Shadow Box

by Peter Cocks

“There are some papers here, which you will have to fill in when you get to your hotel.” The official looked at Donnie without a trace of intrigue or suspicion; they spent their days stonewalling immigrants, making even tourists feel paranoid about entering America. Donnie found that the wheels for his entry into New York had clearly been oiled somewhere back down the line.

  “Have a good day.”

  Donnie nodded and took the brown envelope, stepped outside and hailed a yellow taxi into the city. He wasn’t interested in landscapes or the stunning displays of modernist architecture as Manhattan came into view. Dave was right, it looked pretty much like the Isle of Dogs and Canary Wharf. He studied the contents of the envelope, reading slowly, following with his finger: the address of a hotel; the place on Canal Street where he could pick up a weapon; some dollars in cash. He always admired Dave’s neat ability to organize things from afar. Made him feel secure.

  According to Dave’s information from his contacts in immigration, the Washington Square Hotel was where the kid was staying, so Donnie had been booked into one across Waverley Place so he could keep an eye open without being too close for comfort.

  I checked in across the road at ten.

  The Waverley Hotel wasn’t as good as the Washington Square, but I took Dolan’s advice, for better or worse. Too many people already knew I was at the Washington Square, so better to keep on my toes, even on Dolan’s recommendation. I couldn’t see a reason for him to turn me over. He was, after all, doing a favour for Tony.

  I had hardly slept through the night, turning over the new information Dolan had told me about him. Going through it detail by detail. Dolan’s story horrified me, but it stacked up; it began to help me fill in some of the gaps about Tony. I had become more and more aware that he kept plenty of information to himself and let it out as and when it was an advantage to him. I thought back to the cases where he had thrown me in at the deep end, being economical with the truth about what exactly I was up against. It had happened again recently, sending me after Hannah, knowing where it would lead, and now I knew he’d had one – if not two – senior IRA men on his payroll all that time.

  Now Tony had been suspended and sacked for not keeping tabs on Dolan, who as it turned out was in his pocket all the time. I tried to work out Tony’s agenda. Maybe someone was on to him? Perhaps his time was up. I wanted to call him, to hear his calm voice gloss things over, but with the image of a broken Irish boy in chains fresh in my mind, the last thing I would do was ring Tony. He was always close to my mum, but I didn’t even know when they’d met – never questioned it. He’d been part of the family, but then had been my brother Steve’s case officer – and look where Steve ended up.

  I wanted reassurance and back-up, and I wasn’t going to get it from Tony Morris.

  I texted Sharpie.

  Are you coming over to NY?

  I waited half an hour for a reply, chewing things over again and again. I was in a bit of a deadlock until Sharpie told me what to do. I had seriously disobeyed him once and couldn’t do it again. With my growing doubts about Tony, I knew I should have listened to Sharpie in the first place; he clearly knew more about what was going on with Tony than I did.

  Be there tomorrow eve. New intel. Sit tight at Washington Sq until I arrive. SS

  His text calmed me a little. I would wait, and change back to the Washington Square Hotel when he got here. I might have a bit of time to look for Sophie.

  I decided to take a walk uptown. The Museum of Modern Art was not too far away and would be somewhere to kill a bit of time. I took the lift down to reception and walked across the hall. I didn’t register the big man sitting with a beer at first – he was turned three-quarters away from me – but a sixth sense kicked in and I looked back and clocked Donnie Mulvaney. He glanced up, but I was sure he hadn’t seen me; I looked like just another American college kid. I pushed through the revolving doors as quickly as I could, showing him only the back of my head.

  I walked briskly up the street, turned a corner and stopped dead, letting out a breath I realized I had been holding since I left the hotel. My heart was thumping. What on earth was Mulvaney doing in New York? In the same hotel!

  First Paul Dolan, now this. No coincidence.

  I couldn’t go back while he was sitting there. That gorilla had dogged my life for two years now. Everywhere I turned, Donnie Mulvaney was there, like a massive black shadow looming over me. What if he found my room and broke in? All my stuff was there: laptop, memory sticks, passport. A theft would scupper me.

