Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) (12 page)

'You're feeling flush.'

'I thought we were splitting the bill?'

He managed a smile.' Yeah, you wish. This is your treat.'

'And why would that be?'

'Because you scared the pants off me at the Don CeSar.'

'Haven't you got that arse-about-face? I was looking through the women's bikinis.'

He shrugged. The waiter brought our drinks. We lifted the chasers, clinked glasses and downed them.

'So,' I said, 'what the hell were you up to anyway?'

'I just . . . don't like being followed.'

I gave him my hurt look. It's not much different from my normal look, just hurter. 'I thought we were mates, Davie. I saw you go in, thought I'd join you for a pint. I didn't mean anything.'

He nodded slowly. 'I know. I'm just — you know, a bit paranoid. When you used to do what I used to do, you're always, like, watching your back.'

'I thought you'd met a girl.'

He shook his head. 'Yeah. I wish.'

'When you say "when you used to do what I used to do", do you mean when you were a cop? Are they all as jumpy as you?'

Davie glanced at the bar, then at a piano across to the left of it. Nobody was playing it. There was piped music.
Marguerita Time.
Later we would have to find the CD and smash it. But for now Davie leaned forward and said, 'No, Dan, all cops aren't like this. All cops didn't do what I did.'

'And what did you do?'

'Stuff.'

'Well, that's a big help.'

'I can't really talk about it. Besides, you're a journalist.'

'Davie, we're mates. Anything you say is off the record.'

'Yeah. Famous last words.'

We'd already ordered our steaks, but now the waiter arrived with two salads, which American restaurants have a disturbing habit of bringing automatically as a starter. Davie and I looked at each other. For godsake, didn't he know we were from Ulster? We picked at them, looking for the meat. After a few minutes of grazing I went out to the toilet and ordered us some more drinks on the way. When I came back, Davie had moved to a different table. Not that far away, but a different table all the same. He was busy crushing his salad so that it would look as if he'd eaten quite a lot of it.

I crossed to the new table and said, 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing. Apart from this shit.'

'Nothing's wrong?'

'No. Why, something wrong with you?'

'This table okay?'

He nodded. 'Sure. Okay for you?'

I nodded. Davie nodded, then said, 'It's good to have a chance to talk.'

'Yes, it is,' I said.

I wondered what was coming, whether he was going to spill his guts before I'd had the chance to enjoy my steak, or get really drunk. So he'd moved tables. He was entitled to be comfortable in his surroundings. The steaks were expensive enough. So I let it lie.

'I'm sorry if I've been a bit off,' he said awkwardly. 'I'll settle down.'

'You'd need to. It's a holiday, Davie, we should be having a ball.'

'I know. But . . .' He sighed. He looked up to the bar again, then back to me. 'Can I talk to you about something personal?'

Right. Here goes.

'Of course.'

'It's just, I've been a bit worried about you.'

'About
me?'

'Yeah. It's best to be honest, isn't it? You know, are you okay?'

'Me? Am
I
okay?'

'Yeah. You've been a bit strange since we came away. You know, quiet. That first day out by the pool you were really reckless. I told you to put cream on but you just sat there getting drunk like you were determined to damage yourself. Like you wanted to feel the pain. And then all that time in the room by yourself. Drinking. And even when I'm lying there at night trying to sleep, you're flicking the TV channels until dawn; you've hardly slept. You know, I'm fucked up enough already without having to worry about you. That's why I've been going out by myself. That's why I've been driving around. I guessed you needed the space.'

'Me?'

'Dan, it's okay. We're mates. You can talk to me.'

I nodded. I said, 'I need a pee.'

I went to the toilet. I threw water on my face. My heart was beating hard and I'd that sick feeling in my stomach again. I wondered again what it was that Davie did in the police. Was it some kind of torture or interrogation he specialised in? Did he get hapless terrorists under the disco-lights at Castlereagh and grill them from dawn till dusk? Did he twist what they said? Did he get them to admit to things they couldn't possibly have done? What sort of game was he playing with me now? Me?
Me?
He was the one with the gun in his bag.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom Davie had moved to a different table again, this time on the other side of the bar. He was tucking into his steak. He looked up and saw me and waved me over. I crossed the floor somewhat hesitantly. What was he playing at? I took my seat. He didn't say anything. Mind games. He was trying to mess with my head. My steak was looking pretty good. I cut myself the first piece off it, but then I put my knife and fork down and said: 'Bit too breezy for you over there, was it?'

