Dead I Well May Be

11: THE 7 TRAIN TO WOODSIDE

The river conjuring me into existence, the sky, the water, the migrating volaries of ducks and geese. The tide heaving the flotsam upstream, against the current-it doesn’t look right. Nothing looks right.

I have now killed a man. Killed him as well as can be killed. I look at the swell and the water and try to see if something is pricked. I contain my feelings and dissolve from the world and think. Am I aware of what I did, how does this affect me? I think, cool my brain. Repose. No, on due reflection, it affects me not a whit. I believe not in hell or afterlives. I cannot see how lower forms, bacteria, insects, can be excluded-were we not as they once, long ago? How did we evolve a heaven? No, there is no eternal retribution and I will not haunt myself.

But can I leave? Can I mitch myself away? Yeah. I could. The Hudson is the escape route. I’ll go down to the marina at Riverside and steal a boat and head it north. North up into those ice kingdoms. I’m not sure how far I can go. I know there’s a canal at Albany, going west. I’ll just keep going up until I hit the Saint Lawrence and then I’ll make my break for the ocean. Winter, maybe where the Vikings wintered, and then by dead reckoning and short hops, Greenland, Iceland, the Faeroes, the Hebrides, and then on to Rathlin and down the Antrim coast to Belfast Lough. I’ll have the Northern Lights and the Pole Star and the sinking moon and I’ll make good time on the Gulf Stream. It’ll be old and familiar as I cruise up the gray waters of the lough. The great Stalinist power station at Kilroot, the harbor at Bangor, the castle at Carrickfergus. Belfast, brown and flat under the brooding hills. Harland and Wolff, whose cranes will welcome me. The Lagan, the Farset, the Blackwater. Agua negra. No.

I turn from the river and walk back to the apartment on 181st. I nod to the super and go up the five flights. The lift works here, but I need the walk. I go to the big living room and sit.

And stare. Still the Hudson and the George Washington Bridge. Dust on the window ledge and on the hardwood floor. Pigeons and assorted flocks following the garbage barge.

The windows are up, and everything is in silence.

I sit there cross-legged on the futon. My mind is emptied of thoughts, and I breathe and exist. Time flows on and around me, pouring people over the bridge into stores and offices. They come over in the early morning and the lights are on in their cars and they leave in the evening and the lights are on again. Time flows, and I sit and breathe and exist without it for an age.

I remember a conversation I had with Scotchy long ago about the ethics of murder. Scotchy was a guy who talked big, and he claimed to have killed a man in South Armagh. The way he bragged about it to Andy and Fergal, I began after a time to believe that he’d really done it. It was a shoot-out, he claimed with shiftiness, but I knew it was something else. Cold-blooded: a capture or an assassination. He’d been part of a cell, maybe not the shooter, but part of it. That night after we left Dermot’s, neither of us felt troubled, it was them or us, that was not a problem. That wasn’t where the difficulty came from.

Scotchy was not a great reflectivist, but at night when he’d had a few sometimes in the Four P., he set himself to thinking. His argument at the time was existentialist. In the absence of a Supreme Being to set a moral tone and without a future world of punishments, it was up to the individual to seek out his own moral code. Such was his position, though not, it must be stressed, in those precise sentences.

But Scotchy, I said, if you think that the moral center comes only from you, surely that means that other people will be means to your moral ends and not ends in themselves, which is dangerous. This I said, but again not in those words.

Scotchy was ready for me. Ok then, fuckwit, what’s the fucking alternative? he asked, and I thought about it, and I didn’t have one. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. Neither of us had successful relationships with organized religion. We were both troubled. It had become a disturbing conversation, so Scotchy, as he was wont to do, changed the subject to girls and chocolate, much to the relief of both of us.

I sat there and I thought about him and I felt nothing for Bob. Scotchy had me and Fergal swear, and there on the razor wire outside the prison again he had extracted a promise from me. Not in words. He didn’t need words. He had made me promise and that bond trumped all other moral sentiments. It wasn’t that ethics weren’t worthy of thought, but the argument was loaded from the beginning. Bob was dead, and there was one down and two to go and woe to those who would get in the way of sanctioned vengeance.

