Dead I Well May Be (13 page)

Dermot, Dermot, you Fenian wee cultchie, motherfucker, parley,
fucking parley, I shouted. There was no reply, so I shouted it all again with increased vehemence. But still nothing.

Dermot Finoukin was a new boy in town from Toome in County Antrim. He was something of a smoothie—NEXT suits, holidays in Ibiza, charm, a midnight blue MG midget—but he’d done the wrong boy’s daughter and upped and left for the New World under sentence from a top player. He’d opened a bar in the tiny Irish neighborhood around the 160s and Broadway. It was a disastrous and foolish scheme, because the Micks were leaving for better places in the Bronx or Jersey or Queens and Dermot didn’t encourage patronage from Dominicans or Puerto Ricans. The bar, when we went, was always empty. Sunshine had loaned Dermot a bucket of money at 50 percent a month on the collateral of Dermot’s knowledge of and access to a cache of weapons compiled for the Provos somewhere upstate in 1988 and then abandoned because of the arrests of the principals in the case. Sunshine was no fool and expected the bar to fail in about three months and then we’d get our hands on the guns and move them on to people who needed them most, people who, coincidentally, generally lived in Dermot’s neighborhood. But as it turned out, Dermot’s strategy wasn’t as stupid as it looked because he made his payments every month and even gave us a good bit of the capital back; in fact, sleekit wee Dermot didn’t give a shite about the bar, and the whole time he’d been manufacturing crack cocaine in the basement under license from a local boy known only as Magic Man. Magic Man, it turned out, was really a fellow called Ramón, and Ramón would, much later, be a helpful little bee to me, too.

Anyway, Dermot’s was a nice setup and perplexed young Sunshine for quite a while until somehow someone ratted and Sunshine had insisted on accompanying us on a visit to Dermot’s to investigate these claims for himself. What was even better was that the rat was probably Dermot himself and this wee operation was a move to bring us down there and wipe us out with a minimum of fuss and then move his crack factory to new premises in a whole building on St. Nicholas. It was supposed to go something like this: kill us, dispose of us, set fire to the bar, disappear, and then when Darkey investigated, there wouldn’t be a trace. Dermot would be debt-free, well established as a cool customer, and he could sit and make his fortune, giving the odd handsome
donation to the Provos in the Bay State who would thereafter provide him additional insurance cover. It wasn’t a bad plan as harebrained, unworkable, ill-thought-out schemes go, and the killing-of-us bit was the most doable part of the operation and at this point, I’d say, had about a fifty-fifty chance of coming off, unless one of us could think of a way out.

Dermot, you cultchie cow-fucking bastard, parley, are you fucking deaf? Parley, I yelled again.

The shooting went on for another few seconds and then abruptly stopped.

There was a pause, and then Dermot yelled out from somewhere:

What?

Dermot, listen, it’s Michael, listen, bloody listen. Peelers are gonna be here in a minute. Your boys fucked up, fucked up big-time, can’t get us from where you are.

See about that, Dermot said, menacingly.

Wait, you fucking wanker, wait. You’re not getting us and we’re not getting you, and the peels are gonna show up sooner or later, and then what? Slammer, five years, and then deportation. Is that what you want?

One of Dermot’s boys yelled something in Spanish and the shooting started again. Sunshine grabbed my arm and was having some kind of asthma attack. I looked over at Scotchy sarcastically, asking him to get a load of this, but Scotchy’s face was contorted with rage, either at me or his predicament, you couldn’t tell. The shooting stopped.

What do you suggest? Dermot shouted.

Cease-fire and withdrawal. You let us go and we’ll give you twenty-four hours to get to pastures new, I said, and looked at Sunshine to see if that was ok with him. Sunshine seemed to understand and nodded.

Who says I want to go anywhere? Dermot yelled.

Listen, Dermot. What was the idea, were you going to kill all of Darkey’s boys? You must be heading somewhere. You can’t sit it out here, you’re not that powerful.

