Seventy Times Seven (27 page)

Danny lay on top of the faded quilted blanket, staring up at the ceiling. The air around him was warm and musty with an unpleasant undertone of stale perspiration. It was well after 2 a.m. when he’d finally checked into the roadside motel near Northport on the outskirts of Tuscaloosa. He’d collapsed onto the bed and slept soundly for nearly nine hours. He was still fully clothed.

Danny ran through his plan once more, to make sure he had covered all the angles. The only real problem he could see would be shaking off the FBI once he’d delivered the note to De Garza. Danny had told them about the meeting and insisted that he be left alone to get on with the job, but he knew they would be watching.

One other potential problem: after the meeting De Garza would almost certainly have him followed. Danny thought it over a little longer before deciding that it would be no more than a minor inconvenience.

After a long shower he sat down to an ‘all-day breakfast’ of bacon and eggs that was delivered to his room along with a large pot of steaming coffee. Danny felt better than he had in days. The swelling on his face had reduced significantly and the deep purple bruising around his right eye had given way to a lighter, less noticeable buttery yellow. He recognised himself in the mirror again.

De Garza’s reception was scheduled to start at 1 p.m. At two the boat on which it was being held was due to set sail, spending the rest of the afternoon meandering up to Holt Lock, where cars had been laid on to take his guests home. Danny looked at his watch. It was now 12.15: time to go.

Danny scanned the room to make sure he had all his belongings, then pulled the door closed behind him. He walked in the shade of the narrow wooded veranda, then crossed the parking lot to a low-rise building housing the small reception area of the motel.

The old guy behind the upright desk nodded as Danny pushed through the glass door. ‘Afternoon! You sleep okay?’

‘Grand, thank you,’ replied Danny, pulling a thick wad of notes from his jeans. ‘How much do I owe for the breakfast?’

‘Be an extra five dollars if that’s okay.’

Danny handed over a twenty-dollar bill. ‘Keep the change. That’s the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten.’

‘Thank you, nice of you to show your appreciation,’ said the old guy, lifting up an old wooden cash tray and sliding the twenty underneath. ‘Pigs are local. Get them from my friend Farmer Lee: he does the eggs too. Don’t go in for all that processed shit you get in the supermarkets.’

‘Do you grow the coffee too?’ asked Danny.

The old guy smiled. ‘Nope‚ but I roasts and grinds it myself.’

‘You don’t have a bit of paper and a pen I could borrow?’ asked Danny.

‘Sure,’ replied the old guy. ‘You want Farmer Lee’s number? You won’t get him in. Always out eating in restaurants trying to convince them to take his produce. Calls it work!’

‘No, I need to write a note.’

The old guy tore a leaf from the back of the check-in ledger and handed it to Danny along with a pen that had the name of the motel embossed along its side.

Danny wrote one word on the piece of lined paper and handed back the pen.

‘You done already?’ asked the old guy. ‘It must’ve been an important word for you to need to write it down.’

‘It’s an address to remind someone where to meet me.’

‘And they’ll know where they’re going just from one word?’ asked the old guy.

Danny folded the piece of paper four times and put it in his back pocket.

‘Sure they’ll know,’ he said.

Fifteen minutes later Danny’s black Cadillac pulled off County Road 88 and freewheeled slowly for a few hundred yards down an easy incline to the end of Greensboro Avenue. The road led to a wide, open parking lot that was situated on the south shore of the Black Warrior River. The lot was almost full, and a number of onlookers and local press had gathered in the small quayside area to its left, where the
Bama Belle
steamboat was moored.

Danny drove round until he spotted an empty space, then reversed the Cadillac in and switched off the engine.

The grounds surrounding the quay were dry and featureless and provided little cover: nowhere for the FBI to hide, at least. A few bare trees and scrawny laurel bushes were all that separated the car park from the river. Acting as a backdrop to the scorched, arid landscape was a bridge: the Lurleen B. Wallace Boulevard. The structure was a deep gash of concrete that spanned the Black Warrior River, and spoiled the clear blue sky beyond it.

Danny sat for a moment taking in the scene. Two patrol cars were parked near the entrance to the freeway he had just turned off, and there were a few uniformed officers watching over the small crowd. A steady stream of cars and taxis made their way down Greensboro Avenue and dropped their passengers close to the boat.

