The Runaway (75 page)

‘I know it’s silly, we both have commitments, we both have other lives, other people, other businesses. There’s so much to keep us apart. But I really felt overjoyed for a moment, believing you were coming to me. I realised that if we’d both taken different paths, we could have been together today. Truly together. Not just for our long weekends every few weeks.’

She sipped her wine. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is: I love you more than I realised. I love you enough to try and overcome everything that keeps us apart.’ She looked into his eyes. Usually they were a soft limpid blue like sea water. But today they held a hint of sadness which in turn hurt her. She felt a yearning to put the happiness back in his eyes and his heart.

He took her hand in his. ‘I love you, Cathy, and we will be together one day, I promise you that much. Maybe sooner than either of us thinks.’

Now she had spoken the words aloud he could talk to her. Up until this moment she had always said there were too many things against their being together, not the least his ten children. Even he could understand her, as a woman, being loath to take a man from that many kids. Though it was most definitely a woman thing. He could walk out of the door in the morning if he had to. He would still see his children. No one would, or could, stop him from doing that.

But it had had to come from her. The final word had to come from Cathy.

‘Remember when we were kids and used to snuggle up together, trying to keep warm? Whoever would have dreamed that our lives would have taken this path? That we’d both be so successful in our chosen careers?’ he mused.

Cathy nodded and then said sadly, ‘That we’d both murder . . .’

Eamonn shushed her, gripping her wrist painfully. ‘I hate it when you talk that crap, Cathy. What’s past is past. We can’t change it. We both made mistakes. Yours was pretty much unavoidable. Mine . . . well, mine was like everything else I touch. A complete fuck up, a waste of a life. Caroline would probably be married to someone now, have a family . . .’ He broke off, his eyes desolate.

‘I have been responsible for so many bad things, Cathy, things that I could never talk about, even to you. But once we get together properly, I am going to make sure you are the happiest woman in the world, I promise you that.’

She smiled happily. ‘One day, eh? One day we’ll really be together?’ He nodded. Taking his hand, she led him to the bedroom.

The view from the loft was stunning and they lay together in the half light and watched as the stars came out one by one. As they clung together entwined, their love-making over, his eyes were drawn to the cases by the bed. They seemed to be mocking him.

All his grand talk, and he was using the woman he professed to love so much because he was once more in a tight corner. He
had
to go to Washington. Since Petey’s death, Jack had left all the negotiating to him, had left pretty much everything to him. It was the price Eamonn had paid for the demise of his friend. Though Jack never said anything Eamonn knew his father-in-law felt he should have fought Petey’s corner, told the IRA that Petey had a right to his freedom. Jack, a first-generation Irishman, should have known better than that. Once you were in the Cause only death took you out of it.

As Cathy breathed softly beside him, Eamonn felt a chill travel over him. If she got so much as an inkling of what the cases contained, or any idea what it was to be used for, she’d hate him till the day she died.

He lit a cigarette and lay in the darkness, his love asleep beside him and his own mind in turmoil. It was comparatively easy getting the stuff to England. The bugbear would be getting it out of Cathy’s flat without her realising what she had been carrying.

Which was where Mr Cheng came into the equation.

Which was where it got really difficult.

Eamonn was angry with himself, and felt the unaccustomed fear that accompanied that anger. He was in trouble, deep trouble, with the Italians as well as the Irish. His dealings with the Eastern Europeans had caused friction in the world he was living in. Even though Anthony Baggato was party to everything, Eamonn still didn’t have the protection he needed.

The Irish would abandon him if they knew what he was involved in. He was in way over his head. After all his dubious dealings over the years, he had taken on the Russians with confidence, never dreaming it would all get so out of hand.

As he lay beside the only woman he had ever loved, Eamonn felt the deep loneliness that accompanies the betrayal of a friend or a lover. Because he
was
betraying her. Even after it was all over, he would know what he had done to her and that was going to be hard.

He knew he should stop it all, take Cathy out of the equation, himself suffer the consequences, but he knew he wouldn’t. There was a lot of money involved, but apart from that he had made a promise to deliver and he would. He
had
to.

He lay awake, his mind whirling. Dawn was breaking, and still sleep eluded him.