  Only Dolan knew I was there; he could easily have set me up and then sent Donnie Mulvaney round.

  I panicked again, thinking that I should just have followed Sharpie’s orders, stayed in the UK till he was ready.

  Donnie Mulvaney in my hotel! Help! KK

  He texted straight back.

  Keep your head down. Keep calm. Will contact on my arrival. SS

  I paced about a while longer, my plans for the day taking a back seat, and decided that somehow I had to go back to Waverley Place and get my stuff before anyone else got to it. I walked round the block and approached the hotel from the opposite direction, glancing in through the distortion of the revolving doors to see Donnie Mulvaney still sitting there, reading a paper.

  I went round the back and climbed up the fire escape to the floor my room was on. From there I stepped out onto a window sill and, balancing on one foot, one hand holding the fire escape, smashed a window pane with my other heel. It made little noise above the whir of the air conditioning units that stuck out from the rear of the building. I picked out the remaining shards of glass from the window frame and squeezed myself through the gap. Dropping down into a laundry room, I found that a stray sliver of glass had sliced through my shirt into my forearm. Hot drips of bright blood fell onto the pile of dirty sheets at my feet, staining like rotten windfall cherries. I was creating a forensic nightmare for myself. I ripped up a pillowcase and bound my arm as tightly as I could, eager not to leave a bloodstain trail to my room. I pushed open the laundry room door gently and checked the corridor. No one. I slipped out and, holding my arm close to my body, found my room, swiped the room key silently and crept in.

  The room was undisturbed, as I’d left it an hour before. I went to the bathroom and pulled off my shirt. The cut was quite deep and the sink filled red as I washed it under the tap. I looked at the cigarette burn scar – combined with my latest injury, I was beginning to look like a self-harmer. I dried my arm and covered it with a wad of toilet roll before binding it tightly again with a strip of pillowcase. I couldn’t hang around. I put on another shirt and a jacket and bundled the bloodstained one into a carrier bag. I didn’t want to leave more DNA around than I already had. I packed my bag and laptop and went to the door.

  There was an envelope that must have been pushed into the corner as I’d come in through the door. I opened it and found a message like before:

  KIERAN – this will interest you. Le Bernardin restaurant, 155 West 51st Street, 8.30 p.m.

  Proceed with extreme caution,

  Michael

  I folded it and put it in my pocket. No time to think about it now.

  I made my exit back through the laundry room and cut around the block away from the hotel, taking the long way round Waverley Place. My arm was beginning to throb; God knows what New York grime and germs had entered the gash. I might morph into a cockroach. I felt pretty much like one of New York’s ever-present roaches, scuttling through back alleys and windows. Even in the smarter places there were always one or two of the indestructible insects scuttling around the toilets.

  No wonder I identified with them.

  I found a drugstore, bought antiseptic, bandages, Band Aids and superglue, and headed to the Washington Square Hotel.

  I went up to the reception desk.

  “Mr Kelly,” the receptionist said, surprised. “Good to see you back. Did you forget something?”

  “No, I’d like to check back in, ple
ase. The new place didn’t suit me.”

  He tapped the keyboard, raising his eyebrows and pulling his gilt-buttoned blazer cuffs as if he knew nothing else was going to match up to this hotel.

  “Same room?”

  “No, a different one, please. Something quiet. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “We have a double on the sixth floor, tucked right away at the end of the corridor, no elevator or doors near by.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take it.” I was eager to get a room as soon as I could. I could feel my arm pulsing and checked my jacket for seeping blood.

  “We still have your credit card on record. OK if we use that?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, a gentleman was looking for you earlier.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  He spoke to the woman next to him. She leant over.

  “English guy, very big.” She made herself look large by pulling her shoulders up and widening her arms. “Half an hour ago. Said he was an old friend. I told him you’d checked out.”

  “Thanks,” I said, gulping down fear. Another “old friend”. I think I knew who this one was. “If he comes back, I’m still not here,” I said. I winked as if I was simply being cheeky about someone I wished to avoid. Actually, I was shitting hot conkers at the idea that Donnie had come to pay me a visit. My temporary hotel switch had been lucky. I hoped it might temporarily put him off my scent.

