Seventy Times Seven (21 page)

The tall glass office block sat on the corner of Third Avenue and Highway Sixty-five, with a view north-east all the way up to the international airport. Every so often a plane on its final approach would fly in low, making a noise like it was going to land on the roof.

The Birmingham skyline twinkled and shimmered in the hazy dawn light. Streams of red brake lights and rivers of white headlamps meandered and criss-crossed in the busy streets below as the people of Alabama headed into work.

A television in the corner of the office was throwing shadows mutely around the otherwise dimly lit room on the top floor.

Hernando De Garza checked his fingernails – the girl who usually gave him a manicure wouldn’t be in for a few days and it looked like one of them was chipped.  He frowned, and continued what he was saying. His voice was soft, with a barely detectable sibilance.

‘All I’m saying is it’s turning into a very different scenario. We’d have to think real hard about helping you any further. It’s getting hot out there even in the shade. We got two dead cops, and a couple of junkie hitmen fucking us in the ass from beyond the grave. Alabama is crawling with officers of the law.’ Hernando smoothed his eyebrow over with his middle finger before continuing in his heavy southern drawl. ‘There’s talk it’s gone Federal. The FBI all cleaning their noses ready to have a good sniff around.’

Hernando looked over for a reaction. ‘Culo Conrado and Vincent Lee Croll were sub-contractors. They wouldn’t have been our first choice so whether they is alive or dead don’t matter a fuck. But what is of concern is your employee – Danny McGuire. So far he has failed to deliver . . . on all fronts. I’m sitting here with two Stinger missiles I put a lot of effort into procuring for you and all I got to show for it is a Federal fucking headache and an empty wallet. McGuire hasn’t shown up with our money, which is discourteous at best. And the word I’m hearing is that the target, your guy O’Hanlon, is still slinking around Tuscaloosa. The hit on O’Hanlon was a favour. The money for the Surface-to-Airs is non-negotiable and is now owing.’

The guy sitting opposite De Garza in the faded blue jeans and worn-out bomber jacket didn’t look too happy. He wanted to tell Hernando to fuck off. He wanted to tell the queenie little asshole that if he had employed professionals instead of a couple of ex-junkie fuck-ups like Conrado and Croll then there would be nothing to discuss, there would be no situation. But he was under orders. Owen O’Brien had been on his way to the finals of the tug-of-war in Oshkosh when E.I. had called to say De Garza wasn’t happy. ‘You’re the most senior man out there and the closest,’ E.I. had told him. ‘Get on a plane and find out what the fuck’s happened to Danny, and do whatever it takes to keep De Garza sweet before this turns into an international incident.’

He’d left plenty of messages at the hotel asking Danny to get in touch, but there had been no response.

When E.I. had mentioned to him that he had given Danny the contract to hit O’Hanlon, Owen had voiced his concerns. He’d had a bad feeling about McGuire’s involvement and now things were beginning to unravel it looked like he’d been right.

O’Brien stared right back at De Garza: orders or not, he wasn’t going to take any shit from him. ‘We didn’t realise we were paying for sub-contractors,’ he replied. ‘We thought – the amount of money it was costing – we were getting pros. And as far as the Stingers are concerned we were only ever going to pay up once we’d checked they were legit.’

Hernando stopped studying his fingers and looked up: deciding whether or not to pull the Magnum out from the desk drawer and shoot the ugly Irish fucker where he sat. He waited for a few moments wrestling with the impulse to kill him, right here in his office.

‘You got what you paid for,’ said Sly from the other side of the room, picking up on the expression on Hernando’s face. ‘And you heard what Mr De Garza just said. So far you have paid us fuck-all, so you got nothing to bitch about. We’ve done everything you asked.’ Sly pointed at the open wooden crate sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. What d’you think that is? You don’t think that big green gun in there with FIM-92 painted on the side is fucking legit? You want me to make it live and fire one up your ass so you can decide for yourself if it’s gonna explode or not?’ Sly shook his head before continuing. ‘D’you use your head for cleaning the floor in Ireland – cause you got nothing in there but a fuckin vacuum?’

Hernando De Garza held up his hand like a cop stopping the traffic. ‘Hold on, here comes the news. This is why I got the television on: I want you to see this. I mean it’s the fucking headlines, you know? Turn it up, Sly.’

