Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

“Cheer the dog,” I tell Gusty.

“Kill the fucker,” he yells.

“Ok now, Gusty, you better talk; I’m like Doctor Kevorkian, no fucking patients left,” I say.

“Ok, yeah, I helped top the kids. It was ugly. I didn’t do the actual killing. A boy from County Down did it. Bangor, I think. I didn’t know him. He was working for an outfit from out of town. I swear I didn’t kill them boys.”

“I don’t give a shit; what was your partner’s name and who was he working for?”

“All I have is the name, that’s all I know, I wasn’t involved. I swear it.”

“Give it.”

“Slider McFerrin.”

“Address?”

Sweat on his forehead. His eyes darting from side to side.

“I don’t know. He’s from Bangor. I didn’t know he was a player. I had no idea it was to do with Bridget Callaghan’s daughter.”

“There was no girl on the Ginger Bap?”

“Fuck no, I would have told Seamus if I’d thought there was more to it than a wee hit.”

A fake smile of reassurance over his pallid face.

“What exactly did Slider say to you?” I ask him.

“First of all, Slider heard about me as a man who could get him guns. He needed guns. He said he was working for a serious hardmen outfit from over the water and he was coming into a big score on June sixteenth and I’d get a cut of it if I could get him all the weapons he needed.”

“And?”

“I said no problem, for the right dough I could get him anything.”

“Where did the kids come in?”

“Well, after I said I could get him the guns, he wanted to know if I’d be willing to help take care of one of his boss’s enemies. Kid called Barry, who was a drug dealer working for Seamus Deasey.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him it would be tough, you’d have to sweeten Seamus; and Slider says, there’s ten gees to kill Barry, ten gees for the guns, ten gees to sweeten Seamus, and ten gees for me to keep my mouth shut.”

“You couldn’t say no to that, could you?”

“No.”

“What next?”

He gulps, tilts his head to the side, takes a breath.

“I got the guns from Seamus; they wanted Pechenegs, big Russian jobs, handguns, silencers, the works. I paid Seamus off, had to tell him about Barry, but he knew to keep mum; it was a big score for him and he didn’t want to pass the cut on to Body O’Neill.”

“And then you killed Barry and his mate?”

“No, no, I didn’t touch them. I just showed Slider where the boat was and helped him out. He shot the Scottish lad, but he had to question Barry first to make sure he hadn’t blabbed.”

Another fake grin.

“Then what?” I ask.

“That was yesterday. He gave me half my score. The rest tomorrow by FedEx when he gets the big money. Haven’t seen him since then.”

“And you knew nothing about the kidnapping?”

“Not a thing. Slider’s a hard case and says if I ask any questions or breathe a word, no kneecapping, no Belfast six-pack, but instead a bullet in the neck from those over-the-water types.”

“Better not be lying, Gusty,” I say.

“It’s fucking gold, so it is. I swear it.”

I nod.

I know with a dead certainty that Gusty is lying through his teeth. He didn’t stand idly by while Slider topped those two lads on the boat. It’s more likely that Slider is the middleman and Gusty iced them. He certainly helped. Whether he’s deeper in the kidnapping than this I don’t know, but somehow I doubt it. Probably hired him for this one job. Doesn’t seem like a criminal mastermind. The real person I need to speak to is Slider McFerrin.

“Slider told you nothing about these over-the-water players?”

“Nothing. He was keeking it, no way he was saying.”

“I swear to God, Gusty, if you’re keeping anything back, you’re fucked. Slider and Barry are mixed up in the disappearance of Bridget Callaghan’s daughter. Bridget’ll fucking kill you and Seamus’ll fucking kill you and O’Neill will kill you.”

“I don’t know anything about any kidnapping. This was just a wee job. Guns and a hit. That’s all,” Gusty says.

“Whereabouts in Bangor is this Slider fella?”

“I don’t know. He let it slip he was from Bangor, but he wasn’t saying. I don’t know any of the hoods from Bangor, but you could ask around.”

I grimace and take a step away.

“You keep your trap shut until the girl’s back with her ma. Understood?”

“I understand.”

He nods at me and I begin making my way through the throng. What next? Up the stairs, out into Belfast, somehow get to Bangor. A town about fifteen clicks away in northern County Down. Make sure I call the cops about that murdering bastard Gusty, although that can wait until after midnight too.

Never turn your back.

It’s an old lesson and a good ’un.

“He’s a fucking peeler,” Gusty suddenly screams at the top of his voice. “He’s a fucking undercover. Get him.”

Like in a club when a drunk falls into the DJ’s turntable, the noise in the room immediately ceases. Even the dogs stop killing each other for a second.

I run for the stairs.

I don’t make it.

Two men immediately on top of me hammering punches into the side of my head. I thump one off. The other tries to butt me in the nose, misses, and smashes me in the forehead. I stick a fingernail in his right eye and kick him away. But it’s too late now and the rest of the room is running over. A couple of punches and then an aluminum bat smacks into my ribs. You know you’re in trouble when someone produces a baseball bat. Baseball isn’t played in Ireland. Men who carry baseball bats for a living are professional skull smashers. Another bat crashes into my legs. I go down yelling. A kick lands on the side of my head. More kicks in my ribs. I see the glint of a knife. Baseball bats and knives. Well, that’s it then. They’re not messing about, they’re going to kill me. An undercover cop, fair game in their eyes.

The bat comes down heavily a couple of inches from my head, breaking someone’s foot instead. A kick just misses getting me in the balls. But someone succeeds in stamping on my chest, knocking the wind out of me.

And finally I manage to pull out the revolver.

I shoot someone in the leg and someone else in the gut. Both men fall to the floor with heavy thuds, too shocked even to yell.

The kicking stops, the men freeze for a moment. I fire into the ceiling. The attackers take a step back.

I am badly hurt and I realize immediately I’ve a window of only a few seconds before I’ll pass out. Blood is pouring into my mouth, my head’s pounding. I get to my feet. Almost fall, steady myself.

“I’m not a fucking cop,” I say and swing the pistol around wildly, pointing it at various individuals. They’re scared now, ready to believe me. “Gusty owes me ten grand, I’m his collector.”

They turn to look at our old pal.

Need to further concentrate their minds. I shoot him in the crotch. He falls to the ground, screaming.

“Next person to fucking look in my direction is off to the fiery pit,” I tell them.

I shamble-run to the stairs. The doorman blocking my path. I shoot him in the left thigh, push past him, and scramble up the steps. The mob boiling behind me, debating whether to follow me or not. Am I a cop? Am I not? A confusion in the stories and the fact that I still have a gun. I have one round left. One for any one of them.

I open the metal door and run into the street. Down one alley, then another, losing myself.

Losing myself.

The blood pouring out.

My head throbbing.

Pain mounting.

Those flashing lights again.

Take a look back, no pursuit.

Another alley. I slip, fall into a pile of garbage cans.