There was a long silence and in it we could hear sirens.

All right, Michael, your word. You’ll give me twenty-four hours if I let youse out? Dermot said.

My word and Sunshine’s too, I yelled.

I turned to Sunshine.

Tell him, I whispered, tell him.

My word too, Sunshine yelled, somewhat shrilly.

Ok, Dermot said.

Ok, I said.

What now? Dermot asked, uncertain.

Uhhh, we get up and you don’t shoot us, I said.

Scotchy was shaking his head at me and mouthing “Fuck no,” but he didn’t say anything. He had that much sense, at least.

Ok, that’s all right, Dermot announced.

So we get up and you don’t shoot us and we back out to the car and get away before the peelers come, ok, all slow and simple like, ok?

That’s ok. I agree, Dermot said.

Sunshine was tugging at my sleeve. I crouched beside him.

What? I asked.

Are you sure this is going to work? he asked.

I think so.

How do you know he won’t shoot us as soon as we get up? Sunshine said nervously.

He
will
shoot us as soon as we get up. That’s the whole plan, I said and took his .38.

Sunshine paled.

I looked over at Scotchy and did a little pantomime of my own now. I leveled the .38 and showed that I was going to keep it by my side and then bring it up fast to full extension and shoot. Scotchy looked at me quizzically, and then he seemed to understand. He whispered to Fergal, and Fergal shook his head before Scotchy pulled some sense into him by the hair. It was really just a copy of Scotchy’s dim-witted plan that I’d dismissed earlier as completely ridiculous, but there didn’t seem to be anything else. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been shot at; as it turned out, it wouldn’t be the last, either. I had the bottle to do it. If Scotchy had it too, we might just be ok.

Ok, Dermot, we’re getting up, no shooting now, I said, and then in a whisper to Sunshine: You better stay down.

I looked over at Scotchy. He was psyched. Say what you like about Scotchy being a dick and all, but he comes through for you when you need it.

I nodded.

He nodded.

Scotchy was ready and, shit, was that boy a fast one. Fergal you could discount, but Scotchy might do something.

The problem as I saw it was that with our handguns there was no way we could get in a decent shot at the opposition without exposing ourselves. With a machine gun you can spray at random, but a handgun needs a target. I’d figured—and Scotchy had telepathically agreed—that the boys with the heavy equipment would open up as soon as they saw us. The muzzle flash would show us where they were, and we could try to take them out with our pistols. Scotchy was a shot and I wasn’t bad myself, but the whole plan depended upon Dermot’s boys being an awkward squad and not really able to control a big gun like a Kalashnikov, which was hard enough to aim for a pro.

It was risky.

This won’t work, Sunshine said.

It’ll work, I said.

I nodded at Scotchy; he nodded back. We started getting up, and it all took place in an instant. Sunshine, of course, was right. It didn’t work.

Sure enough, we stood and the boys opened up, and they were so excited the weapons rose and tore big holes in the ceiling above our heads. I took the fire on the right-hand side and let go three rounds. Scotchy took the left and got off his whole clip. I wasn’t sure about him, but I might have hit something. It wasn’t enough, though, and both of us had to hit the deck again as the gunfire starting getting our measure.

You didn’t get them, Sunshine said.

I shook my head.

And it is true we didn’t kill them, but Fortune, however, had not completely neglected us. We had hit someone, and after a moment we could hear him yell. An argument began in Spanish.

The sirens now were even closer.

Dermot, can’t you see we’re all fucked? Completely fucked. You have to let us go. You go out the back way and we go out the front, I yelled.

Kill them, Dermot was screaming.

Fucking come on, Dermot, you fucking brainless cunt, Scotchy contributed.

I waited for the reply, but the argument was still going on, and then there was more gunfire. Scotchy leaned his gun over the top of the table and shot back blind. The shooting from their side lasted only another second, and then it stopped.

Jesus, Dermot, can’t you see we’ll all be in the shite? I yelled again.

