Seventy Times Seven (3 page)

It was only when he lifted his hand to wipe away the perspiration that he became aware of the pain in his shoulder.

Finn pulled his jacket aside and winced. His shirt was already covered in a dark, glistening slick of blood.

Finn O’Hanlon had always known this day would come. What surprised him most was the overwhelming sense of relief he felt: finally something was happening.

They wouldn’t stop until he was dead, but at least it would all be over.

Finn stared up at the cloudless blue sky. Over the years he’d come to realise that running to save your life was only worthwhile if you had a life worth saving.

Lep’s face – etched with deep lines and covered in scraggy stubble – revealed little more than a faint smile of recognition as he crossed himself and slid along the pew to sit behind Danny McGuire.

McFarlane had aged a lot since Danny had seen him last. His eyes were sunken and lifeless, his dark gabardine suit stained and threadbare, its elbows and cuffs worn to a sheen. He looked more like a peasant worker in an old black-and-white photograph than a young man of just thirty-four – the same age Danny’s brother Sean would have been were he still alive.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Lep as he shifted around uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat.

‘If you knew what I was thinking you wouldn’t have shown up,’ replied Danny as he pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose.

‘C’mon now, don’t be like that Wub,’ said Lep, acting offended. ‘I’m the first to admit that this is an odd one, but when you’ve heard what I have to say you’ll see there’s no reason to be setting yourself against me right from the off. Hear me out, that’s all I’m asking.’

Danny didn’t like being called Wub, particularly by Lep. It was a reference back to a shared past to which Lep McFarlane had given up all rights. If he said it one more time Danny would drag him out of the church and kick his skinny arse up and down Hill Street, but for now he let it pass.

They were sitting in St Patrick’s Cathedral: a stained-glass sanctuary in the middle of Newry. Lep believed he’d be safe there, as though the prayer and incense-laden surroundings somehow provided him with protection. Despite everything that had happened, he was hoping that Danny wouldn’t try anything stupid inside a church.

He was looking for an indication that everything was all right between them, but behind the glasses Danny’s eyes were dead.

‘The church is meant to be moving with the times,’ continued Lep in a reverential whisper. ‘You know, you’re still not allowed to light up? I’m gasping here. Been trying to cut back, but as soon as I have a drink I’m screwed. For every fag I
don’t
smoke I eat a bag of crisps,’ he said, trying to defuse the tension between them. ‘If the tar doesn’t get me the saturated fat will.’

Lep was aware that – so far – he was doing most of the talking. He was doing his routine, firing off a few one-liners, but it wasn’t working.

His hands were trembling. He tried to pull a cigarette out of its packet, but it flipped between his fingers and fell to the floor.

‘What’s this weather all about?’ he said as he fumbled to pick the cigarette off the floor. ‘It’s like living in a Tupperware box, with the lid on.’

‘Lep, just say what you have to say then be on your way,’ said Danny, bringing him up short.

Lep sat in silence for a long while with his head tipped forward like he was praying, but he was waiting for the words to come.

Eventually he said, ‘I want you to know I loved your brother like he was my own. You, your brother and your ma were like family to me . . . you
are
my family.’

Danny didn’t make eye contact. He sat staring at the floor. ‘If you’re here to offer your condolences, Lep, you’re eight years too late,’ he said under his breath.

‘I understand, Danny, fine. I understand,’ replied Lep.

‘You understand nothing,’ snapped Danny. ‘The night of the explosion‚ did you contact Órlaith or me and tell us what happened? Did you send flowers to Sean’s funeral? Did you even bother to phone my ma to say you were sorry?’ Lep felt Danny’s dark eyes burrowing into him, searching his face: they both knew the answer to the questions.

‘I got it all wrong, I know that Danny, but the situation was crazy. If I could swap places with Sean right now I’d do it in a heartbeat,’ said Lep.

‘I thought you were already dead. Where have you been hiding? Rumour was you cut a deal with the British and spent the last eight years in Long Kesh praying with the Protestants?’

Lep gave a wry smile.

‘Worse. I’ve been living in Dundalk surrounded by fugitives and farmers that couldn’t even spell the word “Protestant”. I’d
rather
have been in Long Kesh, I tell ye. At least in there ye’d get decent books . . . food’s better too. Dundalk’s like prison without the privileges,’ said Lep. ‘I know fine well what that big gobshite E. I. O’Leary’s been sayin about me over the years, and I’m telling ye, he’s way off the mark,’ he continued. ‘Spreading it round, that I’m an informer: that I was tipped off about the ambush that killed your Sean. Well, it’s just not true! I’ll be honest with you though, Danny: I don’t know what is the truth any more. I have my own reasons for not being there the night your Sean was killed and it’s got nothing to do with me being a tout for the Brits.’