  “Sure.” She winked back.

  I went up to the room on the sixth, threw my bags down and headed straight for the bathroom. The blood was beginning to seep through my makeshift bandage. I untied it and peeled the toilet roll off. The cut was becoming sticky and dark. I dabbed at it with antiseptic; it stung like hell, but I had to do something to fix it. I couldn’t risk hospital. I patted it as dry as possible, undid the superglue with my teeth, and applied spots of adhesive along the edges of the gash.

  The sting of the disinfectant was nettle rash compared to the burning of glue on raw flesh. I held my breath and squeezed the edges of the cut together. The glue bonded the skin instantly, like chemical stitches. Once it had fixed, I taped it over with a layer of Band Aid, then wound the bandage over the length of the wound.

  It hurt like shit, but I was getting used to pain.

  I lay down on the bed. It had been quite a morning.

  Dave, hes checked out. What necks? D.

  Don, sit tight. Will advise.

  Wen Dave? Im 6s and 7s. D.

  Have u sorted shooter?

  No. Necks job on list.

  Get on it. Could need soon.

  Wil sort it. Hows the dog Pam.

  Don. Assume you mean dog and Pam.

  All good, but Brandy at vets for worms yesterday.

  Tool up and keep em peeled. D.

  Wil do. Going down Canal Street now. Arthur Ritus.

  Donnie left the hotel and got a cab to an address on Canal Street. It was time to arm himself.

  I woke up at 6 p.m. My arm was throbbing, but the bleeding had stopped. I got up and swallowed some paracetamol with a Coke, switched the telly on and looked again at the note from Dolan. It was a trap, whichever way I looked at it. Either I was going to walk into the barrel of a gun or, if the intel was well meant, I would be getting deeper into some form of trouble.

  None of this was helping me find Sophie.

  On the other hand, I considered, while Sharpie wasn’t here, I might gather useful intel that would get me back in the good books. I could make use of my pre-emptive arrival in New York.

  I cracked open a beer, ate a bag of complimentary pretzels and watched the early evening news. It was only about New York, as if the rest of the world didn’t matter. I hummed and hahed about what to do. I looked at my watch: 7.30 p.m. I couldn’t stay in all evening. I showered, put on a smart jacket and was outside on the street by 8.00 p.m.

  At 8.10 p.m. I was in a cab heading towards 51st Street, wondering what the hell I was doing.

  Le Bernardin was uber-swanky. No two ways. Red rope, doormen who looked like extras from a Batman movie. The cab driver had told me it was one of New York’s top five restaurants and he hoped my credit card would stand it. Did I work on Wall Street or something?

  I told him I wouldn’t be eating there. I would probably have a burger in a nearby diner and watch.

  I jumped out of the cab behind a queue of fat-cat limos that idled outside the modern glass and steel canopy of the restaurant. I kept a distance as the limousines deposited their rich contents onto the sidewalk. I didn’t recognize anyone; they were a mixed clientele in terms of age, but the thing they had in common was that they all looked like they could afford dinner there. I watched for a couple of minutes until a doorman noticed me, so I crossed the road and looked on from the other side.

  I waited until just after 8.30 p.m. and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I didn’t want to hang around too long for fear of being conspicuous, so I wandered further up 51st Street and found a Belgian bar. I ordered a Leffe and sat at the bar flipping the beer mat, wondering what to do next. I was still curious as to why I had been tipped off to go to Le Bernardin – nothing dramatic seemed to be going on there.

  Three-quarters through my beer, I got antsy again. I was just wasting my time. I resolved to go back downtown and get something to eat. But once I was back on the street, I couldn’t resist another look at Le Bernardin and approached it from the other side. As I began to walk past, I caught the eye of the doorman who had seen me earlier.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “I’m waiting for a date. She’s half an hour late – can I wait inside?”

  I peeled a twenty from my back pocket and he opened the door for me. In New York, money talks. For all he knew I might have been Justin Timberlake.

