The Killer II (3 page)

Liam was pretty sure the look of astonishment on his face had convinced Turner that he had guessed correctly, though the man didn’t falter as he continued.
‘It’s the methods I object to, and the Americans have never really seen that side of it you see.
Not for themselves.
Not first hand.
I’m sure we don’t help matters, of course.
We trivialise it by calling it the ‘Troubles’ when actually it’s terrorism pure and simple.
Most Irish Americans truly believe they are sending money to help the families back home, and I’d guess some of it does exactly that, but not all of it.
Only the experience of terrorism can make you truly grasp the horror of it.
Not that I’m wishing it on them, you understand.
It’s just that without an
attack in their own back yard, how can they know?’

‘Like somebody blowing up the White
H
ouse,’ Liam had wondered aloud.

‘Dear boy, no.
Oh goodness me.’
Turner had physically recoiled at the words.
‘Don’t go getting ideas like that in your head.
Stupid of me to talk politics.
Never again, I promise you.’

‘Don’t worry,
Mr.
Turner.
I don’t really get the politics anyway and I’m sure the Americans can look after their own soil.’

‘Soil,’ Turner had mused, his voice trailing off as he muttered to himself.
‘Seems to be an American thing.
You never hear of Icelandic soil or Australian soil.
Strange.
I suppose we’ll start calling it British soil soon.
Ah, well.’

The wheels of the Concorde touched the tarmac as Liam recalled that last snippet of Turner wisdom.
Here he was on that very soil armed with a few photos and little else.
The one of Ryan McKee was clear and Turner was confident of the information he’d given pertaining to the
Sunbrite
Bar
.
McKee was known to frequent it and this information had come from several sources, so that was where his quest should begin.
The photo of Jimmy Mal was blurred and the information far less helpful.
He was looking for an overweight white man in New York.
Great.

‘One would assume
Mr.
McKee will know where to find him,’ Turner had suggested.

‘One hopes one is right,’ thought Liam.

He rose from his seat and the pretty stewardess from earlier smiled at him. ‘Is everything OK
Mr.
O’Neil?’ she asked sweetly.
‘You seem to have been lost in thought for the whole journey.’

‘Yes, yes everything’s OK.
I was just daydreaming, that’s all.’

‘Well I hope to see you again,’ she offered.

‘I’m sure you will,’ he replied with a smile.
‘One hopes for that too,’ he added under his breath before following Mick
Jagger
off the plane.
It was less then three and a half hours since they had left London and now here he was, alone, facing the imposing Manhattan skyline.

3

America

‘Welcome to The United States of America’ offered the red, white and blue banner on the wall.
‘Hope that welcome extends to me,’ thought Liam as he stood in line and nervously fingered his passport.
To him the document was an obvious forgery.
It was a good
one,
he had to admit, but a forgery nonetheless.
When his turn came to move forward to the Immigration official he donned his best relaxed face and offered a pleasant ‘Hello mate.
How’re you
doin
’ today?’ in his strongest Belfast accent.

The officer silently nodded as he took the passport and studied it for the briefest of moments before glancing back to Liam. ‘How long will you be staying in the States?’ he enquired in a monotone voice.

‘Oh, about a week I reckon,’ replied Liam, a grin fixed on his face as he noted the badge on the man’s shirt.
Gerald Doherty, it read.
A good old Irish name.

‘A week,’
Mr.
Doherty repeated, his voice maintaining the even tone that belied his thoughts.
He’d seen this before and figured this guy was another one of the Irish boys hiding out from the British.
You’ll be here for a lot more than a week, he considered, but his voice remained even as he offered a slow, ‘O-K.
Well, you have a nice stay
Mr.
O’Neil.
It’s a good safe country.’

‘Thank you
Mr.
Doherty,’ Liam smiled as he retrieved his stamped passport and walked away.
‘Jesus,’ he thought.
‘With Paddies in control any Irishman would be safe in the U.S., no matter what they’d done - or who they’d killed.’

Outside the terminal he jumped into the first available taxi. ‘Where to buddy?’ asked the smiling driver as he leaned over the back of his seat.

‘Manhattan, West Side.
Hell’s Kitchen.’
‘Hell’s Kitchen?
You sure ‘bout that buddy?’

‘Aye, I am.
Why, is there a problem?’

