Seventy Times Seven (25 page)

‘That’s nice you come all the way from Ireland to visit your brother,’ said Ardel.

‘I didn’t come to visit him, I came to kill him,’ replied Danny.

Ardel looked across at him and raised his eyebrows. ‘In that case I withdraw my previous statement.’

Hud’s eyes almost met in the middle as he focused on the lit end of the expertly rolled three-skinner flaring brightly between his fingers. He held his breath momentarily to let the tetrahydrocannabinol take effect, then let out a long satisfied moan as he exhaled. ‘Forget your troubles, c’mon, get happy,’ he said with a grin before offering the joint across the table to Danny. ‘Man, this greenery don’t give you a hit‚ it clubs you to death. You want some?’

Danny shook his head: the last thing he needed right now was to take a trip to la-la land. There were too many angles to cover, too much to think about before he could make his next move. He needed to stay sharp.

‘Man, you want to try this. It won’t solve your problems,’ continued Hud, ‘but you get to go on vacation and leave them to fend for themselves for a while. Lock em in the fridge and let them cool down while you’re gone. Make you come at it from a different angle. You sittin there with your face all screwed up thinking way too much about the situation you is in. You is clouding your mind with all the bad things that
could
maybe happen rather than how you gonna make things turn the right way.’

Danny was only half listening, but a lot of what Hud said was true. He had been focusing too much on what could go wrong: not trusting his instincts. There was nothing he could do to help Angela or Niamh until he was back in Northern Ireland, and the only way to get back was to concentrate on what was happening here and now. With any luck Sean would be boarding a plane in the next hour or so using Danny’s false passport. What Danny needed to ensure was that he could get on a plane as soon as possible too.

Hud offered the wrap to Marie. ‘You?’

‘I’m okay with this, thanks,’ replied Marie, holding up a glass of water. Marie felt as though she’d been drinking non-stop over the past few days and despite the temptation had decided to take a break. If she was going to smoke a joint she might as well have some alcohol and she didn’t want to do either. ‘One day I’ll have a go, but not today,’ she continued.

‘You never had a smoke before, Marie?’ asked Ardel with his eyebrows raised.

‘No! White wine and whiskey sours is about as dangerous as I get. Had a husband who smoked it all through college: came out dumber than he went in. Kinda put me off.’

‘That’s why me and Hud didn’t go to college: we couldn’t afford to get any dumber,’ said Ardel, nodding his head like he was agreeing with her. ‘When all this shit is past,’ he continued, ‘and we’s seeing you in a less formal capacity, Hud an me will set you up with something nice and mellow . . . Why you smiling? We friends now, and once you are in the Ardel and Hud club you get all the benefits of being a member. Ain’t no rules cept you got to be nice to us and in return we gonna look after you. Make sure no harm comes your way. Set you up with a few nice smokes: make them trips you won’t want to end. You’ll come out the other side like one of those Senseis from Japan or wherever: you’ll come out a wiser chick than you went in. The beauty of this stuff, Marie, you can journey far and wide and never leave your favourite armchair, and cause you is a friend of Mr O’Hanlon-McGuire you get to travel for free.’

Marie was touched by Ardel’s little speech. He might be stoned, but he looked like he meant it.

‘Sounds good,’ she replied.

They were seated round a table in the small back room of a bar on the outskirts of Tuscaloosa, just south of the Black Warrior River. ‘The Moonshine War’ belonged to a friend of Bulldog Jo’s by the name of Jesse Ezekiel. She was a Mormon from Salt Lake City who’d given up on her faith. Once she’d tasted her first beer she turned her back on God and started enjoying herself, like she was trying to make up for what she called ‘the lost years’. She drank anything and everything, turned to prostitution, and made enough money to buy herself a bar. She soon realised that if she was going to make a success of the venture she would have to quit drinking. Fifteen years later the Moonshine War was turning over enough to pay her bills, and let her travel to Europe once a year, where she would stay for a month.

It wasn’t that Jesse didn’t like the law: she just didn’t have time for it. She had dirt on nearly all the city officials, including the Mayor of Tuscaloosa: over the years she’d slept with most of them. As long as she kept her nose clean she was left pretty much to her own devices. She got a permit and drinks licence every year without any inspections. Most of her clientele were ex-cons or hookers or dopeheads, but she still preferred them to the Mormon Elders. Even the most troubled of her patrons were more honest than anyone she’d ever met at church.

Jesse welcomed Ardel, Hud, Danny and Marie without asking any awkward questions. Told them they could go through the back for their meeting: even offered them a room upstairs if any of them needed somewhere to crash for a few days.