I stayed in the apartment the next day and ordered up fried eggs over plantains, rice and beans from the Caridad on 180th. It was foggy and dense and rain came and changed the landscape to a better one, erasing the gray Hudson and New Jersey and all but the closest towers of the suspension bridge. With the fog and the ghost bridge, you could be anywhere: Washington Heights bleeding in grays and blues into the moss of deserted places. Lamps from caravans bobbing down the river’s edge, the swaying faces of herds of buffalo, recognizable only from their bells, a fort on the far shore, invisible, and down along the ghats pilgrims coming to pay homage to a disappeared sun and bathe themselves and purge their being of present sin. Sadhus washing and children up to their waist and swimming and throwing water and pieces of the moon. And farther down, sandalwood fires casting up smoke and the science of incarnation, the crackling gold of daisies as the funeral pyres and their inky skeletons cloud the sky still more. The burning ghats of the Hudson giving off an aura of incense and tobacco.

On the third day, Cuba came to see me. He came in the morning with coffee and Dominican cakes. He’d also brought real food with him in a pot covered with tinfoil. It was a hot stew his aunt had made up with sausage and ground beef, potatoes, carrots, onion, chilies, and peppers. We heated up the stew and ate it with tortillas. We drank the coffee and ate the cakes.

I asked him how he was, and he said that he was just fine if somewhat disillusioned still by the life of a lower-echelon drug gangbanger. Things were dull and too exciting at the same time. The Dominicans were crazy, and he said again prophetically that for all his smarts Ramón’s time on this earth was limited to months or years but not decades, and he feared that he would be brought down with him.

You’re a gloomy young man, aren’t you? I said, and he responded that I was hardly much older than him, and we compared birth dates and this, in fact, was true. But I said that I was more experienced, having crossed the Atlantic and the equator and having spent time in jail and in the service of my country. He was pleased with that, for only yesterday he’d been down to Times Square to get more info on joining up with the marines. He was heavy, and I didn’t see him passing any fitness exam anytime soon, but maybe they’d shape him up. I said that this was an excellent idea, for from what I’d heard, the United States Marine Corps was almost on a par with the Royal Marines and only a notch or three under the Paras, Special Air, five or six Highland regiments I could mention, the Black Watch, the Irish Rangers, the Gurkhas, and several of the better brigades of guards. He couldn’t see I was taking the piss, so I let the matter drop.

Cuba had also brought a chess set with him. His father had taught him to play, and he wondered if I’d play with him. I knew that this visit and the chess set could only have been Ramón’s idea, but I didn’t care. I played him for pennies, and I beat him ten games straight and even when I began without a queen and let him take back any move, I still didn’t have much trouble with his game.

He left at dinnertime and said he’d come tomorrow with chicken, and as he was edging out the door he asked if it might be ok for Ramón to come by later that night.

In the army, a big thing you must have is patience. There’s so much shit, you have to be the patient boy who plows through it. Cuba had sat with me the whole day and never once mentioned his real reason for coming. You had to admire that.

You know what, Cuba? I think you’ll do really well in the marines, I said.

Thanks, man, he said.

We looked at each other awkwardly. He was embarrassed.

So, uh, Michael, is it ok if Ramón comes over tonight? He doesn’t want to put you out or anything, he doesn’t know how you feel after, uh, you know, killing your friend.

How does he know I killed Bob? I asked.

Ramón, man, he knows a lot. Somebody saw you ditch the gun. Why would you ditch a gun? You know. And then Ramón read it out to us from Newsday. He says, he says, uh, anyway…

What does he say? I asked.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you.

Did Ramón tell you not to say anything?

No, he didn’t say nothing, but I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you anyway.

Tell me what he said, I insisted. Cuba was kicking himself for opening his mouth. He was standing in the door and wanted to go. I went over and tugged him back into the apartment. Not violently, but still. I looked at him.

Cuba, sit down a minute, I said.

He sat. He wasn’t now putting up any serious resistance. He just wanted to placate his conscience that at least he’d bloody tried.