Danny watched unmoved as the tears started to roll down Lep’s cheek. As far as he was concerned it was an act, and not a very convincing one.

Lep leant forward and whispered, ‘If I’d known what was going to happen that night I’d have been there, I swear. I’d never have left Sean to drive that car on his own. I loved your brother like he was my own.’

Danny had to stop himself from reaching behind and grabbing Lep by the throat. He wanted to throttle him, choke the life out of him for betraying his brother.

But at the back of his mind there was something troubling about McFarlane’s sudden reappearance. Lep must have known the risks involved in showing his face back in Newry. As far as the IRA was concerned he was a ‘Red Light’: stop at all costs. A shoot-on-sight prospect. And yet here he was risking everything to meet with Danny.

‘How did the SAS know which car was carrying the explosives, eh Lep? How did they know which car to start shooting at? You let Sean drive into an ambush and never said a word. You let my brother die.’

‘I didn’t know . . . ’ protested Lep. ‘For Christ’s sake Danny, talk to O’Hanlon, he’ll tell you. This guy says he knows who set your brother up. I swear on my mother’s grave it wasn’t me. He called me out of the blue, lives in the States. Says he knows what happened. I’ve got no idea who the fuck he is or how he tracked me down, but he said things; things that make me think he’s the real deal. He mentioned people, places, things that have happened, that he could only know if he was a player.’

Lep reached inside his jacket.

‘Hands out,’ said Danny, in case Lep was reaching for a weapon.

Lep ignored him.

‘Hands out yer jacket,’ barked Danny again as he reached over the pew and grabbed him by the hair, but Lep twisted round and managed to break Danny’s grip. He was strong for his size. As he pulled away Lep lost his balance and toppled backwards, catching his cheekbone on the edge of the bench.

‘I’m trying to get a piece of paper Danny. For God’s sake, what’s got into you?’ Lep was back on his feet.

Danny was taking no chances. He leapt over the pew and grabbed hold of Lep’s arm. As he twisted it up Lep’s back a Beretta fell onto the floor at Danny’s feet.

Danny grabbed it up and held it to the back of Lep’s head. Lep suddenly stopped struggling.

‘Over the years I’ve murdered you in a million different ways, you treacherous little bastard. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pull the fucking trigger right now.’

‘It’s for my own protection, Danny, I wasn’t going to use it. I was reaching for a bit of paper I swear to God. Just let me get it‚ okay, please.’

Danny could hear the fear in Lep’s voice: see it in his eyes. Whatever Lep said next would be the truth.

‘Do you think I’d risk everything if I didn’t think this was genuine? Talk to this guy. I’m wide open here, trying to make amends . . . please. I knew nobody would believe me: that’s why I disappeared after they murdered your Sean, but this guy O’Hanlon can back me up. There’s something else I need to tell you. This is why I wanted to see you. The security forces didn’t tip me off about the ambush, I swear,’ continued Lep. ‘I don’t know how he could have known, but . . . ’ Before Lep could finish he was interrupted by a loud metallic clunk, ringing round the thick chapel walls.

 Both men quickly sat down: acting as if nothing had happened.

Danny and Lep watched as a man wearing a green waxed jacket pushed open the large oak door and made his way down the aisle to sit in one of the rows towards the back of the church.

Everything about the guy was average: average height, average weight, average build. His hair was cropped short and he looked to be no more than thirty years old, but he’d already made a mistake.

Lep didn’t seem to care that someone else was within earshot. ‘Maybe someone tipped him off . . .’ he started to say, but Danny interrupted him.

‘Shut up‚ Lep.’

Danny had noticed straight away that something wasn’t right.

‘Just let me finish,’ continued Lep, but Danny stopped him again with an urgent whisper.

‘Shut your mouth‚ Lep.’

 The man in the green jacket sat with his hands clasped together deep in prayer.

Danny turned to Lep and said in a hushed tone, ‘If you move from this seat I’ll shoot you, understand!’

Danny then stood up and started to make his way to the back of the church.

Lep wasn’t the only one wondering what Danny McGuire was up to.

Undercover agent Al Ballantine watched McGuire walk to the back of the church and disappear from view.

When he thought it was safe Al turned to look.

A thin metallic click from a hammer being cocked just to the side of his left ear made him spin back the other way. He couldn’t see who was sitting behind, but he didn’t have to. The hard, blunt end of a gun barrel was pressed roughly into the base of his neck.

