Mark Greaney: On target

As Gentry entered the well-lit living room behind the door, he did not have long to wonder about the location of his target. Slattery sat at a simple wooden table in the middle of the small room, facing the door, a bottle of Irish whiskey and three shot glasses in front of him. Court noticed that the man had changed shirts. He now wore a blue on black rugby jersey, open loose at the collar and straining tight around his thick midsection. Perhaps his favorite team?

Slattery looked up at him for a long time. He took one of the shot glasses and turned it upside down. He had been expecting two guests, no doubt the two left lying in the street. Dougal recovered, lifted a second glass slowly. "Care for a drink, lad?" He was nervous, clearly; his low voice cracked.

Court scanned the room quickly. His weapon remained pointed at his target's forehead as he did so. He spoke softly but with calm conviction. "Hands where I can see them."

Slattery complied. "Did ya kill 'em?"

"The rugby boys? No, they'll be okay." He added, "Eventually."

Slattery nodded. Shrugged. "Like a knife through butter, was it?"

"Not much trouble, no."

"They'd have been no match if they weren't pissed. Have a seat first, will ya? I have some grand whiskey here."

Court continued searching the room for threats, all senses alert. His target seemed oddly resigned to what was going on, but that could have been some sort of deception.

"No."

The big man shrugged again. "Then maybe you'll let me have a drink first." He didn't wait. He poured Old Bushmills into a shot glass, tossed it back into his open throat, placed the glass back in front of him, and refilled it.

Court moved to the window. He flipped the overhead off on the way. Shrouded in darkness now, he looked down into the street.

Slattery said, "There's no one coming. Just the two you met already. Even if they can still walk, they won't be walkin' this way, I promise ya that."

Court checked the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. They were alone. The Irishman just sat at the table, facing the doorway. He shot another whiskey. Refilled the glass again.

Waiting patiently.

When Gentry stepped back in front of him, Slattery put his hand around the bottle, tipped it towards his guest. He said, "Sure ya won't have a wee drop? I always found it helpful back when I was on the job." Court shook his head. Focused fully on his target, his Makarov rose. Dougal Slattery spoke quickly. "Look, pal. I know ya gotta do it. No argument from me. I was on the job once, and I know the score. There's just one thing. A little favor. I got a kid. Not a kid, he's 'bout thirty now, I guess. He's in Galway."

"Do I look like I give a shit?"

"He's got the Down syndrome. Good boy, but he can't look after himself. No ma-she was an aul whore in Belfast, OD'd twenty some-odd years back. I've got him in private care. I'm all the boy has."

"I could not possibly care less."

"I'm just sayin'. I send money, enough to keep him out of state care."

Court pulled the Mak's hammer back with his thumb.

Dougal kept talking, faster. "Without the money he'll go to state care. It's a fecking mess, believe me. Me boy is my punishment for me life. You can have me fecking life, mate, but don't make him pay for it."

It occurred to Court that he should have just put a bullet through the man's head when he walked through the door.

"Everyone leaves someone behind. I can't help you."

"No, you can't help me. But you can help him. I'm askin' for twenty-four hours. One bleeding day, and I'll knock over a bank or a currency exchange or something. There's an armored car that makes stops up and down Dawson Street in the afternoons. A lot of options for a quick job. If I just had time for a score, I could get some money to the home so he'll be set. If I had any idea you were coming for me, I'd have done it already, but this is a bit of a surprise. I've been off the job for a long time. I thought I was out of it. Look. I won't run. I'll send the home in Galway one hundred percent by wire tomorrow afternoon and then I'll come back here and you can drop me dead. I swear on me ma's grave. You'll get your payday for me scalp, I'll get me boy the money he needs so he can be looked after when I'm gone. I'm sitting here now showing you respect. Showing you that I'm not a runner. I'm not a fighter. Not anymore. I'm sittin' here handing myself over to you, hopin' you'll do the right thing and give me one bleedin' day to sort out some decent future for me lad." The man was near tears. Desperate. Court had no doubt the story was true.

Still, he steeled himself. He raised the weapon to eye level. "Sorry, dude. That's not going to happen."

Slattery's eyes began to water before he tossed down another shot. He did not refill the glass afterwards this time. "I figured you for a man with a soul. My mistake. So it's off to state care for me lad." He smiled a little. "All's not lost, though. There is some wee consolation. I know someday Sid will send some bloke after you."

Court lowered the pistol slightly.

"Sid?"

"You're Sid's new lad, yeah? I'm Sid's old lad, so you see your future before your eyes, don'tcha? He's sent you on this wee errand to make room for yourself in his organization. This is your audition to replace me, ya know." When Court did not speak for several seconds, Slattery's watery eyes widened. "He didn't tell you, did he? What a bastard he is! You thought he was passing on a contract from someone else that wants me dead? No, pal, this is Sid's doin', all of it."

Gentry lowered the pistol farther. "Why?"

Slattery poured another shot glass and tossed the contents down his gullet. "Five years back, Sid came to see me. I'd been doing some… some stuff for another Russian. Sid tells me he likes my work, wants me to come work for him. I say, 'What's the catch?' Everyone knows Sidorenko gets the juicy contracts. He tells me the only thing I have to do is rub out the guy holding the job I wanted. Create the vacancy myself, ya see? Seems this bloke, an Israeli, had outworn his welcome. Dunno why. Sid tells me once I sort out his Jew, I'll be top stallion in his stable."

"So you killed him."

"Bloody well right, I did. 'At's the business we're in, ain't it? And now I'm too old, too broken and beaten to execute the big contracts anymore. I'm not making the cash I once was, so he's sending ya to shut me off, so ya can take over. He figures if there's a one percent chance I'll talk, call a newspaper or Interpol and tell on him, then he might as well off me just in case."

Court was stunned. Sid had lied about the very existence of a contract on the target. It was only in the personal interests of his handler that he should kill this man. He recovered a bit and reminded himself of some of the dirtier parts of Sid's dossier on Slattery. "He told me you'd done some ugly hits in your past." The Makarov rose again with new resolve.

Slattery cocked his head, genuinely surprised. "Ugly hits? Ugly hits? What the feck is a pretty hit?"

Court took a moment. "You've killed innocents, I mean."

"Bollocks. You gonna sit there and judge me, based on what Sid has told you? A feckin' joke you are. Go on then, be done with it. Put a bullet up me nose and feel good about yourself! Ugly hits? Innocents? Aren't you the most pretentious fuck for a hit man that's ever soiled this godforsaken planet!"

Dougal Slattery's nostrils flared as he stared down the suppressor at the end of the barrel of the little Makarov. The alcohol showed in his eyes, but not a shred of fear.

After a long pause, Court lowered the gun to his side. He pulled out the wooden chair and sat slowly down at the table across from the Irishman.

"I guess I'll take that drink now."

Slattery did not take his eyes off the American as he poured for them both.