Jig (49 page)

‘Keep moving, Jock.' Six feet to the plate-glass doors. The street.

He pressed the gun into Jock's spine and heard the big man grunt quietly.

‘Only a few more feet, Jock,' he said.

‘Fuck you,' Mulhaney said. He was playing to his audience. He was showing that he was still a brave man who could talk back even when the pressure was on. And if he could talk to some fucking hoodlum like this, think how he could ram it home to builders and contractors when he didn't have a goddam gun in his back!

Cairney reached the doors and knocked them open with his foot. The air in the street was cold and sharp. He wondered how much time he had before the cops arrived. He knew it was inevitable that somebody inside the building had sneaked away into an office to place a quiet call, that pretty soon the street would be filled with patrol cars.

‘Okay,' Mulhaney said. ‘You've made it out of the building. What now?'

Cairney said, ‘We've got unfinished business. You were going to tell me about the Old Man, Jock.'

‘I gave you Kev Dawson.'

Cairney shoved the gun into the nape of Mulhaney's neck. ‘Don't stall, Jock.' He looked the length of the dark street in both directions. It was silent now, but it wasn't going to stay that way for very long. Through the glass doors he was conscious of the men inside. They stood around indecisively, but that was a situation that could change at any moment. They were Irish and they'd been drinking, and they might decide to move into boisterous action, regardless of the fact that Mulhaney had a gun at his head.

‘
Hurry
,' Cairney said. And even as he said this he heard footsteps along the sidewalk and turned his face quickly, seeing somebody move in the soft shadows between the parked limousines and the wall of the building. The figure stopped suddenly and dropped to the sidewalk. There was the sound of a gun going off and a flash of light from the place where the man lay and the plateglass doors shattered, showering the air with bright splinters.

Surprised, Cairney moved back, pressing himself against the wall. He was aware of Mulhaney lunging away from him, the glass doors swinging, Big Jock thrusting himself inside the safety of the building. Cairney fired his weapon at the man along the sidewalk and heard the sound of the bullet knock upon the hood of a limousine. He backed away, sliding against the wall and out of the light that fell from the building. He sought darkness, places where he couldn't be seen. He fired his gun again. This time the shot slashed concrete. The man returned the fire, and the air around Cairney's head screamed.

Cairney kept moving away. He was about ten feet from the corner of the building and conscious of the need to get the hell out of this place. He saw the figure move now, scampering behind one of the parked limousines. The man's face passed momentarily under the light that fell from the reception room.

It was Frank Pagan.

Cairney reached the corner of the buildings, where there was a badly lit side street and rows of shuttered little shops. He was seized by the impulse to stay exactly where he was and fight it out with Frank Pagan, as if what he wanted to prove to the Englishman was that he didn't have to run away as he had done on Canal Street, but how would that have taken him any closer to the money? Priorities, he thought. And Frank Pagan – despite the fact that the man was always just behind him like some kind of dogged spectre – wasn't top of his list.

He stared a moment at the car behind which Pagan was crouched. Then he turned and sprinted into the darkness of the side street, weaving between parked cars and trashcans, zigzagging under weak streetlamps, like a man following a maze of his own creation. He could hear Pagan coming after him, but the Englishman wasn't fast enough to close the gap that Cairney was widening with every stride. The echoes of Pagan's movements grew quieter and quieter until there was no sound at all. When he was absolutely certain he'd lost Pagan, he lay down beneath a railroad bridge and closed his eyes, listening to his own heart rage against his ribs.

Pagan had known about Linney. Then about Mulhaney.

Cairney opened his eyes, staring up into the black underside of the bridge.
Was it safe to assume that Pagan also knew about Kevin Dawson?

Cairney sat with his back to the brickwork now. He felt the most curious emptiness he had ever experienced. It drained his heart and created vacuums throughout his mind. He knew he had to get up and make his way back to the place where he'd left his car, but he sat numb and motionless. There was an uncharacteristic need inside him to make contact, a connection with somebody
somewhere
. He thought he'd call Finn, but he couldn't see any point in relating failure to the man. He didn't want Finn to be disappointed in him. And he didn't want Finn to think he'd sent the wrong man from Ireland. That he'd sent a man who wasn't equipped for this task. He couldn't bear the idea of Finn thinking badly of him.