  “Do you have a reservation?” The waitress’s accent was French, she was very good-looking and a little snotty.

  “I don’t. I was waiting for a friend, who’s late. Will you have something free in half an hour or so?”

  She ran a long finger down the bookings sheet.

  “Your name?”

  “Kelly,” I said, sounding very English. She looked at me and back at the sheet. Cracked a half-smile.

  “I think so,” she said. “Just for two?”

  I nodded.

  “In about twenty minutes. Perhaps you would like a drink at the bar?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I ordered a Bloody Mary, hot and spicy, almost a meal in itself. The price tag would have bought dinner in most other places. From the bar, I could get glimpses into the dining area. It was incredibly sleek, with sculptured walls, crisp white linen on the tables, leather-and-chrome chairs. It reminded me of an ocean liner from the 1930s. The lighting was subtle and golden, and the waiters drifted silently in starched, Chairman Mao jackets. My eyes followed them as they carried dishes of precise-looking food to tables. Quantity clearly wasn’t their selling point. Everything filled about a quarter of each plate.

  From my vantage point I could see between two pillars while keeping myself well concealed. I followed the journey of another waiter to a table and saw him deliver a dish to a glamorous-looking blonde woman, middle-aged and well preserved. I recognized her instantly and realized the reason for the tip-off.

  It was Cheryl Kelly.

  Tommy’s wife had been missing for as long as her daughter, Sophie. I hadn’t seen Cheryl since I’d been Sophie’s boyfriend in London almost two years before. She hadn’t changed. Her hair looked good, and she was always well dressed in subtle, expensive colours. I looked again, to make sure.

  I was absolutely certain when Alexei Bashmakov joined her. The Russian businessman was bald and tanned. He kissed her on the cheek, hugged her and snapped his fingers for drinks; he looked as if he’d had a few already.

  Cheryl accepted champagne and drank, raising her glass to the person sitting opposite. With my gaze fixed on Cheryl and Bashmakov, I had barely noticed
another presence at the table.

  The third person leant over as the Russian filled his glass. The back of his head seemed familiar as he leant into the light, but it wasn’t until he raised his glass in turn to the other two that I thought I recognized him, too. I took out my phone, as if texting, and took as good a picture as I could without drawing attention to myself.

  Then I left, sharpish.

  “Anna, it’s me.”

  “I know it’s you.” Her voice sounded sleepy and husky on the other end of the line. Sexy. “It’s three in the morning. This’d better be good.”

  “I’m sorry. It is. There’s been a bit of a development. When’s Sharpie coming over?”

  “Er, I think he’s leaving today. Should be with you by the evening.”

  “Do you know where he is now? I’ve been trying to get hold of him.”

  “As far as I know he’s up in Beaconsfield. He’s been there for a couple of days, he’ll be coming straight from there to New York via Heathrow.”

  “OK,” I said.

  “So what developments?” she asked.

  “I guess I should report straight to Sharpie,” I said.

  “Really? Get back in his good books?”

  “But,” I couldn’t resist, “I think I’ve tracked down Cheryl Kelly.”

  I had raced back to Washington Square after making my excuses at Le Bernardin. I couldn’t speak on the street, and waited for the security of my room before making my call.

  I was both excited and anxious about my discovery. To find Cheryl and Bashmakov together was quite something. I was sure Tommy Kelly knew nothing about it, especially if Bashmakov, ugly as he was, was muscling in on Tommy’s wife as well as his business.

  The third person at the table confused me – if it was who I thought it was. And it would need some careful thought and delicate handling. I would have to wait till tomorrow to work out what to do.

  Donnie had got lucky.

  He’d arrived back from Canal Street at around six with the 9 mm: a calibre big enough to make a nasty mess and ensure a kill. He felt happier with a firearm on his hip. He had showered and gone out for a steak and a couple of beers and was beginning to like New York a little better. The portions were massive. For lunch he’d had a sandwich, something called a sub, with enough cheese and ham to feed a family for a week. His steak and chips that evening had brought him to a near standstill, but he’d ploughed on through to the end.