Well, ok. Ramón said that this proved you were the man he thought you were and you’d take care of Blanco and all the rest. We’d see. Ramón says that’s how you’ll kill them. One by one. Take them out. He says by New Year we’ll have Broadway from North Harlem to Inwood. Blanco will be dead. He didn’t say it all like that. Uh. But he did say it. Anyway, I don’t know, man. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know, man. Did you kill that guy?

I nodded.

Cuba nodded too.

Was he your friend? Cuba asked.

He used to be, I said.

Ok, man, I better go. I bring you chicken tomorrow, if you want.

I nodded again, and he left and I went back to the futon and sat there and waited. Only half an hour later, there came a knock at the door. I went over and opened it.

It was Ramón. He was wearing Air Jordans, black cotton trousers, and a blue polo shirt that was really a size too small for him. He had on a gold chain engraved with his name and a black jacket. His hand was out, I shook it, and we retired to the kitchen table. It was dark and the lights were on over New Jersey and the George Washington Bridge. The fog had gone, and I thought that this was a pity.

Ramón had brought a bottle of Bushmills.

Irish whiskey, he said.

Ramón, thanks, but I’m not a big whiskey drinker, I said, smiling, trying not to offend him. It wasn’t true, but Irish blended whiskeys weren’t my thing at all and on the rare times I took spirits it was only ever the peaty stuff from Jura or Islay. Ramón shrugged and reached in his pocket and gave me a cigar. It was a Cubano and he cut it and lit it for me. I drew it in and it almost knocked me off the stool at the kitchen table.

Fucksake, Ramón, is that spiked? I asked.

It’s just good, he said, and then he added: Don’t misunderstand, this isn’t a celebration. I’m not congratulating you. I’m glad you did what you did, but I know it’s your path and nothing to do with me.

Yeah.

But understand me, both our needs are the same, and I know that inadvertently you will be helping me. Please, then, don’t be upset if I would wish to help you.

I’m not upset, Ramón.

Ramón nodded and smiled thinly.

Look, pour me a drink anyway. No ice, I said.

Ramón poured us both a couple of full glasses, and we walked them over to the living-room window where we could look out and talk.

I’m not happy with you talking about me to your boys. They’re not you, Ramón, I can’t trust them, maybe Cuba and José, but not the others. I don’t want you talking about me to anyone, I said.

Ramón looked hurt and unhappy.

I’m sorry, Michael, it was a mistake. I had to tell them something, I didn’t want them to think that I was stupid to bring you in. They’re a jumpy crew all right, but I completely trust them, they’re family, cousins, second cousins, and I trust them. Don’t worry, none of them will talk.

Make sure they don’t, Ramón, I said, looking at him for a full half-minute.

It’s ok, he said.

Yeah? I wanted to be anonymous in this city, this wasn’t my fucking plan, to have dozens of fucking people… I trailed off and drank some of the whiskey.

You did very well, Michael. This isn’t the way I thought you’d start, but you did well, Ramón said.

How much do you know? I asked.

I know enough. I know that our paths will intersect here for a while and then you’ll go. I know that you’ll help me and that you’ll want nothing for that help. But I want to help you, Michael. Not for services rendered, for a job done. I want to give support now and I want to give you some money, so that when this is finished you can go anywhere you want.

Thanks.

Times are changing, Michael. You can feel it in the air. You’ll have to be smart to survive now. It’s all going to be new in the nineties now. You have it, I have it. Bill Clinton is that type of person too.

Who’s Bill Clinton?

Shit, Michael, what’s your problem? He’s the president-elect, Ramón said.

Of the United States?

He gave me a look. He wasn’t sure if I was bullshitting him or not.

We sat and drank our whiskeys for a while and looked out at the night. It was cold, and there was a wind making the windows vibrate in and out. For some reason, I was pissed off.

You know, I’m not your fucking lackey and I’m not your boy and it’s not fucking right going around telling your fucking Dominican blow-snorting, fucking hoodlum crew that I am your boy, ’cause I’m fucking not, ok?

Michael, I thought I-

Do you under-fucking-stand? I said loudly.

Yes, Ramón said, sadly.

He put his glass down and ran his fingers over his scalp. There was almost no hair there and the gesture must have come from when there was. It made no sense now. He took a breath. He was gearing up for a speech. I leaned back in the chair and relaxed.

