Stephen Leather - The Long shot

Howard nodded as he looked at the rifle. His father-in-law was right, the rifle was unusual.

“By the way, don’t forget about Sunday,” said Clayton.

“We’ll be there,” said Howard. “We’re looking forward to it.”

He left the office with his briefcase under his arm and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Joker flicked through the cable channels of the television in his room as he drank his way through the bottle of Famous Grouse. There seemed to be an unending stream of glitzy game shows, old situation comedies and Seventies police shows, punctuated with advertisements that insulted his intelligence. He waited until eight o’clock before leaving his room. Lights were going on around the city and the brightest of the stars were managing to make their presence felt in the darkening sky. He put up the collar of his pea jacket and hunched his shoulders against a biting wind that had begun to blow from the East River.

The file which the Colonel had given him to read in Hereford had included Pete Many on’s last report. Many on had been hanging around an Irish pub on the Upper East Side called Filbin’s while he was tracking Matthew Bailey, and Joker figured it was as good a place as any to start.

Filbin’s wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Dublin back street. It had small, leaded windows, a dark oak door and inside were wooden beams which ran the length of a narrow, smoke-filled room with a group of Formica tables and rickety wooden chairs at the far end. There was draught Guinness and Tennents lager and as impressive a range of malt and blended whiskies as Joker had ever seen. The bar itself ran for a good thirty feet, an edifice of polished wood and brass with no stools to get in the way, just a thick brass rod running along the bottom so that the hardened drinker’s position could be assumed with the minimum of effort. Joker stood with one foot on the rod and leant on the bar. He took off his wool hat and thrust it into his coat pocket. A small, pixie-like barman walked over, polishing a glass, and asked Joker what he was having.

“Do you have a Grouse?” Joker asked in his soft Irish accent.

“Aye, I have to work on St Patrick’s Day, but other than that I’m okay.” The barman said it deadpan, with no trace of a smile. He finished polishing the glass, put it in the gantry behind the bar and grinned impishly at Joker. “Seriously, it’s a Famous Grouse you want?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” said Joker. The barman poured a measure of whisky into a glass. “Make it a double,” said Joker.

The barman didn’t ask if he wanted ice but placed the glass and a jug of water in front of him, recognising a serious drinker. Joker thanked him and paid for the drink.

“The name’s Shorty,” said the barman.

“Aye, it would be,” said Joker. He carried his whisky over to a table and sat down. On the wood-panelled wall behind him were several framed black and white photographs of unnamed boxers. There were a dozen men in the bar and most of them appeared to be construction workers in jeans and heavy jackets, drinking pints of Guinness and speaking in Irish accents. Joker eavesdropped as he sipped his whisky, letting their accents and the rhythm of their speech wash over him. It had been almost four years since Joker had been in Ireland and he knew his accent would be a little rusty, though his cover story would allow for that. He tried to work out where the men were from by their accents: he was certain one was from Londonderry, and two were from the South, but his ear wasn’t as acute as it used to be. He knew that an Irishman could often tell to within twenty miles where a countryman came from just from the sound of his voice.

Two teenagers appeared in front of Joker. They were both wearing green T-shirts and had green scarves tied around their heads and one of them was carrying a green bucket. The taller of the two held his bucket out and Joker saw that it contained coins and banknotes.

“Anything for the cause?” the teenager asked. His accent was north Belfast, harsh and nasal, and he had the aggressive tilt to the chin that Joker had seen on countless teenagers standing on street corners in Northern Ireland, youngsters who used the power of the IRA as a way of intimidating others. They weren’t politically committed, they often had no idea what the ideas and the aims of the IRA were, other than that they wanted British troops out of Ireland, but by joining the organisation they could escape the boredom and hopelessness of the dole queue and gain some measure of self-respect. And a chance to skim a few pounds off the money they collected “for the cause”.

Joker took out his wallet. Behind the bar, Shorty polished a glass and watched.

“A dollar buys a bullet for the boys,” said the second youth.

Joker put a five-dollar bill into the bucket.

“Thanks, mister,” said the boy holding the bucket.

“Don’t mention it,” said Joker, smiling.

The two teenagers swaggered off and waved the bucket in front of the construction workers. Joker had seen such IRA fund-raising in Belfast drinking holes but had been surprised to see it so openly in the United States. He wondered if the Americans who poured cash into the IRA’s coffers knew where their money went. Irish-Americans had a romantic view of the IRA: freewheeling freedom-fighters battling an oppressive army which had no reason to be in their country. Joker knew what the flipside was. To him the IRA meant cowardly ambushes, bombs in crowded shopping centres and teenage soldiers shot in the back. Ceasefire or no ceasefire. He drained his glass and went to the bar for a refill. Shorty poured him another double Grouse and gave him a fresh jug of water. “I see you’re contributing to the cause,” he said conversationally.

“Will the money actually get there?” Joker asked.

“Oh, sure enough,” said Shorty, an evil grin on his face. “If they tried ripping off the boys in here, they’d lose their kneecaps before you could say Gerry Adams.” He chortled and put the clean glass back on the gantry. “I’ve been trying to place your accent. Where in Belfast are you from?”

“I moved to Scotland when I was a bairn, and I’ve been in London for a few years,” said Joker.

“Aye, I could tell that, right enough,” said the barman. “What brings you to the Big Apple?”

“Spot of bother with the taxman,” said Joker. “I thought I’d see if I can get work here for a while, until things have cooled down.”

“Yeah? What do you do?”

Joker shrugged. “Bit of everything. I’ve been a brickie, I’ve done some bar work, I pretty much take what I can get.”

“You got a Green Card?”

Joker laughed and raised his glass in salute. “Oh aye, and a return ticket on Concorde.” He leant against the bar and chatted with Shorty, all the while keeping one ear tuned to the Irish construction workers.

“How do I look?” Cole Howard asked, adjusting his tie in the dressing mirror.

“Are you going to wear that tie, honey?” said his wife, standing behind him. Howard sighed. Obviously that had been his intention, but equally obviously Lisa didn’t approve. She went over to his wardrobe and pulled out a blue silk tie she’d bought for him several Christmasses ago. “Try this,” she said, handing it to him. Howard had to admit that she was right. It looked much better with the dark blue suit he was wearing.

Lisa didn’t say anything but she stood next to the dressing table and waited for him to comment on her dress. It was a new one, pale green silk, low over the shoulder and cut to just below her knees. She’d fastened her long blonde hair back in a pony tail, a look which he knew her father preferred. Daddy’s little girl. Around her neck was a thin gold and diamond necklace, a present from Theodore Clayton. “Fabulous,” he said.