Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

“Seamus is mixed up in the disappearance of Bridget Callaghan’s daughter?” O’Neill asked. The old man’s face looked even more ashen. His lip was trembling. He was clearly upset.

“I don’t know about that. But he knows something about Barry’s death. Maybe the gunman needed Seamus’s permission to kill one of his dealers.”

O’Neill scoffed. “Seamus couldn’t give permission to get a dog’s hair cut. I’m in charge round here and nobody asked me about it.”

“Well, he heard something. I need to know about it. Time’s running out. When Seamus told me where Barry lived, he told me specifically that the information wouldn’t do me any good. He knew Barry was topped. The cops hadn’t found him and the neighbors didn’t know.”

O’Neill looked thoughtful.

“You really think the person who killed this Barry is involved in Siobhan Callaghan’s kidnapping?”

“He has to be.”

“And Seamus knows who did it?”

“I went to the boat before it sank, nothing had been touched. The lock was all done up with wire. The last person there was the killer.”

“Maybe somebody blabbed,” he said, coming to the conclusion that had also occurred to me.

“Belfast’s a pretty closemouthed town,” I added with a touch of skepticism.

“Aye, but it’s not like in your day, Michael. We can’t go around murdering witnesses anymore, not with the cease-fires.”

“Will you help me?” I asked.

“Michael, we’re both intelligent men. You and I know that it’s in our own best interests that Bridget Callaghan gets her daughter back in one piece. If finding who killed that boy can bring you closer to Siobhan, I’m sure Miss Callaghan will look more favorably upon us rather than her other potential business partners.”

“I’m sure she would.”

He nodded.

“Give me a minute,” he said. He pulled a cell phone out of his inside pocket and dialed the number. He turned the volume loud so I could hear the conversation too.

“Seamus, it’s me,” O’Neill said.

“Are you ok? Been hearing lots of things,” Seamus said with a tiny trace of disappointment in his voice that both O’Neill and I picked up on.

“Seamus, you listen to me and you listen good. I have heard that you have been fucking playing me. I have heard that you have been trying to make a fucking monkey out of me,” O’Neill began.

“What are you talking about?” Seamus complained.

“You better start packing your bags, Seamus, because I’m putting a contract out on you right now. You only wanted Michael Forsythe killed because he was close to finding out that you were involved in Siobhan Callaghan’s disappearance. That whole fucking operation at the boat was to cover your white Irish arse.”

“It’s a lie. I had nothing to do with that wee girl’s disappearance,” Seamus protested.

“Did you not? Well, I have information to the contrary. You wanted that boat sunk, you wanted Forsythe dead because one of your dealers lifted her. You wanted Forsythe out of the picture because he knew the fucking truth.”

Body’s eyes twinkled with merriment. He was enjoying this.

“That’s bullshit, I didn’t know the boat was going to sink. I swear to God, Mr. O’Neill, I knew nothing about any kidnapping,” Seamus said in a panic.

“How did you know Barry was already dead on the boat? How did you know he was fucking dead?”

“Gusty McKeown did it. Him and some fella from out of town. Gusty got the guns from me. Wanted a whole lot of guns. I had to ask him what it was about and he told me they had to top some wee fuck for reasons that he wasn’t allowed to divulge. So I said what wee fuck is that and he tells me and I say that’s my wee fuck and I ask for extra as compensation, you know. But I says ok cos they wanted Russian machine guns and Glock pistols and the whole works and were paying top dollar. With the guns and the compensation, it was fifteen large. I swear to God I was going to give you your cut, but I just hadn’t got round to it.”

O’Neill put his hand over the receiver and looked at me.

“Is that what you need?”

“Where would I find Gusty?” I said.

O’Neill spoke into the phone again.

“Where would I find Gusty?” he asked Seamus.

“Shit, I have no idea, Mr. O’Neill, he lives in the… oh, wait a minute, I think Andy knows something. Hold on… Mr. O’Neill, Andy says he’ll be at the fights at the Dove Tavern on Brazil Street.”

I nodded at O’Neill. That’s what I wanted.

“Talk to you later, Seamus,” O’Neill said and hung up his phone.

He looked grim. He had discovered a lot about Seamus. The poor wee blabbermouth would be lucky if he saw out the night.

“You going over to the Dove?” he asked me.

“Aye.”

“You’ll need a password to get into the fights. It’s always a historical figure. This week I think it’s Henry Joy McCracken.”

“I just say ‘Henry Joy McCracken’?”

“Aye, that’s it.”

O’Neill put out his hand. I shook it and helped him to his feet.

“I like you, Michael, I’m glad things worked out the way they did,” he said. “You are not lacking in honor.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I better get cracking. You, too, if you don’t want those peelers down your neck.”

“Good luck. And remember, Forsythe, this is my town. I hope you don’t keep leaving a trail of bloody destruction in your wake.”

“Well,” I said, reflecting upon his words, “the night is young.”

The day has shed its skeleton and the dark is finding corners all over the city. It has taken until this time for the sun to finally dip behind the surrounding hills. A night of smothering blackness and a yellow moon. Stars beginning to show between the clouds.

Dusk is when Belfast really clicks. Fights. Murders. Burglary. A thousand calls about someone we’re doing over. Someone we’re lifting. Sober men rubbing their hands and performing with clear consciences wee jobs and the breaking of bones.

Not that it bothers me. I’m impervious. My story is that of the escape artist, the killer. It’s taken me a while but now I have momentum.

Children in front of me throwing footballs at one another across the street. Not much younger than Bridget’s child. That poor lost girl.

“My turn, mine.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

I give the ball to the nearest kid, a redhead whose face is one big freckle.

“It’s her turn,” I insist.

The girls look up from their game and their dirty summer clothes. Glad that an adult has restored order.

“And can somebody please tell me where Brazil Street is?”

“Down there on the left. Are you looking for the Dove?” Red says.

“Aye.”

“It’s right in the middle of the street, the steps that go down,” her friend explains.

I thank the kids and reach the corner. I’m ready. I see a board above a small entryway with an arrow pointing to the basement. A neon sign that says “The Dove.”

I cross the street, walk down the steps, and knock the door. A big metal job that can sustain a petrol bomb attack or a police battering ram.

A man opens it a crack. A sleekit character with a reconstructed nose, no hair, paramilitary tattoos. Bouncer type.

“What do you want?”

“Here for the fight,” I say.

“What fight?”

“Henry Joy McCracken.”

“Why didn’t you say so, come on in.”

I hear a heavy chain being unhooked and the door swings open.

“Two-pound cover,” the bouncer says.

“Ok,” I say, and give him a two-pound coin.

“Down the bottom,” he says, and goes back to reading The Bridges of Madison County.