Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

A quick scan of the phone book. A ten-minute walk from the Malt Shop.

Councillor Clonfert’s offices were in a new glass-and-steel building off the Ormeau Road, near the BBC.

The entire ground floor was an IRP “advice center” for his constituents. There were a couple of hard men looking for work as well as some genuine local people there to complain about the drains, the trash collection, and the noisy neighbors. The place was painted a blushed shade of rehab-facility pink. There were posters of smiling children, of all races, holding hands. Embroidered along an entire wall was a Bayeux-style tapestry, also either done by children or mentally challenged adults, depicting scenes of daily life in Ireland. Scenes that were frozen in time about 1927. Sheep farmers, dairy farmers, fishermen. And above these scenes of mythical rural idyll was emblazoned the baffling IRP motto: “Peace, Power, Prosperity.”

I found a receptionist whose name tag said she was called Doreen. Older broad with a poisonous expression and a blond Partonesque wig.

“Doreen, I’d like to speak to Garrett, please. I’m an old friend of his. Name’s Michael Forsythe.”

“Councillor Clonfert is on a conference call with Brussels at the moment,” Doreen said with a hateful smile. “If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat, I’ll see-”

I interrupted.

“Doreen, I don’t mean to be rude but this is extremely urgent. Could you please tell him that Michael Forsythe wants to see him.”

Doreen looked across at the two heavies who were sitting on a sofa reading the Keira Knightley issue of Vanity Fair.

“Listen, Doreen, there’s no need to get your goons involved. I’m not a troublemaker. Please, just call up Garrett and I’ll guarantee you he’ll want to see me,” I said quietly.

Doreen picked up her telephone and turned away from me. She spoke very quietly.

“I’m so sorry, Councillor Clonfert, but there’s a gentleman here to see you, he’s says it’s very urgent. He says his name is Michael Forsythe, I can get Richard to see him off the… Oh, ok. Ok. I’ll send him right in.”

Doreen looked at me with a bit more respect.

“Mr. Forsythe, you take the door behind me and then it’s the first door on your left. I’ll buzz you in,” she said.

She pressed a button on her desk and the massive armored door behind her swung open. Garrett would have needed this level of additional security because you never knew who might try and kill him. Because I seemed to be an old friend, she’d hadn’t got the two ganches to pat me down.

That might be handy.

Outside Garrett’s office there was a poster of pastyfaced Irish weans standing on Blackpool Pier with the words “Vote Clonfert: A Bridge to the Future” underneath. Might have been nice if the photographer had used an actual bridge.

To catch him off guard, I tried to open Garrett’s door without knocking but the handle didn’t turn.

“Who is it?” he yelled from inside.

“Michael Forsythe,” I said.

“It is you. Wait a second, Michael, and I’ll buzz you in.”

The door buzzed. The handle turned.

He was sitting at a large oak desk in a massive office. Behind him, through an enormous window, I could see the BBC building and cloudy Belfast.

Leather chairs, a leather sofa. Computers and a stereo playing Radio 3. Art prints on the wall: a Gauguin full of naked Polynesian girls and the detail from Klimt’s Three Ages of Woman that cuts out the old broad. On one side of his desk a photograph of Councillor Clonfert getting lost in a three-way hug with Senator Ted Kennedy and Congressman Peter King at the unveiling of the Irish famine memorial in New York City. On the other side a photo of Garrett with an attractive younger woman and a little girl.

Garrett stood and offered me his hand. He had put on weight since last I’d seen him, but he looked good. Late thirties, sandy hair, smooth cheeks, and warm open eyes and smile. He was wearing an Italian tailored silk suit in a fetching shade of burgundy. It was flashy for Belfast, and a canary yellow silk tie didn’t help tone him down.

“Michael Forsythe, as I live and breathe,” he said.

“Chopper Clonfert,” I said.

We shook hands.

“Sit down, sit down. Cigar? They’re very good,” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“Michael Forsythe, Michael Forsythe. You’re a bit of a legend, aren’t you?”

“Nah, not really. You’re the star, Garrett. Councillor, assembly-man- I’m very impressed.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just doing my bit for the people. A life of service turned out to be my calling.”

“Very good of you, I’m sure.”

His eyes went glassy as he remembered the old days.

“Jesus, Michael Forsythe. I haven’t seen you since way back. Boy, oh boy, I couldn’t believe it when I heard you’d joined the British army. I’m glad you got out and I didn’t have to kill you,” he said with a big laugh.

“Maybe I would have killed you.”

Garrett laughed again.

“Oh, don’t worry, you don’t have to brag, I know all about you, Michael. I heard about your exploits in America.”

“What ya hear?”

“You killed Darkey White over money. That’s the story on the street.”

“It’s close enough,” I said.

“What are you doing with yourself these days? Maybe I got the wrong end of the stick, but I’d been led to believe that you were living a secret identity, in the witness protection program,” Garrett said.

“Aye.”

“I heard you were in Australia.”

“No, I wasn’t… Listen, Garrett, I’d love to talk about old times and your rise to fame and fortune, but I came here because I need your help.”

Garrett’s smile disappeared from his face.

“You need my help?” he said suspiciously.

“Yeah.”

“Michael, um, these days I have to keep within the letter of the law, I’m running for parliament and-”

“Garrett, it’s nothing illegal. I’m working for Bridget Callaghan, her wee girl-”

“I know. Her wee girl ran away with some fella and she’s been doing her nut, sending her boys everywhere looking for her. I know all about it.”

“Aye. Well, her boys have drawn a blank and the cops have been fucking useless and now they’ve received a ransom demand.”

Garrett nodded slowly.

“Have they now? So she’s been kidnapped.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“I heard she ran off. Maybe she staged it to get her ma’s money.”

I was getting a little impatient with this.

“Garrett, regardless of how it happened, I’m trying to find her and I’d like you to help me.”

Garrett pushed his chair back on the rollers, creating a psychological and physical distance between us. You didn’t need to be a head shrinker to read those signs.

“You owe me a favor, Chopper,” I said.

He laughed.

“A favor? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“For the van full of nicked whisky. If I hadn’t torched it, blown it the fuck up, you would have done five years for that.”

Garrett shook his head.

“No way, Michael. I would have bought my way out of that one. I would have done what I done, no matter if you’d torched that van or not. Stop kidding yourself, mate. I don’t owe you a fucking thing.”

I closed my eyes. Seethed. This was the wrong thing to say to me on the day I’d had.

“Take that cigar now,” I said.

Garrett opened a box on the table, took out two cigars, cut the end off, lit them both, and passed one to me.

“Michael, let’s go get some lunch. I’m happy to see you, let’s talk about what you’re about and what you’ve been up to. It’s fascinating that you’re actually working for the woman who, I heard, had a million-fucking-dollar contract on ya. I mean, for Jesus’ sake.”