The room they were sitting in was directly behind the bar: the two areas connected by a doorway that had a plastic curtain of different-coloured strands hanging instead of a door. In the far corner there was a Western-style swing door leading down to the cellar and next to it a small rectangular window that was too high to see out of, and even on the brightest days admitted no daylight. Dark wood strip panels covered the lower half of the walls and a bare light bulb dangled precariously from a thin piece of flex above the centre of the table, casting a faint forty-watt glow over the shiny painted surface of the upper part of the wall. The light – secured by a small brass hook screwed into the plaster ceiling – swung gently back and forth every time someone entered or exited the bar next door. It gave the uneasy sensation of being on a ship floating in a mild swell.

‘You sure this is the best place to be?’ asked Danny. ‘I don’t know my way around, but we seem to be a bit too close to the action here.’ Danny had questioned the wisdom of staying in Tuscaloosa, but Ardel and Hud had persuaded him that this would be the last place the cops would look. Even though he wasn’t convinced, Danny had no option – he needed their help.

‘Mr O’s bro, Jesse is sound. She been in all sorts of trouble herself, so she knows how to keep a clamp on it. Most of the cops in this city slept with most of the “ladies” that drink in this bar, and most of them tell Jesse most everything that’s goin on. If Jesse says it’s all right to be here then it’s all right. She ain’t just got her finger on the pulse, man, she’s the goddamn beating heart. Ain’t nowhere safer in Alabama. We take a stretch towards a state line, they grab us easy. That’s where they gonna be focusing their attention. We safer here than if we was the Federal Reserve and had the National Guard watchin our ass.’

Ardel scraped the overloaded ashtray towards him and flicked a column of ash onto it, before turning back to Danny like he was ready to talk business now. ‘Only problem we got, Mr O’s bro, is the time it’s going to take to get you a new passport. These guys I been telling you about are the best there is. The quality of the workmanship is outstanding, but outstanding can’t be rushed.’

‘How long did they say?’ asked Danny.

‘Quickest they can do is two days,’ answered Ardel. ‘They aware it’s an emergency and they gonna work on it all the hours available, but if you want something that’s gonna get you past immigration that’s as quick as it’s gonna be. They asked if there was anyone special you wanted to be – you know, like a particular name you wanted on the passport, but I said you wasn’t too fussed so long as they did it quick and accurate, and they didn’t give you a black dude’s name or something dumb like that . . . You don’t want to show up at the airport trying to pass yourself off as Leroy Smith, would that be right?’

Danny nodded.

‘In the meantime‚’ continued Ardel, ‘you welcome to hang out with us for the next forty-eight hours, but we’s heading off on vacation till the party across the street from our shack has died down. We never seen so many cops in the one area at the same time. Didn’t know there was that many cops in the whole of Alabama. Luckily the apartment in Cottondale ain’t the only property we operate our business from, otherwise we’d have to close down, we losing so much revenue, cause ain’t no one visiting. Made us realise we was the only draw for miles around . . . should be on the tourist trail or something . . . you know, like on one of those maps tells you where the stars live or the best places to visit. We even thought about accompanying you back to Ireland: sit on the plane behind you like we don’t know each other, but watchin out for your ass at the same time. We both carrying a few convictions, though, and the last thing we want to do is fuck up your chances of getting home. The cops got a big caravan parked round in the alley runs up the back of our building: looks like a spaceship. Gonna ask them to leave it behind so we can include it as part of a sightseeing trip for the tourists.’

Hud, who had been sitting quietly, started to laugh as Ardel tried to do an imitation of a bus-tour operator making an announcement.

‘“Over on our right, ladies and gentlemen, is the building where notorious criminal Vincent Lee Croll found himself on the wrong end of an M10 semi-automatic as he practised his sword-swallowing routine.” It’s just what this area needs, man, is the tourist buck. The word is they only just moved his body down to the morgue.’

Hud was looking across the table at Danny. ‘You got first-hand experience what he smelled like before he got punctured, you imagine how bad he smelling now?’

Danny looked up as the light bulb swayed from side to side.

Jesse suddenly pushed her way through the multi-coloured plastic curtain separating the small back room from the bar.

‘What’s up, Ardel?’

Ardel eased himself out from behind the table and gave Jesse a squeeze.

‘What’s up, Jesse?’ replied Ardel. ‘Man, you still looking good, girl. If we was alone I’d be picking you out of the line and asking you to come upstairs; we get some rhythm going.’

Jesse smiled. ‘You so full of shit, Ardel.’

‘I full of other stuff too, Jesse, needs some relief, you know what I’m saying . . . you okay?’