He shut his eyes again. The face that floated up through his mind, and a warped, pellucid image like something refracted in shallow water, was Celestine's.

Frank Pagan went back in the direction of the union building. He was breathless, and his whole body, jarred by the effort of running, was a mass of disconnected pulses. Jig's speed hadn't surprised him. He'd seen Jig in action before. But this time it was the manner of the man's disappearance that impressed him. It was almost as if Jig had vaporised down one of the narrow streets. Stepped out of this dimension and into another one. For a time, Pagan had managed to keep the man in his sight, but with every corner Jig turned Pagan realised that his hope of catching up was dwindling. Then, finally, somewhere between a canal and weedy old railroad track, Jig had disappeared in the blackness, with the deftness of a rodent.

Goddam
. Pagan resented the idea that Jig was swifter than he, more agile, more attuned to the hiding-places offered by the night. He envied Jig's affinity for invisibility. Now he had the feeling that even if he were to seal off the surrounding twenty blocks, he still wouldn't find the man.
Goddam again
. These close encounters only frustrated him. What also bothered him, even if he didn't like to admit it, was the insurmountable fact that Jig must have at least ten years on him, that his own youth had long ago begun to recede, and time – the dreaded erosion of clocks – was making impatient claims on his body.

He walked slowly, like a man skirting the blades of open razors. When he reached the broken glass doors he paused, making one huge, concentrated effort to catch his breath. He stepped inside the reception room and saw Mulhaney sitting on one of the huge black leather sofas, surrounded by anxious men in evening wear and green sashes. Mulhaney had a bloodied handkerchief up to his mouth.

Pagan pushed his way towards the sofa, elbowing men out of the way. Mulhaney, enjoying the attention he was getting, peered over the top of the handkerchief at him. Pagan showed his ID in a swift way, sweeping it in front of Mulhaney's eyes before the union boss had time to register it.

‘I've got a few questions,' Pagan said.

Mulhaney dabbed at his lip. His bare gums were pink and bloody. ‘What kind of ID was that?'

Pagan ignored the question. ‘You have a private office somewhere? I'd like to talk to you alone.'

Mulhaney looked puzzled. ‘I'm perfectly happy where I am,' he said.

‘Okay.' Pagan shrugged and lowered himself on to the arm of the sofa. ‘What did the guy want with you, Jock?'

‘He was a mugger, for Christ's sake. What the fuck you think he wanted?'

Pagan shook his head. ‘He was sent here from Ireland. You know that. I know that.'

‘Ireland?' Mulhaney looked blank. He appealed to the other men around him. ‘Who is this guy? Who let him in here?'

‘What did you tell him?' Pagan asked.

‘Hey,' Mulhaney said. ‘Let's see that ID again, fellah.'

‘Did you tell him where he could find the money? Or did you send him somewhere else?'

Mulhaney stood up. His eyes had a bruised, angry look. ‘I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Somebody toss this knucklehead outta here. Ireland, for Christ's sake! My man Keefe's been shot dead and you're babbling about fucking Ireland!'

‘Keefe?'

‘My bodyguard. Mugger shot him.'

Another corpse. One way or another, Jig was leaving bodies strewn behind him. What had happened to the fastidious assassin? Pagan hesitated a second before reaching out to grip Mulhaney's wrist tightly. ‘What did you tell him, Jock? Did you send him to Dawson? Did you tell him Cairney was the man to see? Or did you tell him something else altogether? What did you say to him?'

Mulhaney made a gesture of exasperation. ‘Out,' he said.

Pagan felt various hands grab him. It hadn't been terrific strategy to come in here and confront Jock, but on the other hand there was always the chance that Mulhaney might be taken off guard and give Pagan the answers he was looking for. Big Jock, though, was set on a course of complete denial, which wasn't entirely surprising. Pagan wished he could have had time alone with the man. It might have made a difference in Mulhaney's attitude. Surrounded by his sycophants, Big Jock was forceful and stubborn.

Pagan pulled himself free of his assailants. He stepped to one side. ‘It's important, Jock. I need to know.'