'What?'

'I said, bit too draughty over there? Too near the kitchens?'

'What are you talking about?'

'What do you think I'm talking about?'

'I've no idea. Eat up Dan, steak's great.'

'Is it now? That's nice. Should I start, or are you going to up sticks again?'

'What?'

'You know, should I tuck in or should I lift my plate and walk over to the other side? I see there's some tables over there we haven't tried yet.'

'Dan, what the fuck are you talking about?'

'I'm talking about you, you Clampett.'

'Dan, are you feeling okay? Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, bringing up all that stuff. I spoke to Trish about it and—'

'You spoke to Trish about what?'

'About what happened. About Little Stevie. Grief manifests itself in different—'

'Shut the fuck up, Davie.'

He put his knife and fork down. 'Dan . . .'

'Just shut the fuck up. It's got nothing to do with Little Stevie. That's low and mean. It's not me that's all fucked up. Now all I'm saying is, what is it with the tables? Why do you keep moving from one to another? What sort of fucking game are you playing? I don't mind talking to you, Davie. You can tell me anything you want — if you're happy or sad or you have problems or you're thinking of doing something really stupid, I'm your friend — but what is it with the fucking tables?'

'It's a revolving restaurant, Dan.'

'What?'

'It's a revolving restaurant. I haven't moved tables. The restaurant has just revolved.'

'Eh?'

'Look out the window, Dan. You see the way we can't see the Gulf any more, but we're looking out over St Pete's? That's because we've moved. They haven't moved the Gulf, they've moved the restaurant. It's revolving. Look at the floor, Dan. You see those tracks? That's where it moves — that's how the restaurant moves.'

I cleared my throat. 'You never told me it was a revolving restaurant.'

'I didn't think I needed to. Why else would I bring you to a fucking Holiday Inn to eat? And I thought you might have noticed the big sign,
The Holiday Inn Revolving Restaurant.
But no.'

'We're revolving. It doesn't feel like we're revolving.'

'No, Dan, it doesn't feel like we're revolving. Because we're not on a fucking spinning top. It's gradual. You'd hardly notice. Correction, you wouldn't notice at all.'

'Oh,' I said. Then added, 'Sorry. Now I'll eat my steak.'

That was about as personal as the conversation got. He talked some more, but not about anything of consequence. It certainly wasn't the time to raise the subject of the gun or his suicide. I'd made a tube of myself over the revolving restaurant, but it was an easy mistake to make. I've been in revolving restaurants before, but it's usually a by-product of too much alcohol. So I concentrated on getting hammered and repairing fences. He didn't raise his distorted view of my personal problems again. We talked about Joe and girls and music and girls; he seemed to be in better form.

It was only a few hundred yards back to the hotel. When we entered reception the two cops from earlier were standing at the desk talking to the Cuban, who saw us first.

'Gentlemen!' he exclaimed as the cops turned towards us. 'Good news! Your bags have been found!'

Davie immediately clapped his hands together. 'Excellent!'

The larger of the two cops smiled and said: 'Chef at the IHOP found them in a dumpster out back. Had your ID tags still on board.'

The Cuban lifted them out from behind the desk.' Look! Good as new!' They were stained and smelled of dumpster, but he wasn't far wide of the mark.

One of the cops said, 'Sir, if we could just take them to your room then you could check and see if anything's missing.'

I lifted my bag off the counter. Davie took his. He was going to have to be careful when he checked the bag. The cops followed us up to our room and I unlocked the door at the third attempt. We were still pretty drunk. They grinned at each other.

'Now if you could just check those bags for us.'

I lifted mine onto the bed, unzipped it and made a show of searching through it. Davie was more reckless. He unzipped his bag, then emptied the contents out on his bed. It only took me a moment to realise that the towel in which the gun had been wrapped was missing. If Davie noticed, there was no visible reaction. He merely nodded down at the array of clothes on the bed then turned and smiled at the police.

'Nope, it's all there,' he said.

'Excellent,' said the cop. 'Then if you don't mind, we won't bother with a report.'

'No problem,' said Davie. 'I used to be a cop back home. I know what it's like.'

The other cop, the smaller one with a thin moustache said, 'Oh yeah? And home is where — Ireland?'

