Ken Bruen - Dublin Noir

“ He… told… ” Michael smacks his lips. Dry mouth. Lost too much fluid already. Bleeding out. Dying.

“What did he tell you?”

“No… he asked… who… gave my name…” Smack. Smack. “I… told him… you…”

As Michael’s head drops to the carpet, something thumps out in the stairwell and my heart jumps into my mouth. Again I think about running, but I don’t. Again I think about calling the station, but to tell them what? That some kind of phantom is stalking lunatics on my beat?

I step outside, check the stairs with shaky steps and trembling hands. And there’s nothing there.

When I come back down to Michael’s flat, the body is gone. So is the blood that soaked the carpet a moment ago. Is the smell gone as well? I can’t tell. But there’s no sign that Michael was ever here. And was he-could I be imagining it? Could all this be in my head, a product of my own fear?

Fuck. Fuck.

When I search the flat, I can’t see any of the protective trinkets the others had. He was an unbeliever.

I’m not. Not now.

When I walk away from Michael’s, I see the tall figure of a bald man watching me from the trees on the far side of the park across the street. He’s massive, and bare-chested. The dark outlines of tattoos that litter his skin flicker and swirl like flames. He points at me, long and hard, then slides back into the undergrowth.

So now it’s been four days since then, since I called in sick. Since I barricaded myself into my flat, to wait for the end. In the yellow glare of the forty-watt bulb, in the air that reeks of stale sweat and fear, I’m protected by a butcher’s knife and an Iron Cross. A spray-paint swastika on every wall. A replica of one of those Nazi imperial eagles they’d carry everywhere in those films. Terry’s foil-lined box with his tableau of half a dozen toy German WWII soldiers.

Maybe they’ll help me. I certainly won’t step beyond their protective radius.

Because Kurt is coming to kill me. His creator. To close the circle. I’m the last one he’s looking for here. And he won’t let me go. I know it.

Soon I’ll hear his footsteps on the stairs. Slow, heavy, deliberate.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

Heg the Peg was the end of it. Marty had known from the start which creek he was up; this was just the confirmation on the whereabouts of the paddle. If it had won, he’d have been in the clear, or as near as made any difference.

True to its name, though, the first race had finished five minutes ago and Heg the Peg was still running. So much for Bob and his cast-iron tips, straight from the stable, the whole crowd of them laying money on it like it was the only horse in the race. If there was any cast-iron, it was in Heg the Peg’s saddle.

So now Marty had two choices. First was finding some other way of raising two thousand euros by the end of the month-and frankly, that was looking about as likely as the stewards disqualifying every other horse in the last race.

Second was borrowing the money off Hennessey and paying back the interest for the rest of his life.

Three choices-he could tell McKeon to sing for the money, leave Dublin, leave Ireland, and find a monastery in Bhutan that was recruiting. Four choices-his next fare could be some crazy American on his first trip to Dublin, wanting to hire him for the whole week, money no object. You never knew with the airport.

The door opened and Marty turned off the radio.

“Wynn’s Hotel, please.” English, in a suit, overnight bag; no big tip here. The fare leaned over and handed him a piece of paper with an address on it. “Could you stop here on the way? I’ll give you a good tip.”

Marty glanced at the address. It wasn’t far out of the way.

“No problem. First time in Dublin?”

“Yes it is.”

Marty pulled away. He could probably take the guy around the houses and he wouldn’t be any the wiser. He found himself going the direct route, though; that was why he ended up in positions like this in the first place-he was too honest for his own good.

He looked in the rearview. The fare looked like a civil servant, or someone who worked in life insurance, nondescript, late thirties, the kind of guy who was born to make up the numbers and get lost in the crowd. But he’d still offer him the same old patter.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to sample some of the good stuff while you’re here?”

“Sorry?”

“Guinness.”

“Oh.” The fare smiled like it was something he wasn’t used to. “Actually, I don’t drink. Very rarely, anyway.”

Marty nodded and said, “So what brings you here then?”

“Business.” He smiled again, though he wasn’t getting any better at it. “But I’ve been wanting to come to Ireland for a long time. I’m of Irish stock.”

Jesus, who wasn’t? The day he picked up a fare at that airport who didn’t claim to have Irish blood, that was the day he’d win the lottery. Still, he put on his best “that’s amazing” smile and said, “Really? What’s your name?”

“Jeffers. Patrick Jeffers.”

Well sure, anyone could call their kid Patrick, but he wasn’t so sure about the Jeffers bit. Didn’t sound particularly Irish to him.

“Don’t know any Jeffers. Must be a name from out west.”

“I think it is.” End of conversation.

Jeffers kept him waiting no more than two minutes. He went into the house empty-handed and came out with a briefcase. Now that was suspicious, no other way of looking at it, particularly some guy who’d never been to Dublin.

By the time he got him to the Wynn’s, though, there was no doubt it was his first time here-he’d been looking out of the window like a tourist for the last ten minutes.

“That’ll be twenty-two euros.”

“Keep the change,” said Jeffers, handing him thirty.

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Jeffers. Enjoy your stay in Dublin.”

One thousand nine hundred and ninety-two to go.

Bryan was a charmer, all right, and there was no doubt about what he thought he’d be getting when they went out later. First day on the job, all the girls had told Kate not to fall for any of his talk, and here she was, second day behind the reception desk, going out with him tonight.

She was smiling at him now as he leaned across the desk. And he thought she was smiling at the silver words coming from his mouth, but it was how much he looked like Danny that was really tickling her. If it weren’t for Bryan’s blue eyes, the two of them could meet and think they were long-lost brothers.

Of course, Bryan would be the good brother. They all thought she was some naïve young slip of a thing, but twenty-four hours had been enough to tell her that Bryan was decent to the core. He was one for the girls, sure, but a good family lad at heart, working his way through college, a bright future ahead of him.

Danny, on the other hand, he was sexy and dangerous and the biggest mistake she’d made in her eighteen years. He’d come to a nasty end sooner or later and probably take a good few with him. The important thing was knowing that Danny wouldn’t stick around, and that she wouldn’t want him to.

Suddenly, Bryan pushed himself up and stepped away, making himself busy, and she saw one of the guests heading toward the desk, a businessman, boring-looking. She put on her best smile.

“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”

“I checked in a short while ago?”

He sounded like he was asking a question, and she felt like telling him straight, Mister, if you don’t remember, I sure as hell don’t . He certainly didn’t look familiar.