Listen, Michael, I don’t know your background, but mine is not a cliché of the runaway child who comes to New York and becomes a dealer of cinco bags to his own community. My vision isn’t a hoodlum one. My uncle raised me, and he was an educated man. True, I did run wild for a while and by the time I was sixteen I knew I could make more money on the black market than I ever could in the legitimate economy. Smuggling, drugs. Drugs are a way in, a means to an end. Venture capital. That’s all. When I have enough, I’ll diversify: real estate, construction, you’ll see, it will be like Blanco.

We called him Darkey, I said, to interrupt his flow. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to this.

Why? Ramón asked.

Just a nickname.

Anyway, it will be like him, respected, laundered. I’ll have buildings. A landlord. I might run for assemblyman. I want to do good for the community here. I don’t know what you think of me, Michael, but I think of myself in good terms. Unselfish terms.

You’re selling fucking crack to desperate people.

Ramón winced and leaned back a little.

I’m explaining to you, it’s just a means to an end. You know what the Jesuits say, if the ends are just, the means are just.

Don’t kid yourself, Ramón.

I’m not kidding myself. I know my plans. I know that sometimes sacrifices have to be-

I knew people like you in the army. Attrition rates, acting all concerned. It’s bollocks.

You were in the army? Ramón asked, as if the information had thrown him a little.

Aye.

In Ireland?

No, in England.

They put you in?

I joined up.

Why?

Who the fuck cares? Listen. Don’t distract me. People like you, I mean, Jesus, talk the talk but-

Indulge me, Michael, for a minute. Why were you in the army if you didn’t have to be?

I don’t know. Drop it.

Something happened to you, Michael, Ramón said sadly.

Nothing happened to me.

Something happened to you.

Nothing happened to me. And it’s nothing to do with the fucking army.

Ramón smiled at this contradiction and shook his head.

It isn’t just that you are from Ireland. I won’t ever get to know you, Ramón said, not a question.

I shook my head.

I’ll never get to know you either, and to be honest, I don’t think I want to know, I replied.

Ramón laughed and went to get the whiskey bottle from the counter. The tension had eased.

Hey, Ramón, do me a favor, tell me about Dermot. He was the trial balloon, wasn’t he? It was you, wasn’t it? You talked him into crossing Darkey. Didn’t you?

Ramón came back and sat down and gave me another full glass. He thought for a second.

A bad business. That wasn’t just me. I will say I thought we could protect Dermot, I didn’t realize he’d be killed. It was a mistake.

You seen me then, didn’t you, Ramón? You’ve been stalking me. You’re like my ghost. I could have had all your coke, too. I mean, Jesus. It’s not on, Ramón. You fucking think you own me. You don’t own me.

Michael, I want you to think of me as a friend, he said, kindly, but I was spoiling for a fight.

You’re a fucking hypocrite, Ramón. You talk and talk but it’s all fucking bullshit. You’re a callous fucking monster. You think you’re so fucking smart, well, you’re not.

Ramón didn’t say anything. He hadn’t touched his glass. He sighed.

You look down, Michael. You’re a serious person, but perhaps you should relax more. I could send some girls over, if you want, he said, unhappily.

Girls. Christ, Ramón. Fuck. No… Actually, I could do with a girl. Any girl. Jesus. No. Jesus, this whiskey, getting to me. Cigar. Not used to it. It’s the time of year, Ramón. It’s not me or what’s happening. It’s the time of the year, do you understand?

Ramón looked a little concerned and shook his head. I was a bit drunk now, rambling.

See, it’s November, that’s all it is. November’s the worst month. January has all the optimism of the new year. February has Valentine’s. March is the start of spring. April to May are the pleasant months, you know. June to September is the summer. October has the leaves and Halloween. December has Christmas. But November has nothing. We don’t do Thanksgiving. See? We’ve Remembrance Day. Fucking riot, that is. I used to have to blow taps at it, depressing. Always freezing, bugle would go flat, nightmares. Horrible month. Horrible.

He nodded, but it was clear he didn’t know what I was talking about.

Maybe I could get you a glass of water, he said.

