Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

Ok, that’s all right, Dermot announced.

So we get up and you don’t shoot us and we back out to the car and get away before the peelers come, ok, all slow and simple like, ok?

That’s ok. I agree, Dermot said.

Sunshine was tugging at my sleeve. I crouched beside him.

What? I asked.

Are you sure this is going to work? he asked.

I think so.

How do you know he won’t shoot us as soon as we get up? Sunshine said nervously.

He will shoot us as soon as we get up. That’s the whole plan, I said and took his.38.

Sunshine paled.

I looked over at Scotchy and did a little pantomime of my own now. I leveled the.38 and showed that I was going to keep it by my side and then bring it up fast to full extension and shoot. Scotchy looked at me quizzically, and then he seemed to understand. He whispered to Fergal, and Fergal shook his head before Scotchy pulled some sense into him by the hair. It was really just a copy of Scotchy’s dim-witted plan that I’d dismissed earlier as completely ridiculous, but there didn’t seem to be anything else. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been shot at; as it turned out, it wouldn’t be the last, either. I had the bottle to do it. If Scotchy had it too, we might just be ok.

Ok, Dermot, we’re getting up, no shooting now, I said, and then in a whisper to Sunshine: You better stay down.

I looked over at Scotchy. He was psyched. Say what you like about Scotchy being a dick and all, but he comes through for you when you need it.

I nodded.

He nodded.

Scotchy was ready and, shit, was that boy a fast one. Fergal you could discount, but Scotchy might do something.

The problem as I saw it was that with our handguns there was no way we could get in a decent shot at the opposition without exposing ourselves. With a machine gun you can spray at random, but a handgun needs a target. I’d figured-and Scotchy had telepathically agreed-that the boys with the heavy equipment would open up as soon as they saw us. The muzzle flash would show us where they were, and we could try to take them out with our pistols. Scotchy was a shot and I wasn’t bad myself, but the whole plan depended upon Dermot’s boys being an awkward squad and not really able to control a big gun like a Kalashnikov, which was hard enough to aim for a pro.

It was risky.

This won’t work, Sunshine said.

It’ll work, I said.

I nodded at Scotchy; he nodded back. We started getting up, and it all took place in an instant. Sunshine, of course, was right. It didn’t work.

Sure enough, we stood and the boys opened up, and they were so excited the weapons rose and tore big holes in the ceiling above our heads. I took the fire on the right-hand side and let go three rounds. Scotchy took the left and got off his whole clip. I wasn’t sure about him, but I might have hit something. It wasn’t enough, though, and both of us had to hit the deck again as the gunfire starting getting our measure.

You didn’t get them, Sunshine said.

I shook my head.

And it is true we didn’t kill them, but Fortune, however, had not completely neglected us. We had hit someone, and after a moment we could hear him yell. An argument began in Spanish.

The sirens now were even closer.

Dermot, can’t you see we’re all fucked? Completely fucked. You have to let us go. You go out the back way and we go out the front, I yelled.

Kill them, Dermot was screaming.

Fucking come on, Dermot, you fucking brainless cunt, Scotchy contributed.

I waited for the reply, but the argument was still going on, and then there was more gunfire. Scotchy leaned his gun over the top of the table and shot back blind. The shooting from their side lasted only another second, and then it stopped.

Jesus, Dermot, can’t you see we’ll all be in the shite? I yelled again.

I listened for any response, but this time there was complete silence. I looked at Scotchy and he shrugged his shoulders.

We heard the back door bang, and immediately Scotchy stood up.

They’ve fucking scarpered, he said.

It was all very fast now.

I pulled up Sunshine. Scotchy, suddenly all business, made a break for the back office to get cash and any papers relating to Darkey before the boys in blue got there. I followed, but before we got back there we saw Dermot lying sprawled on his side, bloody and quite dead on the floor. There were several big holes from the AKs.

Accident? Friendly fire? I asked him.

Scotchy shook his head, either to say he doubted it or didn’t know. I stood and looked at the body for a moment or two, paralyzed. It was the first corpse I’d seen since working for Darkey. Fergal snapped his fingers in front of my face.

Come on, he said.

To be told off by Fergal was just too much. I followed him to the back office. There was a blood trail that led to the back door. It began to fit into place. We’d hit one of the boys, the boys had wanted to go, Dermot had been against this proposition, and you don’t get into an argument with a couple of lads with Kalashnikovs. At least not at point-blank range.

The sound of sirens was close, a few streets off. There was a mini-safe in a false cupboard by the wall. Scotchy, whose talents I sometimes underrated, had already searched the drawers, found the safe, and was shoving it out.

You’re going to have to help me carry it, no time to open it, Bruce, he said.

Fuck it, I said.

Bruce, listen. Can’t leave anything for the cops. Give me a hand.

Thing must be twenty stone, I protested, but I was already putting away the.38 and crouching down.

Knees bent, keep your back straight, Scotchy was saying, calmly, as the sirens got still closer.

Do you want a hand? Fergal asked.

Get Sunshine out to the car and come back and then give us a hand, Scotchy ordered Fergal.

Fergal went off and we lifted up the safe. It was a complete bastard, and we got about ten feet before dropping it.

Fucker, come on, Scotchy yelled.

We picked it up and got it as far as the door before Fergal showed up to help.

Crowd, he said.

We carried the safe outside, and there was a bit of a crowd. About twenty, all men, some yelling in Spanish, most mute.

Get the boot open, Fergal, I yelled, and he went and opened it. Andy was revving the engine, nervous, shitting himself, no doubt. We dumped the safe and got in the car, Scotchy in front, all the rest of us in the back.

Is everybody here? Andy asked.

Drive, you fucking fuck, Scotchy yelled at him.

Some people clapped, and a man from the crowd told us to do a U-turn, ’cause the cops were coming from the other direction. He cleared the people and directed us down towards the river. I knew when the peelers did show up, he’d point them in exactly the opposite direction. Helpful bastard.

Andy was panicked and got us on the West Side Highway and then almost over onto the George Washington Bridge, but he got himself together and took us east and up into Inwood. We stopped the car and adjusted the safe so that the trunk closed properly and then Scotchy, Fergal, and Sunshine got out and took the train up in case they were looking for five people. I had to stay with Andy because I was still bleeding. Indeed, after all that, I was the only one hurt (not counting Dermot or his boy).

Andy was still close to hysterics and almost got us into three or four accidents.

You know, we drive on the right in America, I told him as he turned left into the left lane of an intersection.

Been here longer than you, he said huffily and got us on the correct side of the road.

Yeah, but I didn’t lose half my brain cells in a coma, Andy, I said.

Neither did I, Andy said, angrily.

True, half of nothing is still nothing, I said.