Sly pushed himself off the picture window he’d been leaning against and walked over to the television. His black cotton trousers were stretched to the limit over his well-defined thigh muscles. He wiggled his hips like a dancer and made a big thing of bending over to turn the volume up. Showing his ass to De Garza, he flicked a cheeky glance at O’Brien, who turned and looked out the window.

‘Sly, get your whore’s ass out of the way, and go sit down: I can’t see a fucking thing,’ snapped Hernando.

‘The way Mr O’Brien been staring at me I figure he wants to make a deposit in my prison wallet. I’m just giving him a preview,’ replied Sly.

The lady on television with the white polished teeth and phoney smile was talking to camera: playing it straight. Normally she did the lighter items: how to make your butt look good in a bikini, how to make your face ten years younger using only cold cream and aloe vera, how to cook the perfect sponge cake: aspirational nonsense for housewives, or the long-term unemployed. But here she was now, with the same puffed-up hairstyle, struggling to sell the serious stuff. The graphic behind her read
WANTED FOR MURDER
in bright red Courier, stamped across a mugshot of Marie Bain and an identikit photograph of Finn O’Hanlon.

‘The hunt for two-time cop killer Vincent Lee Croll came to a gruesome end last night when his body was discovered at an apartment in Cottondale. In a statement issued by the Sheriff’s Department it was revealed that officers also attended the Lakeshore Hotel in Tuscaloosa in connection with the ongoing investigation. No arrests were made, but it is believed that Finn O’Hanlon and barmaid Marie Bain – both now suspects in the fatal shooting at McHales Bar in downtown Tuscaloosa last Thursday – are also linked to the incident involving Lee Croll in Cottondale. The couple were spotted at the Lakeshore Hotel, but managed to evade capture despite a large police presence. FBI agent Jeff Kneller, leading the investigation, told ASN that O’Hanlon is considered dangerous and should not be approached by members of the public. Marie Bain, formerly a witness, became a suspect when a letter linking her to O’Hanlon was discovered at her apartment. Detective Kneller appealed for any witnesses to come forward . . .’

Hernando De Garza had stopped listening.

‘She just finished telling everyone how dangerous the guy is, now she’s asking people to come forward as witnesses. You ever heard anything so dumb?’ De Garza looked over at Owen O’Brien and held out his upturned hands as he shrugged his shoulders. ‘You see what I’m sayin: “FBI agent”. All of a sudden we got the FBI sniffing our butts. It’s like we’re standing in a gas station pumping gasoline all over the forecourt and we got a lit cigarette in our mouth. Won’t be too long before the whole fucking thing blows up in our faces. And what the hell is she doing reading the news anyway? Where’s the guy with the wig, usually does it, what happened, he dead or something?’

Sly pulled the cigarette from his mouth and said through a cloud of smoke, ‘He’s sick. Got something wrong with his throat, means he can’t talk. They done a piece on him earlier like it was a news item.’

‘The way she says “murder” makes it sound like something you get done in the beauty parlour,’ interrupted De Garza.

‘She didn’t say “murder”: it’s on the board behind her,’ said Sly. ‘They just suggesting those things to you to make you believe those two is guilty. Then when the cops catch them you’ve already convicted them in your head. Straight away you think the cops have done a good job and the world’s a safer place.’

Hernando turned to O’Brien and raised his eyebrows.

‘Sly survived fifteen years in Santa Martha so he reckons he got it all figured out. Got these notions in his head, every time we watch the television or pick up a newspaper we’re being manipulated . . . when in actual fact he’s just a paranoid schizophrenic. You heard her say “murder”, yeah?’

Owen O’Brien shrugged. He wasn’t really paying attention to what De Garza and his freaky ‘cousin’ Sly were saying: he was busy trying to figure out from the identikit photograph where he’d seen Finn O’Hanlon before. Hernando didn’t wait for an answer, before continuing. ‘All I’m saying is, she’s way too light for the main headlines; she should stick to the fluff.’

‘You want me to send a couple of the guys round and chop her fuckin head off for you?’ said Sly.

Hernando laughed. ‘What good’s that gonna do?’

‘Might improve her hairstyle,’ said Sly, giggling like a five-year-old girl.