Cathy, however, slept safe and happy in the arms of the man she loved.

 

Cathy was eating breakfast: a couple of eggs over easy and some Bisquick pancakes with maple syrup, four strips of streaky bacon, and a huge cup of filter coffee.

Eamonn watched her, jealous of her appetite. He himself could eat nothing, would eat nothing, until he had word that the merchandise was out of her possession and safely stashed.

‘You look awful, Eamonn, are you OK?’ Her voice was concerned and he shrugged.

‘A spring cold, I think. I felt shivery in the night. I’ll be fine.’

She ate her breakfast ravenously; their love-making always gave her an appetite.

Eamonn was on his fifth cigarette.

‘Are you sure you’re not worrying about anything? Maybe I can help?’

He shook his head and snapped testily, his anger tinged with shame, ‘For fuck’s sake, Cathy, give it a rest, will you? I said, I’m fine.’

She stopped eating and stared at him with wide eyes. ‘Jesus, Eamonn, I was only asking. There’s no need to bite my bleedin’ head off.’

She pushed her plate away. ‘I have to get packed, I must leave for the airport soon. I won’t need both the cases. I mean, I’ve got plenty of clothes here now I have this place. One will do.’

Eamonn felt panic welling up inside him. ‘I thought you were taking all that stuff home?’ he said casually. ‘You know, you were saying you should take some of it back to England. The winter stuff. I thought you were going to give it to Desrae’s friend, the one who loves American clothes.’ He was gabbling and he knew it.

Cathy laughed. ‘Oh, fancy you remembering that! I’d forgotten all about poor Joanie. You’re right - I did promise him some of my old stuff. He’s about the same build. When he’s wearing his falsies anyway.’

‘Might as well make use of the suitcases now I’ve bought them for you. Seems a shame to leave one here doing nothing. Anyway, every time you pack your things in them, I want you to think of me.’

He was jocular and Cathy laughed with him, pleased that he seemed more cheerful.

‘I’d best make a start, then get a shower. I’ll have to leave soon.’

As Cathy packed both cases she was singing. The sound broke his heart in the quiet of the morning.

 

Eamonn watched Cathy’s plane take off. He had felt it was never going to go. Step one was underway. As he had kissed her one last time, he had felt like Judas in the Garden of Gethsemane.

He made his way to the car park to pick up his BMW and roar back into town. He was nearly crying. No matter how often he told himself that nothing could or would go wrong, he was still terrified.

Back in his office, the telephone rang. It was Anthony Baggato. ‘I take it you understood my message yesterday?’

‘She’s got the stuff,’ Eamonn told him, ‘but she has no idea about it.’

‘That’s as it should be,’ Baggato boomed. ‘The fewer people who know about it the better. I certainly wouldn’t want it getting around town that I was involved. Are you ready for the trip to Washington?’

Eamonn said wearily, ‘Yeah. What do you think they want from me?’

‘I really have no idea,’ the other man said. ‘They do this now and again, it keeps people on their toes. As long as you ain’t been creaming off them you have nothing to worry about.’ He paused. ‘Tell me you haven’t been that stupid?’

Eamonn was annoyed. ‘What would be the fucking point? All that’s nickels and dimes compared to what we’re involved in.’

Anthony chuckled. ‘Very true. You’re right, I apologise. But even I get nervous at times like this. It’s all askew, all going wrong. I’m a superstitious man, all Italians are. I even went to Mass this morning, first time in years. But like the Bible says: God loves a sinner. And I’m definitely one of those.’ He paused, then said casually, ‘If, by some chance, they find out about Igor and everything, can I count on you to keep me out of it?’

Eamonn’s darkly handsome face was marred by the look of contempt he bestowed unseen on his fat friend. ‘What you mean is, let them kill me and Jack and a few others, so long as you live to see a ripe old age, eh?’

Anthony laughed disarmingly. ‘If you put it like that, yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’

‘Have you heard a whisper or something?’ Eamonn’s voice was terse.

‘I swear on my children’s heads, I’ve heard nothing,’ the Italian told him. ‘You know Fancini died last night?’

Eamonn blanched. ‘You’re putting me on?’

