Stephen Leather - The Long shot

Fergus O’Malley ran a construction company based in Litchfield Park, to the west of Phoenix and close to Luke Air Force Base. He had a reputation for quality work at reasonable prices, and he’d built up a good solid business, employing more than fifty workers. Though he’d lived in Arizona for most of his fifty-seven years he continued to play on his Irish roots, to the extent of having a shamrock logo on all his trucks and speaking with an Irish lilt. Kelly drove her Buick onto the O’Malley lot and parked next to a flatbed truck piled high with scaffolding. Two young men in overalls stopped work to watch as she climbed out of the car and walked to the office building, a white envelope under her arm. One of them whistled, but Kelly didn’t react. She was used to the attention, and no longer resented being whistled at by strangers. She knew that the time to worry was when the whistles stopped.

O’Malley wasn’t a man to spend money on expensive furnishings, and his offices contained only the bare essentials. There was no couch for visitors in the reception area, just a desk where his secretary laboured over an old manual typewriter. She was pulling a file from a battered filing cabinet when Kelly walked in and asked to speak to the boss. Barely had she spoken to Fergus O’Malley over the intercom than the man came rushing through the door like a whirlwind, grabbing Kelly in a flurry of arms and clasping her to his chest. He lifted her clear off the ground so that her feet swung from side to side. “Kelly my darling girl, what’ve you been doing with yourself?” he boomed, squeezing the breath from her body. The envelope slipped from her grasp and landed on the floor.

“Uncle Fergus, would you put me down?” she asked. “Please.”

“Are you telling me I can’t hug my own fair niece?” O’Malley said, tightening his grip and planting a kiss on her cheek. She could smell whisky on his breath.

Eventually he lowered her to the ground, picked up the envelope and ushered her into his office. Like the reception area, a thin film of dust coated most surfaces. He saw her look of distaste and produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket with a flourish which he used to wipe clean a chair. “Sit, sit,” he said, handing her the envelope and leaning against his paper-strewn desk. “And tell me what brings you out to my neck of the woods.” Kelly opened her mouth to speak but O’Malley held up his hand. “Drink?” he said. “Coffee? Tea? A drop of the hard stuff?”

Kelly shook her head. “I’m fine, Uncle Fergus. But don’t let me stop you.”

“Kelly my girl, I was hoping you’d say that,” he said with a smile and dashed around the desk with a speed that belied his bulk. He was a bear of a man, his work jeans stretched tight around an expanding waistline and the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up around thick forearms. His big hands were square and weatherbeaten and the skin on his face was roughened from years working out in the open. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of whisky. He found a glass hidden under a stack of receipts and poured himself a decent measure. “Here’s to you; may your life be filled with laughter, may your pockets be filled with gold.” He raised the glass in salute, and drank deeply. Kelly laughed. O’Malley returned to his perch and looked at her with affection. “So, what’s up?”

Kelly opened the flap of the white envelope with a scarlet fingernail and took out one of the photographs it contained. “I wondered if you might know this man,” she said, and handed it to O’Malley.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he studied the photograph. “What makes you think I’d know him?” he asked.

“He’s Irish,” said Kelly.

O’Malley looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “If you don’t know who he is, how do you know he’s from the old country?” he asked.

Kelly smiled. “Uncle Fergus, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” he said, and took another drink from his glass.

“He rented a car, and the woman he spoke to said he had an accent.”

“Americans can’t tell the difference between Irish, Australian and South African, you know that. They all sound the same to them.”

Kelly shook her head. “I played her some tapes, and she recognised the accent as Irish.”

O’Malley beamed and raised his glass again. “Smart girl,” he said.

Kelly felt a warm glow inside. Normally she didn’t feel the need for praise; she regarded it as just another technique men used to try to get through her defences. But her uncle was different and she was pleased that she’d impressed him. “So, do you know him?”

O’Malley looked at the picture and shook his head. “He looks familiar, but I can’t put a name to the face.” He handed it back to her.

Kelly studied his face, looking for the signs that would let her know that he was lying, but his eyes returned her scrutiny with a steadiness that reassured her. She passed him the computer-enhanced photograph of the blonde woman. “What about her?”

O’Malley’s reaction was transparent. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened and he shot up off the desk. “Where did you get this?” he said.

“The desert,” she said.

“Recently?”

“Uh-huh. Uncle Fergus, the suspense is killing me. Who is she? Do you know her?”

“I do, girl. That I do. But Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what the hell is she doing in Arizona?”

Rashid threw the damp towel onto the floor and pulled on an old pair of men’s pyjamas. She was tying the trouser cord when the door to her bedroom slowly opened to reveal Rich Lovell standing there, leaning on the jamb with a sly grin on his face. “I sort of assumed you wouldn’t be wearing a Victoria’s Secret nightgown,” he said, looking her up and down.

“Get out of my room,” she hissed, fastening the top button of her pyjama jacket.

“Come on, Dina,” said Lovell, “why are you playing so hard to get?”

Rashid picked up a hairbrush and sat down at her dressing table where she ran it through her long hair with firm, even strokes. She watched Lovell in the mirror as he closed the door behind him. “If you don’t get out, I’ll call Carlos,” she said quietly.

“He doesn’t scare me,” said Lovell, walking up behind her and massaging her shoulders.

“Then you are truly a fool,” she said, continuing to brush her hair.

Lovell’s fingers tightened around her neck. He bent down and kissed her shoulder. She felt his beard scratch against her skin. “It’s been five weeks since I’ve had a woman, and you really turn me on.”

She stood up quickly, startling him, and she held out the hairbrush like a knife. “It’s not mutual, Lovell. You repulse me.”

Lovell grabbed the brush and tossed it to one side, then stepped forward and held her tightly against him. He tried to kiss her on the lips but she brought up her knee into his groin, missing his testicles but hurting him nonetheless. She pushed him hard in the chest and he staggered back, breathing heavily. He moved to grab her again but she stopped him by raising her hand. He waited to hear what she had to say, his eyes wild. “Just go,” she said. She could see his erection pushing at the crotch of his jeans.

“No,” he said.

She shook her head. “You couldn’t handle it,” she hissed.

“Handle what?” he said, confused.

“Me,” she said. “You couldn’t handle the way I fuck.”

He smiled evilly. “Try me,” he said.

Rashid licked her lips slowly. “You want it, you bastard? Well I’ll give it to you. But you’ll be sorry.” Lovell stepped towards her but she held up her hands again. “No,” she said. “You do it my way or you don’t do it at all.”