‘I've had it with you,' Mulhaney said. He looked at the faces of the men. ‘Toss this nut out.'

Pagan was still struggling to catch his breath. ‘If I leave here, I walk. Under my own steam.'

‘Walk then,' Mulhaney said.

Pagan pushed his way back through the crowd towards the glass doors. He moved out on to the street, where he turned and glanced back through broken glass at the sight of Mulhaney holding forth for his audience.
I hit the guy a couple of times
, he was saying.
Then he pulls this piece on me, which is when poor Keefe walks in
.

I bet you hit him, Pagan thought.

He moved away from the building, just as two patrol cars turned the corner into the street, their lamps slashing holes in the darkness and their sirens screaming like voices in purgatory.

New York City

‘It's raining in Piccadilly Circus,' Foxie said, his voice unusually crisp and clear, given the great distances of the Atlantic. ‘Doesn't that make you homesick?'

‘Why? I'm having a ball here,' Pagan replied. The muscles in his legs throbbed from running. He lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling of his room in the Parker Meridien. ‘What have you got for me?'

‘Straight to the point, eh?' Foxie's voice faded a second. ‘According to my little screen, Alex Fitzjohn did time in Armagh Jail in 1977 for possession of grenades. Six months. Somewhere in this period he must have thrown in his lot with the FUV. They recruit in jails, of course.' Foxie paused. ‘My head hurts and my throat's dry. There are gremlins inside my brain doing things with dental drills.'

‘Don't drink until you're grown up,' Pagan said.

‘Whenever. Back to Fitz. Suspected of participation in at least three border incidents. One the bombing of a pub. Two, the attempted assassination of a priest. A failure, that one. Three, a brief shoot-out with the Garda. An inconclusive affair, it would seem.'

Pagan was suddenly impatient. ‘Is there anything that ties him directly with McInnes?'

‘Ivor's a careful sort of chap,' Foxie said. ‘You know how damned hard it is to get reliable documentation on whether he's running the FUV or not. However …' and here Foxworth paused.

‘I'm all ears,' Pagan said.

‘There is one very grubby photograph in our possession. It's about seven years old. Somebody stored it in Fitzjohn's file, which is on the inactive list. It really ought to have been put in Ivor's. There's a lot of clerical idiocy around here, Frank.'

‘Foxie, please,' Pagan said.

‘One description coming right up. The picture shows Ivor stepping out of his church. He's robed up to sermonise, so we can assume he's just delivered himself of one of his brimstone jobs. Around Ivor are a few other people. There's a lot of smiling going on. Somebody is reaching out to shake Ivor's hand. Maybe to congratulate him on his words of wisdom? Whatever. In the midst of the people gathered on the steps of the church is one Alex Fitzjohn. He's about five feet away from Ivor, and he's smiling. But Ivor isn't looking at him. Ivor's staring at the man offering the handshake.' Foxie paused. ‘That's it, Frank.'

Pagan massaged the side of his head, which had begun to ache. It had been a long day, and he was exhausted now. A peculiar kind of exhaustion too, as if a rainy mist were crawling through his brain. He was thinking of Jig and how the man had managed to slide away from him once again on the streets of Brooklyn.
What had Mulhaney told Jig?

‘It's not a hell of a lot, is it?' Pagan said. ‘I'm looking for a connection and all we've got is a photograph that doesn't even show Ivor and Alex making
eye
-contact.'

‘It doesn't exactly confirm that they're bosom buddies,' Foxworth agreed. ‘The best case you could make is that they probably knew each other. Probably.'

Pagan sat down on the edge of his bed. He'd hoped for something more substantial than an old inconclusive photograph. Something definitive. Something Ivor couldn't possibly deny. But all he really had was a weak hand that was useful for a couple of bluffs, nothing more.

‘By the way, Frank. The Secretary popped into the office.'

‘That's a first,' Pagan said. ‘Did you call the Guinness Book of Records?'

‘He came in the day after you left. Quite the grand tour. He expressed some – shall we say misgivings – about your sojourn in the Americas? Doesn't think you should be gallivanting about over there. Thinks your information from the FUV about Jig is spotty and doesn't justify your trip. People don't say
spotty
much these days, do they?'