and struck out at Joe while Dominic lunged at John. The knife missed its target. John was less fortunate: Blade heard bone snap as John went down, taken by Dominic’s brutal kick to the side of his knee. John screamed in agony.

  Blade picked up the rickety chair by the backrest and stalked Paddy Price. The knife was ineffective now. Blade used the chair legs to keep Paddy at bay, forcing him back against the wall and farther from the door. Joe prepared a flank attack.

  “Come and get it, cunts!” Paddy roared. “Come on. I’ll gut the pair of yiz like fucking mackerels.” But his eyes betrayed his desperation. He was cornered. Knew it.

  Blade lunged with the chair. Paddy dodged and slashed out at Joe.

  The knife sliced his jacket sleeve but failed to connect with flesh. Blade lunged again. This time one of the chair legs slammed into Paddy’s ribs. He cursed.

  Dominic Price emitted a blood-curdling yell and launched himself at Redfern again in a classic karate assault, both feet aiming for the stomach. Redfern rolled with the kick.

  Blade and Joe were working as a unit. Blade thrust the chair under Paddy Price’s swinging knife hand and caught him in the ribs again. Joe kicked him in the shin. Paddy faltered. Blade swung the chair like an ax. The knife flew from Paddy’s hand. Joe punched him in the stomach—at the same moment Blade brought the chair down on his head. It splintered. Paddy dropped to the floor like a poleaxed steer.

  His brother made for the door.

  Redfern had anticipated the move. Macken saw the CIA operative turn his back. Then Redfern was a tumbling acrobat, turning once, twice, three times in a flurry of motion.

  Dominic Price was over the threshold when the soles of Redfern’s shoes caught him square in the back. The force of contact lifted him off his feet and sent him hurtling toward the balcony. He cried out—and disappeared with a scream over the edge.

  “Christ on a trampoline,” Blade heard Joe say; “Bruce fucking Lee isn’t in it!”

  Redfern was looking down to where the bearded man had fallen. He shook his head slowly, then returned to the apartment.

  John was on his feet again, pale and limping. “I hope the fucker isn’t dead, is he?” he asked. “I was hoping to be around when they put him away for good.”

  “No sign of movement down there,” Redfern told him. “I guess his neck broke his fall. Poor bastard.”

  But when Blade escorted the handcuffed Paddy Price out of the building, he saw a group of children clustered around a battered, bloodied, but very much alive Dominic. The bearded one was trying to get up off the filthy mattress that had saved his life.

  * * *

  “We really need someone from the press office,” Blade said. “There’s no point now passing this on to the evening papers but we can make tomorrow’s dailies. We might even get it on the front page.”

  “I can do better than that, Blade,” Duffy said. “I’ll have the crime correspondent from the Independent over here right away. Get your report typed up and I’ll brief him myself. I owe it to Gerry.”

  Blade went to the “photograph” on the bulletin board and looked into the eyes of Carol Merrigan.

  “What’s she up to? Why doesn’t she ring—just when I want her to ring! She’s rung me at least twice a day for the past week. Fuck it. I don’t know if she’ll buy it, sir, I really don’t. It’s all
so neat. She waits nine years to take revenge for her father’s death, and we get the men responsible, the day before the payoff. It’s all too bloody neat. I don’t think she’ll buy it.”

  Duffy had come behind him. “Go home, Blade. Get some rest. Your nerves must be in shreds. It’s half-eight now and you’ve an early start tomorrow. Get some rest.”

  So Blade took Duffy’s advice, mumbled his goodnights to the others and headed for home. When he’d reached the top of Harcourt Street, however, he suddenly remembered an appointment he’d made earlier that day.

  Upper Mount Street was only minutes away, and rest was the last thing on his mind.

  Thirty-seven

  He’d never seen her in trousers before. But this was more than trousers: Elaine was dressed in an exquisitely tailored pantsuit, dark blue with a broad chalk stripe. She wore a white shirt and a red necktie; her hair was gathered back severely and tied high. When she opened the front door, Blade felt as though he was stepping into a Greta Garbo movie.