‘Everything’s cool,’ replied Jesse. ‘Got Bulldog on the phone says there’s two FBI officers sitting at her bar talking about your man there.’ Jesse nodded in Danny’s direction. ‘You want to come out and talk to her?’ she asked Ardel.

‘I’ll go,’ said Danny, getting up from his chair.

‘Got some nice cold beer from a little microbrewery, gets its water direct from the Appalachian Mountains. Nice and refreshing. You want me to bring in a pitcher?’ asked Jesse.

Marie was the first to answer. ‘Yes please . . . and if you could throw in a sour for good measure that would be great. I’ve been sober for over two hours now. I think that’s long enough.’

‘Sure‚ babe,’ replied Jesse. ‘Anyone want anything else?’

‘How d’you stop that goddamn light bulb swaying, Jesse? It’s making me feel seasick,’ said Ardel.

Jeff Kneller and his partner Joe Evelyn stood on the balcony of Finn O’Hanlon’s apartment with their backs against the railings, looking into the scene of devastation. The walls were covered in ragged craters where the bullets had ruptured the plasterwork and there was glass and debris covering most of the floor. A CSI officer was standing in the kitchen area talking to two guys from the forensic team who were laughing about something. Vincent Lee Croll’s remains had been bagged and removed from the scene‚ leaving behind a large area of dried blood over by the front door.

‘You think there’s a crime been committed here, Mr Evelyn?’ asked Kneller, working the sarcasm.

‘Several by the looks of it,’ answered Evelyn.

‘You figure it’s the same guy that killed Conrado, did this?’ asked Kneller.

‘Probably.’ Evelyn shrugged.

‘I’d like to shake his hand rather than lock him up,’ continued Kneller. ‘The way I see it, he’s done us a favour.’

Joe Evelyn nodded his agreement.

‘Did you manage to use the phone?’ asked Kneller.

‘Got hit by a couple of rounds from an M10. Looks like it’s been in an automobile accident. The microphone’s good as new, but the earphone bit is blown to shit: you can talk, but you can’t listen. Only person you’d want to try calling on it would be your wife.’

‘You feel like a beer?’ asked Kneller wearily, leaning his elbows on the railings and making a mental note of the number of police vehicles parked in the street below.

‘To start with, then maybe something a bit stronger,’ replied Evelyn.

‘How many police officers can you see in here?’

Evelyn turned to look at him. ‘None‚ why?’

‘There are six squad cars parked down there and I can’t see one goddamn officer – what the hell they all doin? Let’s head across to that bar on the corner and see if
they
got a phone we could use,’ said Kneller.

The two FBI officers made their way carefully through the lounge, past the large patch of dried blood and out into the hallway. They walked down the dark communal stairs in silence, and held their breath as they headed through the stench of decay to the main entrance. Six uniformed officers were standing just inside the doorway chatting and having a smoke. They smiled and nodded as Kneller and Evelyn walked past. ‘Careful you boys don’t pop a hernia, all the strain you putting into investigating this crime.’ Kneller couldn’t help himself. ‘The residents of Cottondale can sleep easy tonight knowing you boys are out there keeping them safe. Great job, keep it up,’ he said, knowing he was being an ass.

‘We’re off duty, asshole,’ replied one of the cops, just as Kneller and Evelyn reached the front door. Kneller smiled at Joe Evelyn and pressed the buzzer to release the door catch. ‘You hear that, Joe? Did he just say they were off-duty assholes?’

Kneller didn’t catch the reply, but the uniforms started laughing behind his back.

Outside on the street Joe Evelyn took several deep breaths to fill his lungs with clean air. ‘The smell in there is so bad I feel like I should shower or something,’ he said as they crossed the street towards Bulldog Jo’s.

Kneller settled himself on a stool at the bar and ordered two Skeeter Bites while Evelyn used the phone on the wall to check in with 18th Street North: the FBI’s headquarters in Birmingham, Alabama.

He was only gone a few minutes before he was back pulling up a chair alongside Kneller. ‘We going to drive back up to Birmingham or find somewhere to stay?’

‘Looks like this is turning out to be a big story,’ answered Kneller, stifling a yawn. ‘Let’s find somewhere to camp for a few nights, I’d fall asleep if I was to get behind the wheel now,’ he continued. ‘What’s the scoop from 18th Street?

Joe Evelyn picked up the beer bottle from the bar and studied the label. ‘Skeeter the only thing they got?’

Kneller had worked with Joe Evelyn for so long he could read him in Braille. He could tell things from the tone of Evelyn’s voice or the expression on his face. ‘C’mon, you’ve got that dumb look you get when you’re trying to play it cool, but you got something you can’t wait to blurt. What’d they say?’