Danny held his finger up to his lips.

‘Shh! Here’s something to think about. If you want your future to be as long as your past you’d better not say a word: understand?’

Al Ballantine nodded.

Danny reached across, grabbed the green, waxy lapel of Ballantine’s jacket and ripped it open. He pulled a length of cable and a tape recorder from the inside pocket and dropped it on the floor at his feet, then stamped down heavily, crushing it into pieces on the hard stone floor.

‘You didn’t cross yourself,’ said Danny.

Al stared straight ahead and said nothing.

‘You should always pay your respects to the big fella when you enter his house, but you just walked in and sat down. You walked in and sat down like it was your
own
house you were walking into. You didn’t genuflect and cross yourself or even light a candle. How many self-respecting Catholics do you know would do such a thing?’ continued Danny. ‘Now, that lad over there and I are having a very important talk so why don’t you head back to your pals in E4A and tell them how your lack of respect for God blew your cover. I know you’re recording my every move at the moment, but this is a private conversation, so if you don’t mind . . .’

A voice from the other end of the church stopped Danny.

‘That’s enough!’

Father Anthony strode down the aisle towards them. ‘Please,’ he continued. ‘If you can’t behave properly in here then you’ll have to leave. Remember where you are.’

‘My point exactly, Father,’ said Danny as he slipped the gun back into his pocket and stood up. ‘Father Anthony, how you doin?’

Al Ballantine stood at the same time and pulled his jacket closed. The colour had drained from his face. He edged his way to the end of the pew and walked in silence towards the exit.

The priest was now standing level with Danny.

‘I don’t know what this is all about and I don’t want to know, but not in here, d’you understand?’

‘No problem, Father.’

‘Was that a friend of yours you were threatening to shoot in the neck?’

‘A member of the RUC on a close-surveillance outing.’

‘Interesting!’ replied the priest.

Danny heard the large church doors slam shut.

‘My, my, everyone seems in a hurry to leave: a Protestant and a ghost from the past, not my usual congregation. Was that the wee shite Lep McFarlane scurrying out the door there too?’ asked Father Anthony.

‘It used to be,’ replied Danny.

Danny bent over and picked the crumpled scrap of paper from the floor underneath Lep’s pew.

On one side it read: ‘Finn O’Hanlon, Apt B Four, The Glades, Cottondale 180218, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, USA.’

Danny turned the paper over and frowned.

‘You all right?’ asked the priest.

‘No,’ replied Danny.

On the other side Lep had scribbled:

SEAN WARNED ME ABOUT THE AMBUSH
.

He’d waited long enough.

Vincent floored the gas pedal and simultaneously released the handbrake, sending the blue Fleetwood lurching in a tight arc as he sped off down the road.

The car turned left onto Black Warrior Drive and slowed as it moved past a crowd of onlookers spilling onto the road outside McHales bar. At the centre of the throng was a body lying motionless on the sidewalk and although Vincent couldn’t see a face, he convinced himself it was Cola. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry he would have noticed the regulation banker-grey suit and the polished shoes of the deceased.

Not that it mattered: Cola’s limp corpse was just a few yards away inside the bar.

‘Guess your career in crime ended right where it started, asshole,’ Vincent muttered to himself. ‘That I do call a coincidence.’

Vincent was trying to make himself feel better: saying – out loud – everything he’d been thinking in the bar. But the adrenalin was starting to wear off and the only thing that could really make him feel better was a saline drip and a shot of morphine.

His left arm was swollen and sore: the skin around his elbow felt tight, like it was about to split. Vincent had been standing directly behind the fire-exit door when the first shot blasted through and hit him in the arm.

It was an amateur’s error on his part. He should have come at the door from one side like the cops did in the movies. Luckily for him the impact knocked him backwards out of the way of the other two shots, or he could have been sharing a body-bag with Cola.

Vincent could hear sirens wailing in the distance. It was time to get out of Tuscaloosa. He reached into his jacket and grabbed a pack of Lucky Strike, flipped the box open and using his good hand tapped out one of the sticks. Pulling the cigarette from the packet with his teeth he clicked the lighter on the dashboard into place, cursing as the traffic lights changed to red.

He was only a hundred feet further up the road and – in his rear-view mirror – could still see the commotion surrounding the body lying on the sidewalk.

Vincent cursed again. Casually strolling down the opposite sidewalk, like he was out shopping for groceries, was O’Hanlon.