  She kissed him on both cheeks. At least the perfume was the same. As always, it did things indefinable to him. But the circumstances were different now, he reminded himself. This was business.

  “Gosh, you look as if you could use a drink.”

  “I could but I don’t want one, thanks. Just coffee, if it’s not too much bother.”

  “No bother at all. Come in.”

  She appeared to own or rent the entire ground floor of the Georgian building; through an open door Blade saw a big sitting room before she ushered him into another room on the other side of the hallway.

  Its bareness surprised Macken. He’d been expecting a room whose furnishings would be in keeping with the house’s age; instead he found himself in something resembling an art gallery. The walls were white and hung with three gigantic canvases done in primary colors: geometric shapes that were by no means restful on the eyes. Yet you found yourself drawn to them again and again. There was no carpet on the floor, just very light, bleached and gleaming pine boards. There were three chairs—at least Blade assumed they were chairs. They were narrow and tall and black, austere in the extreme, not the sort of chair to lounge in with a six-pack and a bag of potato chips. Designer stuff; probably cost a fortune.

  Minimalist music (what else, Blade mused, would it be?) seemed to fill the room. He’d trouble tracking down its source. Then he saw the buttonless Bang & Olufsen tower near the glass drinks cabinet and the almost invisible, sandwich-thin speaker boxes.

  “Take a seat,” Elaine said, disappearing through a far door. “I’ve fresh coffee, just brewed. Turkish.”

  The black chairs were actually very comfortable. They forced you to sit upright and your spine seemed to relax more the straighter you sat. The arm supports were at precisely the right height and angle. A sudden vision of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh flashed through Blade’s head.

  The blinds were drawn and the room’s illumination came from a massive, semiglobular lamp hung above a low, black table and from a triad of concealed spots in the ceiling.

  Elaine de Rossa returned with a small, steaming cup of black coffee. She was having nothing herself.

  “So you’re a journalist,” Blade said bluntly. “What paper?”

  She told him.

  “At least it’s not the News of the World.”

  Elaine made a face. “Look, I feel pretty shitty about deceiving you, Blade darling.”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “I thought you liked it.”

  “I did before. Not now. I don’t like people having me on. It rubs me up the wrong way.”

  “And I suppose,” Elaine said carefully, sitting down opposite him, “you’ve never deceived anybody in the line of duty?”

  “That’s different. That’s work.”

  “So’s mine.”

  “Maybe. And you’re right: It was pretty shitty.” He sipped some coffee; it was like molasses, but good. “So let’s keep things strictly on a professional footing from now on, okay? Tell me about Delahunt.”

  He’d hurt her feelings, that was obvious. But she’d done the same to him; far worse. Macken hadn’t come here to score points. He was glad when she cut the charm and grew serious, businesslike.

  “I spoke to his wife today,” she said. “All sweetness and shite. Until, that is, I mentioned Buenos Aires.” She told him of her father’s unexpected discovery.

  Blade sipped more coffee, then put the cup and saucer aside.

  “There’s no mistake, is there? They were fake?”

  “So the experts there say. It certainly put the wind up Mrs. Delahunt. More so when I asked her the name of the firm that had insured the jewels. That’s when she showed me the door. But it shouldn’t be hard to find that out.”

  “Hmm. Delahunt is going to love you.”

  And so, Blade thought, is Charlie Nolan. He was already figuring out how the loose ends were about to be tied up. There was something poetic about the whole thing: first Roche, then the Price brothers, now Delahunt and Nolan. The game that had been set in motion nine years before was in its final stage of play.

  “Look, Elaine, would you do me a favor? It’s in your own interest as well.”

  “Sure.”

  He took his notebook from his pocket and began to write, talking as he scribbled the words. “This is a note for Detective Superintendent Charles Nolan. You probably won’t know him but he’s conducting the Delahunt investigation.”

  “Nolan? Yeah, I think his name’s been mentioned a few times in the office.”

