Adrian McKinty: The Bloomsday Dead

“Jesus. It doesn’t matter what the sport is.”

“Of course it does, I’m not going to walk up to someone and say ‘So who do you like in the curling world championships? They say the ice is fast this year.’ Right bloody giveaway that would be.”

Dan laughed and then sighed.

“You know, Michael, sometimes I wish you weren’t so good at staying alive. Sometimes, I wish…”

“Better leave that thought unsaid. Joe Namath, he plays for the Jets, right?”

“Thirty years ago.”

“Ok, forget him. They can ask me what I think about the dodgy Yankees pitching rotation. And I’ll say: ‘I don’t think it stacks up against the Sox,’ how about that?”

“Fine, whatever you like. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Dan.”

“All right, hang tight. Sending some people to pull you out of yet another jam.”

“You love me really, I can tell,” I said.

I closed the phone, grinned. What Dan didn’t realize was that if you’ve been fighting for your life a few hours earlier you can afford to be a bit bloody glib.

I got some lunch, a heretical Irish stew that contained peas and sweet corn.

Went to the bog, washed my face, ordered a Bloody Mary, sat with my back to the wall, decided to check out the señoritas. New York was a paradise after four months in Lima. Not that the Peruvian girls weren’t attractive but there it was mere variations on a theme whereas here it was the choral symphony. Coeds, redheads, blondes, business-women, stewardesses, cops, women soldiers, and on the far side of the bar two skanks straight out of a Snoop Dogg video trying to tease a Hasidic man by kissing in front of him. The man, me, and about fifty-two hundred other people trying not to look. Blond hair, long legs, white stilettos, pretty faces. Russian. Touching each other on the ass and toying with each other’s hair. You didn’t get that in Lima either.

“New York City,” I said with appreciation.

Next to the Hasid a goofy-looking character seemed to spot me. He gave a half wave, walked over quickly, and plonked himself down in the seat directly in front of me. It panicked me for a second. Sort of thing I’d do. Have a couple of hookers do a big distraction and send the guy in while my dick was doing the thinking for me.

He didn’t have a scary vibe at all, though, and I relaxed a little as I looked him up and down. He was wearing a grin a decibel or two quieter than his ensemble of Hawaiian shirt, shorts, purple sandals, fanny pack, and bicycle messenger bag. Twenty-five or twenty-six, blond hair, goatee. Reasonably good-looking. He wasn’t carrying a piece and he wasn’t interested in the hussies, which meant he was either a homosexual, or part of their team, or he really wanted to talk to me.

“Hey, you’re in my view,” I said.

“Mr. Forsythe?” he asked in a serious FBI way.

“No.”

“Mr. Forsythe, am I glad to see you. You look a little bit different from the photograph. A little bit older.”

“Aye, well, you’re no picnic yourself. You ever hear the expression sartorially challenged?”

His eyes glazed over.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“What am I talking about? What are you talking about? Aren’t you supposed to ask me about the Yankees? Don’t they teach you anything?”

Before he could answer, a cold feeling went down my spine. This wasn’t Dan’s man. I pushed my chair back from the table and looked him in the eyes.

“You’re not with the feds,” I said.

“No, no, not at all,” he said with a little laugh. “What gave you that idea?”

“Who are you? Are you Bridget’s?”

“Yes. I work for Ms. Callaghan. I was told to meet you off your flight. I was instructed to ask you if you are going to continue on to Dublin.”

“You must be joking. Continue on to Dublin? So Bridget can torture me, with, what was it, arc-welding gear? You must be out of your mind. Nah, I’m just going to sit tight here, wait till my good buddies in the FBI show up, go off with them. Easy. And if you want to try anything here and now with a couple of hundred witnesses around, dozens of plainclothes cops, you go ahead. See how far you bloody get.”

“No. You don’t understand. I am not muscle, Mr. Forsythe, I am an attorney, I work for Ms. Callaghan. Please excuse the way I look, I was on my way to Puerto Rico, actually. But I was told to wait here to talk to you.”

“You’re an attorney? Pull the other one, pal, it has bells on. Keep away from me,” I said.

“I am an attorney, Mr. Forsythe, and I do work for Ms. Callaghan. I have a message to convey to you,” he said.

Still keeping my distance from him and watching his hands, I set down my coffee cup and snapped my fingers.

“Let me see some goddamn ID,” I demanded.

“Certainly.”

He reached in the pocket of his shorts and removed a wallet. He showed me a bar association card, a Columbia law library card, a driver’s license, and a membership in the Princeton Club.

“Ok, sonny, first of all, what exactly did they tell you about me and how did you know what flight I was on?” I demanded.

“They told me that since I was going to JFK, could I meet flight 223 from Lima, Peru, and find a Michael Forsythe. They faxed me your picture. Unfortunately, I had to go the bathroom briefly, and typically that was the moment that you, well… of course that was the precise moment when you came through. I had a sign made with your name on it, do you want to see the sign?”

I gazed daggers. He continued: “Ok, no sign, forget the sign, ok, so anyway I went out into the arrivals hall and I thought I’d lost you, but, you see, I knew you were Irish, so I thought to myself, why don’t I check the pub and anyway I-”

“Yeah, if I’d been black you would have checked the watermelon stand? Enough of your nonsense, what’s the goddamn message?” I asked.

He rummaged in the bicycle messenger bag and brought out a fax sheet. He unfolded it and began reading: “It’s from Mr. Moran, do you know Mr. Moran?” he asked.

“No, I don’t know Mr. Moran, read me the bloody message before I really lose my patience.”

“Ms. Callaghan apologizes for her heavy-handed behavior of this morning. She says that she urgently needs your help and she would like to speak to you again,” he said, producing a cell phone from his bike bag and placing it on the table.

“What’s the deal here? Is it going to blow up as soon as you walk off?” I inquired.

“Uh, no, it’s just a phone. She wants to talk to you,” he said.

“Bridget wants to talk to me? Ok, fine, I got some time. But I’ll call her on my phone. You ever hear of ricin nerve-toxin poison? One touch of it and you’re toast. For all I know you’re wearing some sort of protective lubrication on your hands, that phone is coated in poison, and I’m about to be topped like they did with that Bulgarian.”

The kid looked at me to see if I was taking the piss out of him, which, if truth be told, I half was.

“Why don’t you just give me her number, if you’re legit I’ll call her on the phone,” I said.

He gave me the number without any fuss at all. A Belfast listing. I dialed it.

“Hello, Europa Hotel,” a voice answered.

“Yeah, I need Bridget Callaghan, she says she’s staying there.”

“One moment, please.”

“Hello?” Bridget said.

“Nice try, sister,” I said. “I didn’t bite last time, I won’t bite this time, took care of your delightful emissaries,” I said.

“Yes, Michael, I heard about your exploits. In fact, I saw the results of your shenanigans on BBC World. For God’s sake, they weren’t there to kill you. Don’t you believe me? I need your help.”

“Aye, they weren’t there to kill me, that’s why they pulled out their guns and told me to make my peace with the Lord.”