‘He was shot twice, once in the back of his head, once under the chin. A real Mob killing. Even the police have sussed that one. The body was left in his driveway, in his car. Whoever ordered the hit wanted him found. Did you have any dealings with him?’

Eamonn didn’t answer. Fancini was a minor man, who had been Eamonn’s outside contact with Igor’s associates in Atlantic City. Even Anthony was unaware of his involvement as far as Eamonn knew, though he had seen them together on a few occasions.

‘Are you telling me that the Mob’s hit on Fancini because of us?’ he said finally.

‘No, all I’m telling you is the facts. Fancini got the bullet last night. Whoever whacked him did it as an example.’

When there was no response, Baggato sighed and said: ‘Well, gotta go. I wish you peace. Remember, these are the big men you’re seeing. They make my outfit look like toy soldiers. Be careful, just be very careful, and don’t incriminate yourself or anyone else.’

‘What if they know already?’ Eamonn asked slowly.

‘If they know, you offer them a slice of the pie, a fucking big piece of pie. If necessary, you offer them the
whole
pie. You’ll know what to do. You’re not a fool, even they know that, and your Irish connection gives you a measure of safety. Name drop. Use what you’ve got. If they’re on to you, you’re a fucking dead man unless you can cut some kind of deal.’

‘How the fuck did we ever get involved in all this?’

Anthony did laugh then, a harsh humourless sound. ‘That’s the easy one. Through greed. You know, this is a lesson really. Everything has a lesson in it. We had more money than the fucking Catholic Church but we wanted more, and we didn’t want to share our good fortune - what the old Dons call “wetting their beaks”. No, we wanted it all, and so it follows that when it goes wrong, only we take the shit. We didn’t delegate, you know what I’m saying?’

Eamonn was quiet. After Anthony had hung up he sat gnawing on his thumbnail, a nervous habit from childhood. He was in a tight corner, in trouble with too many people this time, and they were all experts in their own field.

For the first time in his life Eamonn Docherty was out of his depth.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Cathy’s arrival home coincided with Kitty’s school holiday and Desrae’s birthday. No one knew how old he was exactly, but that didn’t matter. Desrae liked to enjoy his birthdays and no one had ever had the guts to ask just how many he’d enjoyed.

The girls at the club had arranged a theme night. Everyone was to be dressed in Roman attire - which to most of the drag queens meant dressing as Cleopatra, while they hoped against hope to meet their very own Mark Antony.

Cathy had gone straight from the airport to the club, and now was there, waiting to see what the girls were going to look like this evening. Bertie, one of the bar staff, had taken her cases through to the dressing room.

Sitting on a bar stool, a cigarette in one hand and a mineral water in the other, she looked immaculate, not at all as if she had just travelled from the States. Her make-up was perfect, and other than the fine lines around her eyes denoting tiredness, she looked stunning. Her little Versace suit was uncrumpled, and her tanned legs ended in a pair of periwinkle blue sandals the exact colour of her suit and eyes.

The girls in the club all looked at her with awe, and a tinge of jealousy. It didn’t matter what they spent on themselves, they were still men dressed as women, and even though a lot of them, especially the transsexuals, looked better than the majority of women, they still felt second best next to Cathy Pasquale. Mainly because she had that quiet dignity, that certain aura, that only a few lucky people have.

She smiled a greeting as Richard came into the club. ‘Bit early even for you, isn’t it?’ she joked.

‘Give us a break, Cath. I’m here on business as well as pleasure. The pleasure part is being able to chat with you. The business part might not be so welcome.’

Cathy heard the inflection in his voice. She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

He didn’t answer because the lights on the club’s stage had just been turned on and eighteen Cleopatras walked out simultaneously, all make-up, perfume and good-natured bitchiness.

Gates closed his eyes and said in a pained voice: ‘Now I’ve seen everything. Even Susan P is coming as Cleopatra. I hope you’re not?’

‘Of course I am,’ Cathy said indignantly, ‘and so is Kitty. It’s weird but instead of a real Roman night, we’ve ended up with a Cleo night. All the men, including you, must come as Caesar or Mark Antony. Though looking at you, I’d say Nero would be nearer the mark.’