Dublin Noir (14 page)

Fuck. Fuck.

When I search the flat, I can’t see any of the protective trinkets the others had. He was an unbeliever.

I’m not. Not now.

When I walk away from Michael’s, I see the tall figure of a bald man watching me from the trees on the far side of the park across the street. He’s massive, and bare-chested. The dark outlines of tattoos that litter his skin flicker and swirl like flames. He points at me, long and hard, then slides back into the undergrowth.

So now it’s been four days since then, since I called in sick. Since I barricaded myself into my flat, to wait for the end. In the yellow glare of the forty-watt bulb, in the air that reeks of stale sweat and fear, I’m protected by a butcher’s knife and an Iron Cross. A spray-paint swastika on every wall. A replica of one of those Nazi imperial eagles they’d carry everywhere in those films. Terry’s foil-lined box with his tableau of half a dozen toy German
WWII
soldiers.

Maybe they’ll help me. I certainly won’t step beyond their protective radius.

Because Kurt is coming to kill me. His creator. To close the circle. I’m the last one he’s looking for here. And he won’t let me go. I know it.

Soon I’ll hear his footsteps on the stairs. Slow, heavy, deliberate.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

H
eg the Peg was the end of it. Marty had known from the start which creek he was up; this was just the confirmation on the whereabouts of the paddle. If it had won, he’d have been in the clear, or as near as made any difference.

True to its name, though, the first race had finished five minutes ago and Heg the Peg was still running. So much for Bob and his cast-iron tips, straight from the stable, the whole crowd of them laying money on it like it was the only horse in the race. If there was any cast-iron, it was in Heg the Peg’s saddle.

So now Marty had two choices. First was finding some other way of raising two thousand euros by the end of the month—and frankly, that was looking about as likely as the stewards disqualifying every other horse in the last race.

Second was borrowing the money off Hennessey and paying back the interest for the rest of his life.

Three choices—he could tell McKeon to sing for the money, leave Dublin, leave Ireland, and find a monastery in Bhutan that was recruiting. Four choices—his next fare could be some crazy American on his first trip to Dublin, wanting to hire him for the whole week, money no object. You never knew with the airport.

The door opened and Marty turned off the radio.

“Wynn’s Hotel, please.” English, in a suit, overnight bag; no big tip here. The fare leaned over and handed him a piece of paper with an address on it. “Could you stop here on the way? I’ll give you a good tip.”

Marty glanced at the address. It wasn’t far out of the way.

“No problem. First time in Dublin?”

“Yes it is.”

Marty pulled away. He could probably take the guy around the houses and he wouldn’t be any the wiser. He found himself going the direct route, though; that was why he ended up in positions like this in the first place—he was too honest for his own good.

He looked in the rearview. The fare looked like a civil servant, or someone who worked in life insurance, nondescript, late thirties, the kind of guy who was born to make up the numbers and get lost in the crowd. But he’d still offer him the same old patter.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to sample some of the good stuff while you’re here?”

“Sorry?”

“Guinness.”

“Oh.” The fare smiled like it was something he wasn’t used to. “Actually, I don’t drink. Very rarely, anyway.”

Marty nodded and said, “So what brings you here then?”

“Business.” He smiled again, though he wasn’t getting any better at it. “But I’ve been wanting to come to Ireland for a long time. I’m of Irish stock.”

Jesus, who wasn’t? The day he picked up a fare at that airport who
didn’t
claim to have Irish blood, that was the day he’d win the lottery. Still, he put on his best “that’s amazing” smile and said, “Really? What’s your name?”

“Jeffers. Patrick Jeffers.”

Well sure, anyone could call their kid Patrick, but he wasn’t so sure about the Jeffers bit. Didn’t sound particularly Irish to him.

“Don’t know any Jeffers. Must be a name from out west.”

“I think it is.” End of conversation.

Jeffers kept him waiting no more than two minutes. He went into the house empty-handed and came out with a briefcase. Now
that
was suspicious, no other way of looking at it, particularly some guy who’d never been to Dublin.