‘Zippity-fucking-do-dah mister cool! Don’t look like you got a care in the world.’

Vincent reached for his gun and looked over his shoulder to get a better view, but he was too late: O’Hanlon had already disappeared. There was no point in giving chase.

In his present state Vincent knew he’d never catch up with him, and even if he did, the streets were too crowded to start pinging lead. The whole area would soon be swarming with cops.

All along he’d argued with Cola that they should hit the guy in his own home: do it in the middle of the night when no one was around. But Cola had it in his big, thick, coked-up head that the bar would be better. Make a show of it. ‘The guy lives in Cottondale man, he could be lying there dead for a couple of years before anyone would notice. Why make a show of it? We gonna put it on Broadway?’ Vincent’s argument was sound, but Cola wasn’t having it: wanted to do it his way.

Except now it was all fucked up.

O’Hanlon was up and walking around. Cola was no more. And if that wasn’t enough shit to clog up the sewer, Vincent was dripping blood all over his brand-new trousers.

‘Ain’t a show I’d buy a ticket for, bro‚’ he said to himself.

The lighter popped.

Vincent picked it out, pressed it to the tip of his cigarette and took a series of short puffs until the tobacco burst into a bright orange glow.

When the lights changed he jammed his foot to the floor again and looked in the mirror to see if there was any tyre-smoke as he pulled away, but there wasn’t.

‘Car can’t even pull a goddamn wheel-spin‚ man. Cola got something right: this ride is a biscuit tin on wheels.’

Vincent hadn’t travelled much further along the road when he came to a stop in a long queue of traffic waiting to turn right onto McFarlane Bridge. An early Easter rush of commuters heading for Highway Twenty, travelling north out of town. Now that he was on his own he figured he might as well go home and get cleaned up; maybe keep an eye on the news channels to make sure he wasn’t one of the headlines.

He checked he had enough gas for the journey then took another deep drag on the cigarette: the last thing he wanted to do was have to stop at a gas station in the condition he was in.

Suddenly a thought struck him.
Shit.
He was going to have to stop anyway.

Vincent scanned the street ahead and a few seconds later pulled the Fleetwood over to the kerb and got out of the car. The sidewalk was busy, but despite the fact he was covered in blood, no one seemed to be paying him much attention.

He fumbled in his pocket for some coins and made his way over to a bank of call boxes sitting adjacent to a well-stocked news-stand. Vincent lifted one of the receivers and thumbed in a number.

It was answered straight away.

‘Yeah.’

‘Yo. It’s Vincent.’

‘Vincent who?’

‘Vincent Lee Croll.’

‘Who?’

‘Cola Conrado’s partner.’

‘What you want? You finished already?’

‘Yeah. All taken care of.’

‘Then why the fuck are you ringing here?’

‘Cola asked me to call see where he’s supposed to pick up the money. We’s still in Tuscaloosa, but we could swing by whenever’s convenient.’

There was a silence at the other end of the phone.

‘What d’you mean where’s he pick up the money? We already paid half to the little cokehead, prick. You tell the drugged-up little asshole he’s losing his fucking mind. Put him on.’

‘He’s not with me right now, he asked me to call and check on his behalf,’ said Vincent.

‘Well tell him on my “behalf”, he does any more “shit” he’s gonna change from an Italian into a fuckin Columbian.’

Vincent heard people on the other end of the phone laughing in the background.

‘If he’s holding out on you‚ Vincent: that’s your problem. We paid him three thou, and that’s all he’s getting till we confirm for ourselves the job’s done. He knows the routine. One other thing‚ Vincent.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Fuck off.’

The line went dead.

Vincent slammed the phone back on its lever.

Three thousand?

Six thousand altogether!

Cola had told Vincent two thousand in total.

When he’d asked the lying little asshole why it was such a small amount Cola started spinning Vincent all sorts of shit about the economy and how things were so bad it had even affected the price of whacking: told Vincent it was better to be working than sitting round playing with your dick all day.

‘Half of something’s better than half of nothing,’ he’d said with that big thin-lipped grin that made Vincent want to smack him in the mouth.

‘Yeah, and half of six thousand’s a lot better than half of two, you little fucking dick-squirt,’ said Vincent out loud. A woman pushing a pram past him on the sidewalk gave him a look.

Vincent scowled back at her then hobbled painfully over to the car and clambered back in.

He pulled out into the stream of traffic and joined the queue again for Highway Twenty.