Joe Evelyn made a quick scan of the bar before answering. Aside from a few late night drinkers and a couple of uniforms, the room was quiet. Bulldog Jo was standing at the other end of the bar reading a newspaper and didn’t appear to be paying them any attention.

‘Interesting development,’ said Evelyn. ‘The guy who lives, or lived, across the street – O’Hanlon – doesn’t show up on any of our records. Got no National Security number, no papers whatsoever. Turns out he is a goddamn IRA terrorist on the run.’

‘On the run from what?’ asked Kneller.

‘Who fucking cares? Real name’s Sean McGuire. But, that’s not the good bit – His brother arrived from Northern Ireland with a sack full of cash to try and buy some arms from your friend and mine . . . ’

‘ . . . De Garza?’ said Kneller, finishing Joe Evelyn’s sentence for him. Kneller looked surprised.

Joe Evelyn nodded his head. ‘Hernando De-goddamn-Garza! Can you believe that? But wait till you hear this . . . Danny McGuire – the brother – is also an assassin for the IRA with a contract to kill Finn O’Hanlon. Got drafted in after Conrado and Lee Croll screwed up the hit.’

‘Danny McGuire has a contract to kill Finn O’Hanlon who is really Sean McGuire, who is really Danny McGuire’s brother.
And
he’s supposed to be doing a deal with De Garza? Jesus!’ exclaimed Kneller. ‘I’m going to find a house and move the family down here: we ain’t going anywhere for a while. Looks like this is the big one,’ he continued as he finished off his beer and placed the empty back on the counter: thinking now. ‘Then again, it could be one of those gigs where everyone gets to screw the bride but the husband. You know what I’m saying? The kind of situation that starts off fucked up and no matter what you do or say, it stays that way. Anything else on the brother?’

‘Danny McGuire is travelling on a passport under the name of “Leonard”. Entered via Logan International in Boston about five days ago and made his way down from there,’ replied Evelyn.

‘To kill his own brother! What the fuck is that all about?’

‘ . . . and buy some heavy-duty weaponry from De Garza for his friends back home in Ireland.’

‘How come we know all this if we haven’t got a rap sheet on O’Hanlon? Why we suddenly so well informed?’ asked Kneller.

Joe Evelyn was about to answer when he noticed Bulldog Jo hovering near the till directly opposite where they were sitting.

‘You boys thirsty enough to try another?’ she said, trying to cover.

‘Sure,’ replied Kneller. ‘Same again, and a pack of smokes, don’t care what brand.’ He let it hang for a while before continuing, ‘You got anywhere we can sit and have a private conversation?’

Bulldog Jo gave him a look that said ‘Stop being an ass’. ‘If you don’t want anyone listening in then you can take your beers and drink them on the sidewalk so long as the po-lice don’t see you, else they bust your ass for vagrancy . . . if that’s no good then there’s another bar, bout half-an-hour’s drive from here, but chances are it’ll be closed by the time you get there. Failing all that, you can sit right where you are and keep your goddamn voices down . . . is up to you.’

Jo put the beers down in front of the two men and turned to get the cigarettes from the display stand behind her.

‘Maybe we’ll ask the cops that bust us for vagrancy to step inside and check you got all the right permits. Could be a nightmare trying to run a bar if your licence got pulled over something stupid.’ Evelyn said, talking to Jo’s back.

Jo turned and placed the cigarettes down on the bar then smiled at the two FBI agents. ‘You got maggots on your balls, or something? I didn’t shoot no one. You want to have a beer and a smoke it’s fine. You don’t want anyone listening in, that’s fine too . . . Don’t have to bust my tits just cause I got ears. I’ll be over there if you need anything else. Make sure you holler loud cause I’s suddenly gone deaf.’

When Bulldog Jo had moved to the far end of the bar Joe Evelyn finished what he was going to say. ‘We are “so well informed” because you got a call. Someone called 18th Street and left you a message. They mentioned the hit in McHales, they mentioned the Lakeshore Hotel, they mentioned O’Hanlon’s flat in Cottondale: only thing they didn’t mention was who they were, but they knew what they were talking about. Spoke with a thick Irish accent: had to repeat themselves a few times.’

Kneller picked up Joe Evelyn’s pack of cigarettes from the bar. ‘You mind if I have one of these?’

‘I ain’t your doctor,’ replied Evelyn.

‘So what do we call O’Hanlon now?’ said Kneller with a scowl. ‘We got to call him Sean McGuire? I kinda got used to calling him Finn O’Hanlon. Be weird to call him something else.’

Bulldog Jo leant across, picked the phone up from the bar and dialled. After about thirty seconds she said, ‘Jesse, it’s me. Let me speak to one of them?’

