Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

Two days ago, someone saw you in here, someone who also was there at the bar. And yet I’d heard that you were dead, he said.

From who?

It had been put around that you and your crew had been killed in Mexico, murdered for skimming cream off the top. It had been put around that if that’s what happened to friends think what would happen to enemies.

Oh, I said stupidly. If I’d been quicker, I’d have seen right there what the game was, but there was too much information for me to process at once. Something going on, but I couldn’t figure out what. If it were me, I would never in a million years hire someone who wasn’t a countryman or an old friend. You never go to strangers for this kind of deal. You can never know them well enough. Look at Mrs. Gandhi and her Sikh bodyguards, proof enough right there. The emperor Darius, another example. I had to think pretty quickly. First, was he threatening me? If I didn’t take the job, was he going to tell Darkey I was here? Second, what was the hidden agenda? What was it? Ok, thinking. The second part of it I wasn’t going to get tonight. Too smart for that. The first I might. I decided the best thing was just to come right out and ask him.

Listen, uh, mister, uh, Ramón.

Yes.

Listen, Ramón, are you threatening me? If I don’t take the job are you going to spread it around where I am?

He looked very serious. His lips narrowed, his eyes didn’t blink.

I assume you do not mean to be insulting. Please take my card and think it over. We can help each other. That’s all.

He handed me a card. It was white and had a phone number on it, nothing else. He turned round and his boys all got up at once. They all walked out without another word.

The door closed behind them, and I knew immediately I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted to stay in New York, I’d have to go with him. Even if Ramón wasn’t going to say anything, sooner or later it would come out. Darkey had more men and resources. Sunshine would see to it that Mr. Duffy knew there was a problem. Mr. Duffy had dozens of people whom he could call upon to dispose of an irritant like me. In half an hour, my world was somewhere in my fucking whips.

I had no choice. And I knew then. No more spying on Bridget, no more meditating on the roof. The honeymoon was over. I called the number an hour later.

Ramón, I-

He cut me off. He said to say nothing, that he liked to do important things in person and he would come back down. I hung up, both irritated and strangely pleased with this way of doing biz. He came back in just before two. The place was deserted. He came alone. No boys.

He sat opposite.

You’ve decided, he said.

I stuck out my hand.

Ramón, I said, where thy lodgest, I will lodge, and thy people will be my people and thy god, my god.

He smiled and shook my hand.

And that was that. I went home. Stripped, showered, went to bed. It was all done. Ramón was to be the facilitator. I lay there. Harlem out there in the night, alive and beautiful. I lay and listened.

Ramón is the conduit they’ve chosen, I said. The last piece.

I closed my eyes and put my hands behind my head. I rested in the long, cold arms of Nemesis and readied myself for the blows to come.

Ramón turned out to be a brief, enigmatic, but useful presence in my life. He oozed charm and charisma. Gentle, quiet, persuasive, but that’s what they sometimes said about the Führer, and you couldn’t forget that Ramón’s crew was responsible for about a murder a week, although he might say in justification that this was only self-defense. Not that my hands were completely clean on that score (if you counted Dermot) and in any case what was my excuse for the murders yet to be?

They got me a flat on 181st Street on the fifth floor of a building that looked right over the George Washington Bridge and the Hudson. The apartment was amazing, with hardwood floors and long windows and modern appliances, twice the size of the place I’d been in on 123rd Street, and the neighborhood was good. The 180s near the river was a little Jewish section in the middle of Dominican Washington Heights. Mostly older folks, who got on well with the majority community.

My apartment was airy and wonderful. At night, when I wasn’t working, I’d sit and look out the big bay living-room windows. There’s a bit in Citizen Kane when one of Kane’s buddies is being interviewed in a nursing home and in the background you can see the GWB, and that’s exactly the view I had-except in color.

Nominally, I had become part of Ramón’s inner circle: a “lieutenant.” He employed me as a bodyguard, and a shifty little man called José gave me an Uzi submachine gun and a Colt.45 semiautomatic. I’d fired a Colt ACP before, a huge, loud, terrifying weapon that was standard issue to U.S. Army officers for seventy years, so the gun must have had some good qualities. I, however, couldn’t shoot the thing. I mean, it’d blow the head off anything closer than twenty feet, but for me, at least, it was horribly inaccurate at distance. Also, the magazine would jam, and it made me jump when flames would come out of the barrel. And, of course, I hadn’t fired an Uzi. The British Army would never countenance such a silly and vulgar weapon, and I mistrusted it right from the start. I wore a custom jacket that Ramón had a tailor make up for me and carried both guns in shoulder holsters, but the Uzi I kept on the right-hand side without the clip in to make it a bit more comfortable.

Ramón never once revealed his real plans for me and I, for one, simply could not buy his story of needing reliable men. The morning after our meeting, a van showed up for my stuff, such stuff as I had. I didn’t see Ramón for the next few days. He told me about the apartment on the phone and hinted that he might meet me there, but I waited for him and he didn’t appear. The super saw me in and around and refused a twenty-dollar tip.

The next day, José showed up with a tailor. He gave me five hundred dollars in hundreds and told me to get some shirts and a pair of shoes. A man came and installed premium cable and a phone. Furniture was delivered from Pier 1.

A couple of days after that, a car came for me and took me down to a restaurant near Ramón’s place. It was early evening and Ramón introduced me to the lieutenants, who were polite but not particularly friendly. Everyone spoke Spanish all the time. After the introductions I was fitted out with my weapons, and I just sat there sipping Corona.

My whole role in the setup seemed completely false and out of place, but Ramón did his best to make me feel comfortable by having the occasional conversation with me in English about sports and the weather. At eleven o’clock, after what I suppose had been a getting-to-know-you meeting, I rode a cab back to 181st Street.

The next day, I was summoned down again. This time to his loft. The lieutenants were out pounding the beat and I was alone with Ramón, José, and the two bodyguards.

My real job was the unspoken thing between us. He knew that I suspected that it was all a fabrication, and what’s more, he knew that I knew that he knew, but he kept his lip shut.

Ramón, if I’m your bodyguard, why don’t you want me to live here? I asked him.

You’re my bodyguard on important occasions. You have a very special role, Michael, he said. That seemed to end the conversation, and I nodded. Ramón went back to his paper.

I spent the afternoon there. Ramón went into his study and closed the door, and in the evening, the lieutenants came back again with the money.

If you’ve seen any of the druggy ghetto-fabulous films of the ’80s and ’90s, you might have the wrong impression of Ramón’s lifestyle. It’s true that he lived in a nice loft, but there was only one girl (Carmen, a slender, frumpy little thing who lived with her mother at night and only sometimes came to see Ramón in the evenings) and no partying, and no one was allowed to sample the product. Ramón’s place contained a white sofa, a dozen white leather lounge chairs, a huge stereo, many CDs, a few coffee tables, but also an enormous mahogany bookcase with books in English, Spanish, and French. The living room must have been the size of a basketball court and the furniture appeared so tiny in this space that it had an ascetic feel to it. Ramón, I think, enjoyed bucking people’s expectations of him. He often had people up there, and it was never the way they expected it to be. An old building in the 150s on the river, huge and bare, overlooking a gloomy, leafless park. It sat above three derelict floors of an old middle school. To get up to it, you had to climb the outside fire escape. I suppose that this was for security reasons, although it’s conceivable that he could have just been saving his money for the time when he could have the whole building done over in suitable style.