Five musicians wearing checked shirts with bow ties and dark, ill-fitting suits stood just to the left of the gangplank leading on to the boat. They played a mixture of Appalachian and bluegrass classics; all their faces showed little or no emotion, in sharp contrast to the sliding tones and up-tempo beat of the music. The banjo player picked out the melody of ‘Omie Wise’ accompanied by a fretted dulcimer, a mouth bow and two fiddlers. The music reminded Danny of the ceilidhs he’d attended with Sean and his mum and dad, when he was a kid growing up in Newry. Even if you didn’t like the music it was impossible to stop some part of your body from joining in with the rhythm.

At a table on the quayside, guests registered their names and were handed badges to wear on their lapels to identify themselves. Danny counted four security guards: two at the head of the gangplank and two standing on the boat scanning the passengers as they joined the rabble on board. Just behind them was a small, dark-haired guy shaking people’s hands and welcoming them with a disingenuous smile. This – thought Danny – must be De Garza.

It was only when he got out of the car and looked behind him that Danny spotted the dull brown van sitting in a clearing a few hundred yards further along the river bank. He was pretty certain Jeff Kneller and Joe Evelyn would be in there. It crossed his mind to give them a wave, but he decided against it.

Danny checked the time. Five minutes to go before the boat was due to leave. He made his way through the parked cars, past the trees and down towards the crowd and security guards standing on the shore.

‘You have to register over at the desk, sir,’ said a guy who looked like a professional wrestler, wearing dark sunglasses and no expression on his face.

‘I’m not here for the cruise,’ replied Danny. ‘I have a message for Mr De Garza. He’s expecting me. Would you let him know I’m here?’

‘What’s the name?’ asked the guy.

‘Danny McGuire.’

The guy spoke into the mouthpiece of the headset he was wearing and waited for a reply. Over his shoulder Danny could see De Garza nodding and looking across. The message came back that he was allowed to go on board.

De Garza greeted him like an old friend. ‘Mr McGuire, how nice to meet you at last.’

As they shook hands Danny pressed the folded piece of paper from the motel into De Garza’s palm. He didn’t acknowledge it, but quickly placed his hand inside his jacket pocket. ‘Are you joining us for our little trip upriver?’

‘Unfortunately I have a few things I need to take care of before I head home,’ said Danny.

‘Sure!’ replied De Garza. ‘Well, best not hang around: boat’s just about to leave.’

The meeting was over.

‘Fair enough,’ said Danny.

As he turned to go De Garza caught him by the arm and pulled him back. ‘I forgot to say: I had a conversation with one of my friends at 18th Street; you know it? Where the FBI got their place,’ continued De Garza. ‘He seemed to think there had been no authorisation for anyone to wear a wire: he’d never even heard of you – can you fucking believe that? The guy’s a commander, so I’m sure he’s got his facts straight.’

Danny realised he may have underestimated De Garza. ‘They’re trying to fly this one in under the radar,’ he replied calmly: repeating what Kneller had told him earlier. ‘So I’m not surprised no one else knows.’

‘I discussed the situation with a few of my business associates and we all agreed that we were willing to take the risk. We also agreed that my partner should come with you just now and show you the merchandise you are interested in buying. At the same time you can prove to him that you have the necessary funds: makes things easier. It means when we meet later, we can simply do an exchange.’

This was not what Danny had in mind. He was expecting to be followed, but taking one of De Garza’s men with him now would screw the whole thing up.

De Garza was talking again. ‘The alternative is: we ram the big “fuck-off tablet” down your throat and pray you don’t choke to death. That was my preferred option, but I was persuaded otherwise. ’

De Garza’s face betrayed no emotion. Either he didn’t believe Danny was wearing a wire, or he simply didn’t care.

‘If that’s how you want to play it, Mr De Garza, that’s fine,’ replied Danny. ‘The commander probably told you about the unmarked observation vehicle watching everything that’s going on: it’s the brown van you can see over my shoulder. Provided you’re happy to have
them
tag along,’ continued Danny, ‘I’m happy for your man to come for the ride.’