Eventually Danny came on the line.

‘You just got a name-check, boy,’ said Bulldog, whispering under her breath. ‘They mentioned Finn and you and the fact you was travelling under an assumed name. Even said it: “Mr Leonard”. They said you came in at Boston and you got some business with Hernando De Garza. These guys seem to know a whole load of shit.’

Danny didn’t like what he was hearing. He had to get back to Ireland and he had to make sure Sean got back too. If the FBI knew about the false name on the passport then the chances were high that Sean would be stopped before he got anywhere near a plane. He thanked Jo and replaced the receiver.

The smiles disappeared from Ardel and Hud’s faces when Danny told them what Jo had said; Marie was staring anxiously at Danny.

Hud was the first to speak. ‘Sounds to me like there’s someone up a ladder with their ass hanging over your head, Mr O’s bro. You getting shit on,’ he said. ‘I ain’t being paranoid, but I hope you don’t think it’s any of our skinny black asses talked to the FBI. You in the Ardel and Hud club too and that means we take a vow of silence over anything that happens to be your business. We don’t know even half that shit anyways.’

‘Don’t worry, I know that information didn’t come from you,’ replied Danny, pulling the Walther PPK from behind his jacket and placing it on the table in front of him. ‘Where are you going to be in forty-eight hours? Where can I pick up the passport?’

‘If it’s okay with Jesse we was thinking of dropping it off here,’ replied Hud. Jesse shrugged her shoulders. ‘Don’t bother me none,’ she said.

‘That’s fine,’ continued Danny. ‘Marie, if you don’t mind, would you let Jesse look after you till then? After that I’m going to – hopefully – make sure you can go back home and forget all this ever happened.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Marie.

‘Got a few things to sort out,’ replied Danny. ‘You guys fit to drive?’ he asked Ardel and Hud.

‘We fit to fly, man,’ answered Hud. ‘Don’t know if we’s fit to drive. Why don’t you take the wheel and we’ll give you directions. You need some back-up?’

‘Maybe,’ answered Danny as he handed his Walther over to Marie. ‘Would you mind holding on to this for me till we get back?’

‘Sure. Why not.’ Marie took the gun and put it in her purse.

‘You okay, Mr O’s bro?’ asked Ardel. ‘You acting all distracted, like you got a plan coming together in your head.’

‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ answered Danny. ‘You coming?’

Kneller watched the guy with the beat-up face push through the entrance door and walk towards him. Something about his manner – the way he carried himself, or the look in his eyes – made Kneller instinctively reach inside his jacket and rest his hand on the safety clip looped over his revolver.

The guy pulled up a chair and sat between him and Joe Evelyn like he was late for the meeting. ‘Can I help you, mister?’ Kneller said, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the guy’s eyes.

‘I’m hoping we can help each other. My name is Danny McGuire. I arrived at Boston International on Saturday travelling on a passport in the name of Leonard with a few jobs to do, but due to some unexpected turns of events I’ve had to change my plans.’

‘Why are you telling us things we already know? You trying to prove you been listening in to our conversation?’ Kneller threw a glance over at Bulldog Jo then asked, ‘You carrying any form of weaponry, Danny?’

‘No.’

‘Mind if I check?’

Danny held his arms out to the side and said, ‘Feel free.’

Kneller stayed in his seat.

‘Aside from throwing you in cuffs and sticking you in jail for the next forty years, you mind me asking what other business you got here, Mr McGuire?’ asked Joe Evelyn.

Danny didn’t answer. He’d already worked out that Kneller was the one in charge so he would direct the conversation towards him. Kneller had the touch: calling him by his first name like they were already friends. Asking if he minded being searched – as though it mattered to him what Danny thought – then not bothering to search him, letting Danny know he was already prepared to take him at his word. Kneller knew how to play the game.

Jeff Kneller picked the pack of cigarettes off the bar and offered one to Danny.

‘Don’t smoke, thanks,’ said Danny.

Kneller took his time lighting his cigarette before continuing. ‘My name is Jeff Kneller and this is Special Agent Joe Evelyn. Now, I know we’ve only just met, Danny, but already you strike me as the sort of person who doesn’t get into a situation without a way of getting out . . . would that be correct?’

Danny nodded. Ardel and Hud were parked in the alley that ran along the back of the building. If everything was going well Danny would go to the restroom and flick the lights on and off. If he didn’t do that within ten minutes of him leaving the car they were to make their way round to the front and get ready to start shooting.

‘Well, assuming you wouldn’t have walked in here tonight if you didn’t think you could walk right out again,’ continued Kneller, ‘we’d be happy to hear what you’ve got to say.’