‘Oh no, it’s nothing.
What’s the address?’

‘
Erm
, I don’t have an exact address, I just need a hotel close to The
Sunbrite
Bar
.
It’s on 10
th
, I think,’ Liam parroted the information he’d learned from the instructions.
Hell’s Kitchen, Turner had assured him, was just a place name and not nearly as bad as it sounded.
Now Liam wasn’t so sure.
The driver was clearly a friendly sort, but the address had silenced him and, somehow, he didn’t feel he was receiving the usual tourist treatment.
There was no chatting, no pointing out of landmarks, just the increased volume of the radio.
It didn’t seem that the driver wanted to talk to anyone who was considering drinking in the
Sunbrite
Bar
.

The cab dodged in and out of the heavy traffic and a short while later Liam was dropped off at a run down, seedy looking hotel.
He collected his briefcase and
overnight bag and paid the man.
The driver, pleased to be rid of this particular fare, breathed a sigh of relief as he hit the gas and quickly drove away.
Liam watched as the taxi disappeared into the traffic before walking into the gloomy lobby of the old hotel.

‘Yeah?’ asked the bald guy on reception, glancing up from his newspaper as he stared at the unusual sight of a man in a business suit.

‘I need a room for around a week, maybe longer,’ Liam explained with a friendly smile.

‘How many people?’

‘Just me.’

There didn’t seem to be much of a check-in procedure and Liam handed over the requested small wad of dollar bills, collected his key and walked off pretending not to notice the eyes of the receptionist following him.
He guessed the suit that had served him so well for the flight was just a little out of place here and the dingy room he encountered moments later reinforced that.
Still, the dirty window afforded him a view of the
Sunbrite
Bar
, and that was all he needed.
It appeared to be open but he couldn’t see anyone in there and a quick check of the small bedside clock agreed that 5pm was maybe a little early for drinking.
His body, on the other hand, was telling him that it was night and a quick nap seemed a good idea.

The bed was more comfortable than it looked but sleep was elusive, and that had been a problem for the last few months.
Every time he closed his eyes he was plagued by images of the things he had given up, the friends he had lost and even the women he had left behind.
He’d never gone in for more than casual affairs, his life wouldn’t allow for anything else, but there were times when he craved a woman’s company just to take the edge off.

‘No chance of that right now, Liam me lad,’ he told himself as he rose a couple of hours later feeling anything but rested.
Thankfully the shower, though it looked as dilapidated as the rest of the room, provided a good, strong jet of invigorating hot water.
He dried himself on a surprisingly clean towel and felt a lot better.
He dressed in a fresh shirt and his suit and was rewarded by the receptionist’s stare as he left the hotel.
Good, he wanted to stand out.
Time was short and he needed things to happen quickly.

The
Sunbrite
Bar
was just a short stroll from the hotel and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw it up close.
There, below the sign that proclaimed the bar’s name, was a hand-painted scene depicting several happy looking leprechauns dancing around a bunch of small shamrocks.
‘Ah Ireland.
What a beautiful place it must be,’ he chuckled to himself, wondering if this was how people here imagined his country.
The heavy beat of loud rock music vibrated on the thick glass
as
Brown Sugar
boomed away from inside.
‘Jesus, I’m sure Mick fucking
Jagger’s
following me,’ he laughed before steeling himself to the task in hand.
He adopted a saunter and walked through the door.

Two men in long overcoats were standing just to the left at the long wooden bar-top, chatting, while a small gang of longhaired youths were arguing about which song should play next on the jukebox at the other side of the room.
They wore identical black leather jackets with the word “Druids” prominently embroidered along the shoulders and “Hell’s Kitchen. N.Y.” stitched neatly along the bottom.
They stared at the strangely attired man entering their domain, but the two guys at the bar didn’t seem to notice him, even as the music level miraculously lessened.

‘Yeah?’ asked the bored looking barman as he turned from what must have been the volume control panel on the wall.

‘A beer please mate,’ he asked loudly.

‘Cask or bottle?’

‘Bottle.’

Beer in hand Liam took a seat on a high stool, leaned on the bar top and lit a cigarette.
He took a sip of his drink and cringed.
‘Jesus Christ, it’s like
bleedin
’ witch piss,’ he coughed.
It was true enough, he thought.
How the hell could anyone, even an American, call shite like this beer?
‘Maybe I’d better stick to whiskey,’ he added and his efforts were rewarded as the two men at the far end of the bar finally looked in his
direction.
One of them called the barkeeper over.