Owen O’Brien suddenly stood up from the sofa. ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’

Sly was on his feet holding a Colt revolver in his hand like he’d done a magic trick. Hernando too: he’d slipped his hands under the desk and unclipped a small semi-automatic from a leather pouch concealed on the side panel of the drawer set. Neither of them looked too happy.

‘What you jumping up so fast for, Mr O’Brien? You making Sly all nervous, you gonna end up with a bullet rattling around in your skull. You standing there so tight you nearly picked up that sofa with your ass. You listening to me, my friend? You okay? You look like you seen a ghost.’

Owen O’Brien looked grave. ‘I’m grand, Mr De Garza, just grand,’ he said, his tone much less antagonistic than it had been just moments earlier. ‘E. I. O’Leary appreciates everything you’ve done for us and sends his sincere apologies. I have half the money we owe you right here.’ O’Brien lifted the small black holdall at his feet and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. ‘The other half is thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic as we speak, on its way here. It’ll be delivered to you first thing tomorrow morning if that’s acceptable.’ O’Brien was suddenly desperate to get out of there. ‘I hope that’s okay,’ he concluded.

‘Can’t think there’s ever been a time when receiving money isn’t acceptable, Mr O’Brien,’ replied Hernando. ‘Why didn’t you say you had it with you? We could have saved ourselves some unpleasantries. Tomorrow will be fine for the rest of it, as long as it’s delivered no later than the close of play or I’ll start shooting every fucking Irishman I see, on sight. Sly here’ll show you out. Normally I’d get him to drive you wherever you want to go, but I think under the circumstances the less contact we have the better. You never know who’s watching these days. You in a hotel?’

‘The Radisson.’

‘Not too far to walk,’ said Hernando, dropping his head down like he was busy with something more important on the desk.

‘I wondered if there was any chance—’ O’Brien started to say, but Sly interrupted him, ‘No.’

O’Brien and Sly stared each other in the eye.

‘No what? You don’t even know what I’m going to say.’

‘I don’t give a fuck what you’re going to say, your time’s up. Mr De Garza is busy now. Can’t you see?’ Sly was already standing by the executive lift, beckoning O’Brien over.

The lift doors pinged open and Sly stood aside to let O’Brien past.

‘I think maybe I’ll take you in the rear . . . Sorry,
out
the rear,’ said Sly, giving O’Brien another cheeky smirk: playing the court jester now for De Garza’s amusement. O’Brien caught the half smile on Hernando De Garza’s face as the lift doors slid shut.

The two men stood in silence, Sly with a grin on his face and O’Brien watching the illuminated numbers decreasing as the private lift descended towards the basement. Eventually there was a slight shudder and it came to a stop.

As the doors squeaked open O’Brien took a step forward then spun round quickly from the waist and delivered a thick left hook that caught Sly full on the face. His head snapped back and smacked against the mirrored wall with a loud crack, then he slid – semi-conscious – to the ground, leaving a thin smear of blood marking the length of his fall.

‘That’ll wipe the grin off your face, ya cheeky fucker,’ said O’Brien as he lent over and pulled Sly’s Colt from the shoulder holster concealed under his jacket. Sly let out a low groan.

‘What was that? You’d like another one? Sure enough!’ said O’Brien.

He held the Colt high above his head then swung it in a wide arc across Sly’s face. ‘I wasn’t told anything about keeping
you
on-side.’

Owen O’Brien waited for the lights to change before crossing to the telephone kiosks on the other side of the busy junction. It was common practice around the world for law-enforcement agencies to bug kiosks in the immediate vicinity of well-known criminals’ residences or places of work, so he’d walked a couple of blocks north from De Garza’s building. He also wanted to make sure no one was following him and take a little time to think. The news item he’d just witnessed in De Garza’s office had set his mind racing.

O’Brien fed some coins into the slot then listened for the familiar UK ring-tone.

Only when the correct code word was given would he start talking. If he didn’t hear anything or the code word was wrong he’d hang up immediately and walk away. Usually the person at the other end would just listen, but O’Brien knew tonight would be different.

‘Peace Brother.’

‘The beginning of philosophy.’

O’Brien launched straight in.

‘Slim?’

‘Yeh.’

‘You know who I am?’

‘Of course!’

‘I’ve just seen a dead person on the news.’

‘Eh?’

‘Sean McGuire is not dead, I’ll say it again – not dead.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’