Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

He didn’t mean to show a reaction but he did. His eyes widened slightly. He knew who she was.

“What’s yur neem?”

“Michael Forsythe.”

“Ok. Did ye breeng anyting else illegal?”

“No,” I said and turned out my pockets. The customs agent went through my stuff anyway. He noted the fifteen thousand dollars of Bridget’s money and a couple of grand of my own there too. He stared at me for a moment and his eyes drifted back to the cash.

It gave me an idea. I toyed with it, dismissed it, floated it again.

But this was the situation. If they arrested me, it would take me a couple of days to hit bail, and the wee lassie could be dead, or in the Hare Krishnas, or a member of a biker gang, or taking drugs in some dingy flat, long before I could be of any assistance. Once again I’d be bloody straight into Bridget’s bad books. Michael the traitor, Michael the fuckup. And to overegg that custard Bridget or anyone else then would have an excellent opportunity of killing me while I waited on remand in an Irish jail.

That was option 1.

But there was always option 2.

What about it then? Just looking at him, I knew he wasn’t going to let me go with a stiff talking to. I was too old and he was too old for that. Aye, it would have to be the other way.

His greedy eyes on the money.

Bringing in a few harmless leaves was no big deal but attempting to bribe a government official could get me seriously fucked. If he took it badly, he’d report me and they’d throw the book at me. I could be facing years, not months; also, there was no way he could ignore it. He might be irked. Beyond irked. Seriously pissed off. “Some Yank scumbag comes in here attempting to bribe me with his wad of cash. I’ll bloody do you, mate.”

Yeah, but…

I was a friend of Bridget Callaghan and he’d heard of her. Maybe even was a little afraid of her. Jesus, it was a lot to weigh in my mind.

“Why don’t ya teek a seat and I’ll inform ye of yer rights,” the man said and I could more or less follow him completely now.

I sat down. Now or never.

Every year The Economist publishes a table of the countries whose public officials are amenable to bribery. Denmark is always near the bottom of the table, the very least subornable in the world. Try to talk your way out of a traffic ticket in Copenhagen and they’ll bung you in the slammer. India is at the top with the most corrupt officials. It’s not even really seen as corruption out there, it’s just the way business gets done. Now where did Ireland fit in on the scale? I tried to remember. Somewhere between Britain and America on the lower part of the page.

I gave the agent the final once-over. An old whiskey-breathed sad sack, who clearly hated work, me, himself. He might just respond to the right level of incentive program.

“I’m really sorry this had to happen; I use the coca leaves for purely medicinal purposes, they’re not illegal in Peru, I forgot they were in my bag. Of course, it’s no excuse. Is there any way I can pay an on-the-spot fine and get out of here? Bridget Callaghan is expecting me.”

The man regarded me closely. He looked at the fifteen thousand dollars in bills sitting on the table. He closed his eyes.

He was thinking about it.

Good.

“De ye have a contact for Miss Callaghan?” he asked.

“I do,” I said and gave him Bridget’s phone number in the Belfast Europa.

“Jus a moment,” he said, took away my passport, and left the room.

He hadn’t given me his name. He hadn’t told me where he was going. I sat down on the chair. Waited.

Twenty minutes later he came back.

“You’re who ye say ye are. I have a great deal of respect for Miss Callaghan. The fine’ll be about two thousand dollars, that’s the equivalent to the euros,” he said, and involuntarily licked his lips in anticipation.

“I’d like my passport back,” I said.

He gave me the passport and took the coca leaves and threw them in a garbage can behind him. I counted out two thousand dollars, gave them to him.

I wondered if he had indeed called Bridget at the Europa. It would have woken her up, but more than that, it would have alerted her that I was back in the country. I’d have to be on my toes.

Then again, he didn’t seem the type to call. He was just killing twenty minutes out there, making me sweat while he thought it over. He could really do what he liked. It was four in the bloody morning. There were no other customs inspectors on.

I was pleased with myself. A good guess on my part. Two thousand was about the right price for this unimaginative, pathetic, small-time shitehawke.

“Thanks very much,” I said. “I won’t let it happen again.”

I repacked my bag, patted the dog, left the customs office, and walked through the Green Channel.

My trials, however, weren’t over just yet.

A man from the department of agriculture.

“Did you visit any zoos in America?”

“No.”

“Farms?”

“No.”

“Agricultural research stations?”

“No.”

An assassin entering the country was one thing, but the prospect of diseased feed or potato blight or another mad cow epidemic sent the Irish around the bend.

“Have you ever had occasion to eat squirrel, flying squirrel, capybara, or other rodents?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes and answered all the stupid questions.

Another half hour of officialdom and when I was done finally I went to the bathroom, washed my face, walked out of the airport and into my first Irish day in a very long time.

Buses had taken away most of the passengers from my plane and the rest had gotten the few remaining taxis. A typical charming summer’s morning in Ireland. A cold, gray sky and a freezing wind skewering in from the Irish Sea. I shivered in my thin leather jacket, Stanley work boots, and jeans. I didn’t even have a hat. At least the sun was already coming up. June 16 marks the earliest sunrise in the northern hemisphere and there would be light now until close to midnight since it was the week of the summer solstice. I went to the taxi rank. Only one car lurking over there. A black, slightly beatup, Mercedes. The cabbie drove over and stopped the car beside me. I hopped in the back.

“Connolly Station,” I said.

“The station it is,” the driver said, and after that encounter with the customs agent I could understand the accent completely now. It just took you a minute or two to get back in the game. Ireland has about three or four major regional accents. Some of them very hard to follow. In Northern Ireland I can put a man within twenty miles of his hometown and in the south fifty. Or at least I could before my long years of exile.

The driver looked at me in the mirror, switched off the engine, turned around.

“That’ll be twenty euros, is that all right?” he said.

“Sure… but I’ve only got dollars, ok?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t take dollars.”

I swore inwardly. Another Irish subtlety I’d forgotten. Don’t give details when you don’t have to.

“Come on, mate, just get going,” I said.

“I don’t take dollars, you’ll have to get change,” the taxi man insisted.

“You don’t take dollars at all, never?”

“No, I could lose me license.”

“Come on, do me a favor. I’ll give you fifty bucks if you just get cracking,” I said.

“You’re going to have to get change, pal, euros, or else you’ll be walking where ya want to go,” the driver said, getting somewhat hot under the collar. I looked at him in the mirror. He was about my age, wearing a Manchester United beanie hat and a thick sweater with reindeer on it. Big build, fat, frothy lips, the skin tone of a granite statue. A Dublin accent, but a hint of the north in it too.