'Belfast,' said Davie.

'Cool,' said the cop. 'Plenty of action there?'

'Too much,' said Davie.

The other cop said, 'And what about you, sir, you a cop as well?'

I shook my head. 'No, I don't think so.'

'Don't mind me asking, what are you?'

'Well, I started out in journalism and built up a bit of a reputation but I kept getting into trouble so I chucked it in and started writing biographies and stuff that doesn't sell so I'm thinking of going back to the journalism. At the moment I'm working on a website for the Northern Ireland Tourist Board called
Why Don't You Come Home for a Pint?.'

They looked like they were about to arrest me for boring them to death. Instead they made hurried excuses and left. Davie shook his head at me, then started to put his clothes away in the cupboards. I stashed my bag back in the wardrobe.

'Well,' Davie said, 'that was a stroke of luck.'

'You can say that again. You sure there's nothing missing?'

'Nah, it's all there.'

'Brilliant,' I said.

I laid down on the bed. Davie had had a gun. Now it was gone. He didn't seem upset about it, but that was probably an act. What was he going to do next? Acquire another gun, or choose some different means of topping himself? I was going to have to watch him like a hawk. Starting tomorrow, of course — I was too drunk at the moment. Davie climbed into his bed. I thought about turning the TV on, but decided against it. Davie was right on one count, I hadn't been sleeping properly. I would try now. I closed my eyes. Sleep came surprisingly easily. But I should have known better. I had a long and involved nightmare about a heavily armed pancake chef.

As far as Davie was concerned I spent the next three days sunning myself by the pool. He made a show of joining me for the first hour or so, but as the sun climbed he made excuses about not being a sun baby and said he was going off for a dander or a drive. But where he walked, I followed. Previously I had not been making any effort to mask the fact that I was keeping an eye on him, but now I stalked him like a private eye. I didn't look a hell of a lot different, but I walked like a crab and kept to the shadows. When he drove, I also followed. I had my own wheels now, thanks to a deal with the Cuban. I'd asked him about renting a car, he'd asked about my licence, I asked about renting a motorbike and he said I could borrow his for a hundred bucks a day. It was daylight robbery, but he could tell I was in a bind. I also had to hire a helmet off him, which he eventually rooted out of a closet. It smelled like ducks had laid eggs in it. That cost me an extra ten a day, but I didn't quibble; you didn't need a helmet in America, but I did.

You can buy anything in America — motorbikes, helmets, people. As before, Davie trudged along the sand to the Don CeSar and then disappeared inside. I followed at a discreet distance with a straw hat pulled down low over my eyes, then hired a sunbed on the beach in front of the hotel. I asked the boy in charge if he could recommend someone who could tail a person round the hotel. He looked a bit shocked, but I reassured him that the man in question wasn't a guest and so I wouldn't be intruding on anyone's privacy but the unwelcome intruder I was after. He said he'd see what he could do; it was a hotel which prided itself on service, and although I wasn't strictly speaking a guest, I was a paying customer.

I had no alternative but to hire someone. It was a big hotel, but not so big that you could follow someone into a corridor or into an elevator without being spotted. A bus boy with a tray was the perfect cover, and that's pretty much what Mikey was. He was nineteen, on a summer break from college, and eager to please. He thought I was some sort of private eye, and I didn't correct him. I gave him a perfect description of Davie and set him loose with an advance of twenty dollars and the promise of lavish financial rewards. Then I put up the flag on the back of my sun-lounger and ordered a drink. Getting a tan, enjoying a drink but still managing to track a head the ball with suicidal thoughts. It was a tough life, but somebody had to do it.

Mikey was as good as gold, not that he could expect to see any. He watched Davie as he sat in the piano bar on the ground floor. He fetched him water as he sat in the seafood restaurant and ate lunch. He didn't get in the same elevator as him, but watched what floor he went to, then followed up, tray of drinks in hand like he was doing room service. He followed him to the seventh floor, where Davie walked from one end to the other without knocking on any of the doors. Then he went out onto the fire escape, which was really a set of partially enclosed steps leading down one of the pink towers that made the Don CeSar look like a castle. Davie pushed the door open at the bottom and emerged behind the pool, then waited for the door to close and tried to open it again from the outside, but couldn't. It locked automatically. A couple of minutes later Mikey pushed through the fire-escape doors and spotted Davie at the pool bar having a beer.