By the time he got him to the Wynn’s, though, there was no doubt it was his first time here—he’d been looking out of the window like a tourist for the last ten minutes.

“That’ll be twenty-two euros.”

“Keep the change,” said Jeffers, handing him thirty.

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Jeffers. Enjoy your stay in Dublin.”

One thousand nine hundred and ninety-two to go.

Bryan was a charmer, all right, and there was no doubt about what he thought he’d be getting when they went out later. First day on the job, all the girls had told Kate not to fall for any of his talk, and here she was, second day behind the reception desk, going out with him tonight.

She was smiling at him now as he leaned across the desk. And he thought she was smiling at the silver words coming from his mouth, but it was how much he looked like Danny that was really tickling her. If it weren’t for Bryan’s blue eyes, the two of them could meet and think they were long-lost brothers.

Of course, Bryan would be the good brother. They all thought she was some naïve young slip of a thing, but twenty-four hours had been enough to tell her that Bryan was decent to the core. He was one for the girls, sure, but a good family lad at heart, working his way through college, a bright future ahead of him.

Danny, on the other hand, he was sexy and dangerous and the biggest mistake she’d made in her eighteen years. He’d come to a nasty end sooner or later and probably take a good few with him. The important thing was knowing that Danny wouldn’t stick around, and that she wouldn’t want him to.

Suddenly, Bryan pushed himself up and stepped away, making himself busy, and she saw one of the guests heading toward the desk, a businessman, boring-looking. She put on her best smile.

“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”

“I checked in a short while ago?”

He sounded like he was asking a question, and she felt like telling him straight,
Mister, if you don’t remember, I sure as hell don’t
. He certainly didn’t look familiar.

“That’s right. Is your room satisfactory, Mr… . ?”

“Jeffers.”

“Mr. Jeffries, that’s it.”

“It’s fine. But it’s Mr.
Jeffers
. Actually, it’s an Irish name.”

“It is so. From up north, I think, Donegal, that way.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” He smiled, wonky somehow, like he’d had botox and was still getting used to his face again. “How do I get to Trinity College?”

“Ah, you have to work really hard at school.” His smile stayed fixed—no sense of humor. “Just a little joke there. It’s right around the corner. Bryan here will point the way.”

Bryan had been straightening leaflets but snapped to attention now and ushered the Englishman out onto the street. He was cute, Bryan, a tight little backside on him, and he was going to get exactly what he wanted tonight, and the dates would be close enough that he’d never think to question whether the kid was his. How could he? In all probability, it was even going to look like him.

Jeffers had listened attentively as Bryan gave him directions for the short walk across to Trinity, but he seemed in no mood to move anywhere once he’d finished. So Bryan stood in silence with him, the two of them surveying the street like they were looking out over their ranch at sunset.

Then, absentmindedly, Jeffers said, “Have
you
heard of the name? Jeffers?”

“I haven’t. Sorry.” Jeffers nodded but still looked straight ahead, feet planted firmly, so Bryan tried to fill the pause by saying, “I’m a student at Trinity myself. History.”

Jeffers turned and looked at him as if he’d revealed something vital. He stared at him for a few seconds, a look intense enough to be unnerving, and Bryan couldn’t help but see that Jeffers seemed troubled. Finally, he said, “Let me tell you something: Don’t ever fall into the trap of believing you don’t have choices. You always have a choice, in everything.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded to himself and handed Bryan five euros before walking off along the street with Bryan’s thanks lost in the noise behind him. Bryan stood there looking at the five euros, wondering what might have induced such a bizarre fit of profundity.

He was close to laughing it off as he walked back into the hotel, ready to get another smile out of Kate by telling her, and then for some reason it made him think of Lucy and it was no longer funny.
You always have a choice, in everything
. Lucy—if ever a girl could have turned him into a poet.

It was strange, though—two minutes with an English businessman who didn’t know how to smile, and suddenly he felt that if he didn’t get in touch with Lucy right now, see her this very evening, he’d regret it for the rest of his life. What was that all about?