I listened for any response, but this time there was complete silence. I looked at Scotchy and he shrugged his shoulders.

We heard the back door bang, and immediately Scotchy stood up.

They’ve fucking scarpered, he said.

It was all very fast now.

I pulled up Sunshine. Scotchy, suddenly all business, made a break for the back office to get cash and any papers relating to Darkey before the boys in blue got there. I followed, but before we got back there we saw Dermot lying sprawled on his side, bloody and quite dead on the floor. There were several big holes from the AKs.

Accident? Friendly fire? I asked him.

Scotchy shook his head, either to say he doubted it or didn’t know. I stood and looked at the body for a moment or two, paralyzed. It was the first corpse I’d seen since working for Darkey. Fergal snapped his fingers in front of my face.

Come on, he said.

To be told off by Fergal was just too much. I followed him to the back office. There was a blood trail that led to the back door. It began to fit into place. We’d hit one of the boys, the boys had wanted to go, Dermot had been against this proposition, and you don’t get into an argument with a couple of lads with Kalashnikovs. At least not at point-blank range.

The sound of sirens was close, a few streets off. There was a mini-safe in a false cupboard by the wall. Scotchy, whose talents I sometimes underrated, had already searched the drawers, found the safe, and was shoving it out.

You’re going to have to help me carry it, no time to open it, Bruce, he said.

Fuck it, I said.

Bruce, listen. Can’t leave anything for the cops. Give me a hand.

Thing must be twenty stone, I protested, but I was already putting away the .38 and crouching down.

Knees bent, keep your back straight, Scotchy was saying, calmly, as the sirens got still closer.

Do you want a hand? Fergal asked.

Get Sunshine out to the car and come back and then give us a hand, Scotchy ordered Fergal.

Fergal went off and we lifted up the safe. It was a complete bastard, and we got about ten feet before dropping it.

Fucker, come on, Scotchy yelled.

We picked it up and got it as far as the door before Fergal showed up to help.

Crowd, he said.

We carried the safe outside, and there was a bit of a crowd. About twenty, all men, some yelling in Spanish, most mute.

Get the boot open, Fergal, I yelled, and he went and opened it. Andy was revving the engine, nervous, shitting himself, no doubt. We dumped the safe and got in the car, Scotchy in front, all the rest of us in the back.

Is everybody here? Andy asked.

Drive, you fucking fuck, Scotchy yelled at him.

Some people clapped, and a man from the crowd told us to do a U-turn, ’cause the cops were coming from the other direction. He cleared the people and directed us down towards the river. I knew when the peelers did show up, he’d point them in exactly the opposite direction. Helpful bastard.

Andy was panicked and got us on the West Side Highway and then almost over onto the George Washington Bridge, but he got himself together and took us east and up into Inwood. We stopped the car and adjusted the safe so that the trunk closed properly and then Scotchy, Fergal, and Sunshine got out and took the train up in case they were looking for five people. I had to stay with Andy because I was still bleeding. Indeed, after all that, I was the only one hurt (not counting Dermot or his boy).

Andy was still close to hysterics and almost got us into three or four accidents.

You know, we drive on the right in America, I told him as he turned left into the left lane of an intersection.

Been here longer than you, he said huffily and got us on the correct side of the road.

Yeah, but I didn’t lose half my brain cells in a coma, Andy, I said.

Neither did I, Andy said, angrily.

True, half of nothing is still nothing, I said.

You’re a very negative presence, Andy said, fuming.

But it had worked. I’d distracted him, and for the rest of the trip he huffed and calmed down.

We went over the bridge onto the mainland of North America and up Broadway and out of that weird cut-off bit of Manhattan, and we were safely back at the Four Provinces before Pat even heard the first of the reports on the police radio.

My hand hurt, and it woke me. Mrs. Callaghan had bandaged it because bloody Bridget Nightingale had been off with dickhead Darkey at some poxy place in Long Island. I hadn’t seen her in a few days, and it made me wonder if the ardor was fading or whether Darkey was getting more protective.