De Garza looked along the shoreline to where Danny had indicated and saw the van parked in the clearing. There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, ‘You make my shit itch, Mr McGuire. My head is telling me you’re going to fuck things up for me, but in my heart I’m a gambler . . . so let’s see how this one plays out.’

Jeff Kneller and Joe Evelyn were sitting in the back of the observation truck looking at black-and-white screens, trying to make sense of what they were watching. Danny McGuire had just finished a brief conversation with De Garza and was now walking back across the gangplank, accompanied by one of De Garza’s men.

‘Jesus, is that Sly Rivera trailing behind him?’ exclaimed Joe Evelyn.

‘Yeah!’ replied Kneller.

‘You think McGuire’s aware what an asshole Rivera is?’

‘Well, we’re not in any position to warn him if he doesn’t,’ replied Kneller.

‘How we supposed to prove anything when we can’t hear a goddamn word they’re saying to each other. They could be passing on baking tips, for all we know. This is not evidence, this is bullshit.’

‘I get the feeling we’re not going to need to hear anything,’ replied Kneller.

Joe Evelyn picked up a dull grey handset and pressed it to his mouth.

‘Fat-boy, you ready to go?’

The line crackled into life. ‘All set!’

‘Denny, you take the lead and let Fat-boy trail. Get ready to move out.’

Kneller tapped Joe on the elbow and pointed at one of the screens.

‘Look.’

Just as Sly Rivera and Danny reached the black Cadillac a taxi drew alongside them. Kneller and Evelyn watched a woman get out of the cab and join the two men by the car. There was a brief exchange between them, then Danny turned and pointed straight at the van.

‘Jesus shit! What the fuck is he playing at?’ exclaimed Joe Evelyn. ‘That’s Marie Bain,’ he continued. ‘What the hell is going on here? . . . Shit! . . . Why did we agree to this? We’re sitting here like a couple of old men watching a strip-show. Let’s get on the stage and start fucking someone. Aiding and abetting, attempting to pervert the course of justice, forgery, illegal entry to the USA, conspiracy to murder, associating with a known criminal: let’s round the lot of them up and bust their asses. We’ve got enough to put all three of them away for the rest of their lives.’

‘She’s walking towards us,’ said Kneller.

‘You mind if I sit in the back?’ asked Sly as he climbed into the car.

‘You can sit on the fucking roof if you like, makes no difference to me,’ replied Danny.

‘Now now, Paleface, what you getting all testy about?’ said Sly as he slid in behind the driver’s seat. ‘We going to be together for a few hours, then we going our separate ways, won’t see each other ever again: make things a lot more pleasant if we’s friends for that short time,’ he continued. ‘Now, what you got in mind: you want to see what you is buying, or we going to have a look at your finances first? This beautiful little Glock 17 I got pointing at your spine says we ought to go to where the money’s at: make sure it’s all there. Got a suppressor fitted so only thing those FBI men are going to see is your body jumping about, if I decide to start shooting. They ain’t going to be able to hear the shots. You ready to go for a ride?’

‘Sure,’ replied Danny.

As the Cadillac pulled out of its parking space Danny checked his rear-view mirror and saw Marie disappearing into the back of the brown observation van. He also saw a light-grey Oldsmobile on the other side of the car park swing out of its space and fall in behind. Sly caught Danny looking in the mirror and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about the Oldsmobile, Paleface, that there is what I call my insurance man. Goes by the name of Bo-Bo. He’s going to trundle along behind us and make sure I’m okay. Bo-Bo ain’t too bright, but he’s a good shot. Conversation ain’t his thing. More a shooter than a rapper.’

By the time Danny had reached the top of the road another two cars had joined the convoy. This time he was sure the cars belonged to the FBI.

Danny waited at the intersection for a gap in the traffic then drove across the central reservation and swung left onto Jack Warner Freeway. He checked his mirror again. There were definitely three cars following him: none of them making any real effort to conceal the fact.

‘Have you and Bo-Bo got any ideas what to do about the Federal agents that are on our arse?’

‘Don’t you worry about them, Paleface. Soon as we is a little bit further up the road I’m going to give you some directions. Take you up a few dark Tuscaloosan alleyways. You do like I tell you and we’ll be fine. Fed-free and back on route to the money in no time.’