Kate was smiling at him as he walked toward the desk. She was a pretty girl, and Danny had said she was easy, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it anymore, not with her, not with any of these other girls.

“I’ve just got to make a call.” She smiled back at him, coquettishly, he thought, but girl, it wouldn’t be tonight.

“Mr. Parker, you do not have to write essays on Joyce, and when we’re discussing him, I will not mark you down for opting out of the conversation, but if you insist on writing essays and speaking your mind, please be so kind as to read something other than
Dubliners.”

The others laughed but Parker was smiling, too. She only teased him because she knew he could take it and because he was probably smarter than all the rest put together.

“You know, Dr. Burns, I have skim-read
Ulysses.”

“Would that be the jogging tour of Dublin, Mr. Parker?” That earned another laugh, but the hour was upon them and they were already putting their things together. Parker was first out the door. Clare was the last, waiting till everyone had left before shyly handing in an essay.

She started to read through it once she was on her own again, but was only a page or two in—impressive, if lacking a little in flair—when there was a knock at the door and it opened a fraction.

“Come in.”

The man who stepped into the room was about thirty-five, six foot, the average kind of build that couldn’t easily be read under a suit. Facially, he looked innocuous, which immediately put her on guard.

“Dr. Elizabeth Burns?” She nodded, smiling, and he closed the door behind him.

“Call me Liz, Mr… . ?”

She’d gestured at the seat across from her desk, and as he sat down and placed his briefcase in front of him, he said, “Patrick Jeffers. The office sent me.”

The office
. It was about twenty years since she’d heard anyone call it that.

“And what office would that be?”

He didn’t answer, just smiled awkwardly and relaxed into his seat.

He seemed to relax then, confident and in control as he said, “I’ve got a lot of admiration for people like you.” She offered him a quizzical expression. No one had ever contacted her like this, so whoever he was, she wanted to draw him out a little more. “People in 14. And no, I don’t expect you to admit it, but being buried deep the way you were for, what was it, four years, that really takes something.”

Her expression unnerved him a little, and with no wonder, for she was wearing a look of utter astonishment. “Mr. Jeffers, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. People in 14
what
?”

He nodded knowingly, uncomfortable, as if he’d spoken out of turn and made himself look unprofessional, which he had. At the same time, she was unnerved herself, wondering what this Jeffers was doing here, wondering why she’d had no word that he was coming. He knew she’d been in 14, so somebody must have sent him.

“You don’t sound Irish.” He tilted his head questioningly. “Jeffers is an Irish name, but you don’t sound Irish. Irish grandparents, perhaps?”

“Yes, I think so.” He hesitated before saying, “So you’ve heard of the name? I think you’re the first person since I arrived who recognizes it.”

“There’s actually a folk song, somewhere down in the southwest, though the exact location escapes me at the moment, about the death of a Jeffers.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“Of course, there’s also the American poet, Robinson Jeffers.”

“Yes.”

She could tell he didn’t like being sidetracked. He was here on business and wanted to get on with it. “What do you want here, Mr. Jeffers? Why has your office sent you?”

“Yes, I’m really just here to deliver a message.” He bent down and picked up his briefcase, but started to cover himself, saying, “Just some paperwork you need to read and sign.”

Amateur!
He was opening the briefcase on his lap and she had absolutely no doubt what kind of message he was about to produce from it. There were all kinds of thoughts running through her head, questions of whether she’d been double-crossed, and if so, by whom, questions of who he was working for and whether she’d have to move on, but there was something more immediate, an instinctive reflex that would never leave her.

She picked the phone up off the desk and threw it hard. It cracked him on the head with a clatter, and then a further clatter as the briefcase and the gun inside it fell onto the floor. He was dazed for only a second, but she was around the desk before he came up for air and she was pulling the telephone cord tight around his neck.

“Who sent you?”

His arms flailed, trying to strike her a body blow but unable to find her where she stood directly behind him.