  “Well, you’re to take this note to him. He can open doors for you. And you can open a door for him, too.” Blade signed the note, tore out the sheets, and passed them to her.

  “What do you mean, I can open a door for him?”

  “It’s complicated. You’ll find out when you get to Harcourt Square.” He hesitated. “Leave it till tomorrow afternoon though, will you? The morning isn’t a good time.”

  Elaine put the note in her purse without reading it.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”

  No! No alcohol. Not now. He couldn’t risk it. Not now.

  “Well, maybe just a drop of whiskey in the bottom of a glass.”

  She’d already risen when the telephone rang in the adjoining room. She shut the door behind her. Blade heard her voice, muffled.

  * * *

  The minutes ticked by. Blade grew restless. He no longer heard Elaine’s voice on the phone. The music had ended some time before.

  “Blade!!”

  Her scream jolted him. He leaped from the chair and made for the door to the adjoining room. The scream came again, the scream of a woman in mortal danger. He flung the door open.

  The room was a bedroom, vast. The bed itself seemed to hover above the floor, an illusion created by the indirect light beneath it. Other light bathed the room in a deep pink that changed the white carpet to the color of cotton candy. There were animals ranged around the room’s sides; soft toys; pandas and koala bears; cats and dogs and monkeys as big as sumo wrestlers; squirrels and rabbits; a life-size, white plush pony; plush cranes and pink flamingos with outstretched wings were suspended from the ceiling.

  So, too, was Elaine de Rossa.

  A pair of gymnast’s stationary rings had been secured by metal bolts in the middle of the high ceiling. The rings were adjustable and hung now at the level of Blade’s chest. Elaine de Rossa had set them in motion by the momentum of her body and they swung slowly back and forth. Participants in this branch of gymnastics will tell you that there are various positions you can assume, making use of the rings. The forward and backward start are popular and require only a little practice. The backward uprise, cross, and cross hang are exercises that shouldn’t be attempted by beginners. The inverted hang, however, is one of the most difficult feats of all. You slip your knees through the rings and suspend yourself solely by entwining your legs in the ropes—and all this must be accomplished without spinning or jerki
ng horizontally. Done well, it’s spectacular.

  Done nude, it’s breathtaking.

  Elaine de Rossa swung slowly upside down in the soft, pink light, eyes closed and mouth open, perfect teeth bared. She was singing to herself: “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.…”

  Blade approached her slowly, like a man in a trance. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. In the pink light her body glowed with a sensuality that awakened in him emotions that had lain dormant for over forty years. Pink, the color of babyhood, of warmth, of mothering, of innocence.

  He’d never seen anything so beautiful—or so vulnerable and challenging all at once. Her blonde hair, loosened, swept the white-pink carpet as she swung. Her round breasts and hips were the same hue as the rest of her torso, tanned evenly. Her nipples were taut and their shadows lengthened and contracted as her body swung from the rings. Her navel was a vertical line.

  At the bifurcation of the long thighs that rippled in the light, Blade saw a smooth mound. Liquid trickled from the parted lips; they were almost purple in the light.

  “Kiss me,” Elaine said. “Kiss my fanny. Kiss my lips.”

  They were on a level with Blade’s own. He caught her hips as they swung toward him, held them, heard Elaine moan, and pressed his tongue deep into that moist recess.

  “Oh God!” she cried and he felt her hands grip his shins.

  Then he was thrusting down deep, exploring her warm, secret places with circular movements of his tongue. She hadn’t allowed any soap or other foreign substance to penetrate those depths and he tasted only the magnificence of Elaine de Rossa. He felt her hands clamber up his thighs, unbuckle his pants, slide them down his legs, work his underpants out over his erection. Then her mouth was slowly, slowly engulfing his cock; her chin brushed against his soft hairs. He shuddered. The shuddering caused Elaine to climax and warm liquid flowed down Blade’s chin.

  She was humming the chariot song now, and Blade felt the vibration in her larynx transfer itself to his penis. He swelled so much that he thought her jaw might burst. He came up for air.