Cola was on his way to the morgue and Vincent had an idea where the little prick kept his cash. The more he mulled the situation over the better it looked. Vincent remembered a conversation he’d had with Cola when the two of them were stoned. Cola said he gave all his cash to his mom. Told Vincent it was perfect cause no one would ever think to look over at his mom’s place, she being so old and frail and all. Said she was the only person on this earth he trusted. The deal was she kept it hidden somewhere even Cola didn’t know: so he wouldn’t go blow it all on drugs. Couple of times he’d flipped out on her when he was high: threatened her with all sorts, but she still wouldn’t let on where the money was kept. That’s why she’d stayed loyal, hadn’t given up on her son, she knew that even in his worst, coke-fuelled rages he’d never lay a hand on her.

But Vincent was different.

He didn’t give a shit about the old bitch: it wasn’t
his
mom.

He smiled to himself. A plan was beginning to come together in his head. Vincent checked his gun: trying to remember how many shots he’d fired at O’Hanlon in the alleyway. He was using his fingers to count and steering at the same time.

One, two, three . . . so he should have seven left. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to waste any of them on Mrs Conrado but if he had to, seven should be more than enough.

First thing he’d do when he got to her house was get cleaned up – that would save him having to go home. He could borrow some of Cola’s clothes, maybe even lie low there for a few days. Act all dumb about where Cola might be. Make up some story about Cola telling him to wait there for him: make sure he remembered to unplug the television just in case the old bitch watched the news. It’d give him a chance to find out where the money was kept. Might even be a bonus in it for him on account of the extra running round he’d had to do. No point leaving any of it for the old lady. What’d she need money for at her age?

Once he had the cash he’d head back down to Cottondale and finish off the O’Hanlon guy, then go pick up another three thousand from De Garza’s boys. All he had to do was remember where he’d put the piece of paper with O’Hanlon’s address. Then he’d go do the job right. Whack him in his own home, the way it should have been done in the first place. He’d finish off Finn O’Hanlon: keep the money for himself, all six thousand of it.
Zippity-fucking-do-dah.

Trouble was if O’Hanlon went on the run – which was the most likely scenario – that part of the plan would be ‘my-oh-my,
not
such a wonderful day’. Also, if word got back to Hernando De Garza that the job hadn’t been finished properly then Vincent’d be in a whole lot of shit: he’d be better off whacking himself.

‘Pheeew! There’s a lot to consider, man,’ mumbled Vincent as he headed up the ramp onto Highway Twenty.

As the traffic thinned out he started to pick up speed.

Maybe he wouldn’t hang around too long at Cola’s mom’s. Probably best just shoot her straight off, find the money by himself‚ then drive back to Cottondale as quickly as possible before O’Hanlon took off.

Vincent nodded to himself: plan was sounding good. What did he need that sly little fucker Cola for anyway?

He’d have proved to De Garza he was capable of handling jobs on his own. He could tell the greasy Mexican fucker that from now on Vincent Lee Croll would be taking over Cola’s workload. He’d be all set up.

‘Yeah man.’

He reached over to wind the side window down before remembering it was jammed closed. The heat was unbearable and the smell of stale blood and sweat was starting to make him nauseous. He needed to get some air.

Vincent picked the gun off the passenger seat, screwed his eyes tight and pulled the trigger. The passenger window made a dull pop and filled the road behind him with thousands of tiny fragments of dancing glass.

It didn’t feel any cooler.

Only six bullets now: that should still be enough.

He squeezed the trigger again.

Five bullets.

A hole the size of a cupcake appeared in the windscreen.

The rest of the screen had shattered, but it was still in one piece. The problem now: Vincent couldn’t see a goddamn thing.

He raised his leg and kicked out, but nothing happened.

It took several attempts before the windscreen finally crashed onto the bonnet then slid onto the road and flopped haphazardly into the scrub.

It was noisy with the windscreen gone, but at least there was some airflow now and he could see where he was going again.

The faster he went the cooler the air felt on his clammy skin.

He wouldn’t swear on the Bible, but he was sure he was starting to feel a bit better.

‘Now we getting somewhere.’

Seconds later the Fleetwood veered across all three carriages of the highway and hit the central reservation at over a hundred miles an hour.

Vincent didn’t feel the impact.

He wasn’t aware of the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spin, or the tyres bursting, or the car flipping onto its roof. He wasn’t aware that when the car eventually came to a rest several hundred feet along the highway it was struck head-on by another vehicle, and that vehicle was struck by another, and it in turn by yet another.

Vincent was upside down; his head at a right angle to the rest of his body and his face caked with blood and dirt.

His eyes opened a slit.

‘Now we getting somewhere,’ he mumbled.