‘Hey Tony.
That suit there, give him a shot of whiskey and make it
Bushmills
.’

The barman nodded and placed a glass in front of Liam.
‘It’s on him,’ he explained unnecessarily as he poured the liquid.

‘That was quick,’ Liam considered, but he said nothing.
He looked from the drink to the man who had bought it and then back at the glass before taking one finger and pushing it away from him until it fell to the floor and shattered.
He took another mouthful of the witch piss and fixed his eyes on the wall behind the bar.
Who would act first, he wondered; the overcoat brigade or the young Druids?
His money was on the latter and within a few seconds a leather-coated youth appeared to his right, his shoulders back, his chest puffed out and a .22 pistol visible above the zip that had been drawn down for that very reason.
‘What the fuck is your problem motherfucker?
Think you can act the tough guy in our fucking bar, do
ya
chief?’ he sneered at the stranger.

Liam turned to look at him but didn’t speak until the youth took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Fuck off sonny,’ he hissed then in that hard, Irish accent. ‘It’s none of your business, so walk away now and take
yer
fuckin
’ pop gun with you.’
The lad looked like he was about to say more, but glanced quickly at the men at the end of the bar and then retreated to the jukebox and entered an intense conversation with his friends.

‘Now it’s time,’ Liam thought as an overcoat walked casually to his side and asked, ‘New in town?’

Liam took a drink of beer and nodded.
‘Aye.’

‘Where you from buddy?

‘Ireland.’

‘Not much of a conversationalist, are you?’

‘I am when I know who the fuck I’m
talkin
’ to.’

‘Patrick O’Malley’s the name and this is my local.
Lots of us Irish use this bar,’ the man informed him with no sign of offence at the stranger’s rudeness, ‘and I think you need another whiskey.’

Tony strolled over, this time with two glasses and a bottle of Jameson’s.
Liam nodded his approval and the men drank together.
‘So you’ll be wanting something then?’ suggested Patrick.

‘
Hopin
’ to find a man called Ryan McKee.
I was told he comes here.’

‘I’ll make a call,’ said Patrick.
What’s the name?’

‘Paddy.’

Patrick raised his eyes but said nothing further as he left.
The other man in the overcoat followed his lead and Liam returned to his witch piss while the Druids looked on.

So the suit and the brash attitude had worked a treat.
Two-minutes, he reckoned.
Turner would be impressed.
To be honest he was pretty impressed with himself.
It’s one thing to have a plan but quite another to see
it work so perfectly and quickly.
He mentally patted himself on the back, and then an hour later he regretted the self-congratulation as a possible jinx because absolutely nothing further had happened.
Tony communicated in monosyllables when serving a drink and the only real interaction was the occasional feeling of eyes burning into his back from the Druids at the jukebox.
Liam had nothing to do but drink watery beer, though he decided that was probably no bad thing.
He needed a clear head and he doubted this brew would dent even the senses of a babe.

Eventually Patrick O’Malley reappeared accompanied by another man who walked up, held his hand out and smiled.
‘The name’s McKee, Ryan McKee - who sent you?’ he asked.

For a moment Liam glanced down at the outstretched hand, but didn’t shake it.
‘I’m here on a little business,’ he explained.
‘Anywhere we can talk in private?’

‘Who sent you?’ McKee repeated, the smile fading a little and the proffered hand dropping to his side.

‘Some of the boys back in Belfast.’

‘Why did they send you here?
Do they have some kind of problem?’

‘I already told you, in private,’ whispered Liam.

‘OK then, private I can do, but I can’t talk now.
I’ve somewhere to be.
Tomorrow would be better.
That OK with you?’ McKee asked, the smile now completely gone.

‘That’s fine,’ Liam nodded.

‘OK then.
Tomorrow.
I’ll pick you up outside the bar, 3pm.
Be
there.’

Again Liam nodded and took a sip of his drink as he watched the men leave.
No emotion showed on his face to betray his thoughts as he silently wished
Mr.
McKee a pleasant night.
‘You’d best make the most of it my friend, because tomorrow you’re a
fuckin
’ dead man.’