Fuck your water. Fuck your water and your fucking whiskey and your fucking cigars, Ramón, I screamed, and let the glass drop onto the floor. It didn’t break. I clutched my head and snarled at him.

What the fuck did you come over for? Fucking telling your boys I’m killing all these wankers for you. I’m killing nobody for you. Fucking liar, hypocrite. All your talk. Fucking hypocrite. You’re worse than Darkey; at least he doesn’t kid himself. Fancy plans, my arse.

Michael, wait-

Don’t ever talk about me, Ramón. Is that clear? How fucking dare you? Get the fuck out of here.

Ramón smiled. He wasn’t sure if I was pulling his leg or not. If I was being sarcastic or ironic against myself. He seemed uncomfortable.

I stood and yelled at him and told him to get the fuck out and leave me the fuck alone. My head was pounding. I wasn’t drunk. It was, as they say at AA, a moment of clarity. I picked up the whiskey bottle from the counter and threw it at the living-room window. The glass was thick and doubled-glazed and the bottle bounced harmlessly off and landed safely on the shag pile rug. My rage boiled over.

That is fucking it, I screamed, and went for him. I tripped, but I got a grip on his arm and bundled him to the ground. All of it came pouring out. Shovel, Dermot, Mexico, Big Bob. All of it. In howls, deflected blows. All of it, like a volcano.

Jesus Christ. Yells, punches, white light thumping between my temples.

So this was it, my breakdown at last. I screamed and spat. I tried to deck him, but he was strong and threw me off. I roared incoherently for a half a minute, grabbing at him, desperate to get purchase on his clothes and throw him through the glass coffee table. Ramón elbowed me in the throat, stood up, and put his hand on the inside of his jacket. He didn’t take out the piece, the threat was enough.

Aye, go ahead, do it, do it, I yelled at him, laughing.

Calm down, he said, backing off but keeping his hand there.

I looked at him and thought for a second about trying it on, going for him, but I didn’t.

I was exhausted.

We held the pose for half a minute.

Get out of my house. I don’t know what you fucking want from me. You’re a vampire. That’s what you are. And don’t send Cuba over either, I said.

Michael, really, I don’t know how you got so upset, if I said any-

Are you deaf? Get the fuck out, I said wearily.

Ramón opened the door and went out and closed it gently behind him.

Bastards, I said, and for a while I kneeled there, expecting tears, but even when I forced it, none came.

I stayed in bed the next day and most of the next. No one came to see me. Cuba didn’t bring his chicken. I didn’t read. I didn’t do anything. I drank brown water from the tap.

Finally I got up and went to a restaurant on Broadway and 189th Street. The menu was entirely in Spanish, and I ordered something that seemed like a stew and when it came it was tripe soup with bits of what looked like embryo in it. I couldn’t start on it and left the cash and got up, but the waiter was affronted and wanted to give me something I would like, and since I was the only customer the cook came out, urged me to try the soup. I tried to explain the biblical prohibitions, but he was unfamiliar with them and any form of English I could recognize, so things went badly. The guys were only being nice and wanted to feed me, but I was a wanker and pissed them off and the word puta got raised and I left and on the way home picked up some Dominican cakes instead.

That night I got a six-pack of Corona and plugged the TV in and flipped through the channels. There wasn’t anything good, really, if you discounted cable access. I saw somewhere that there was trouble in Ireland, but that hardly counted as news.

I went to bed and got up the next morning and decided to go for a walk. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and a sweater and a black raincoat. I walked to the George Washington Bridge and found myself crossing over to the other side. About the middle I stopped and took a look down the Hudson towards the bottom of Manhattan. There was no one else crossing, although traffic was heavy coming over from New Jersey. I wondered what the time was and could only guess at about seven or eight. Had the clocks been put back yet? Did they do that here? They put them forward in the spring, so I suppose they went back in the autumn.

The area on the far side of the GWB was dreary and uninteresting. I explored it for a little while, and at a bakery I got some choux pastry stuffed with custard. It was quite good. They did coffee there too, so I had a cup, but it was so weak and nasty that it wiped out the taste of the good custard thing.

I wandered back in the direction of the bridge and found myself trying to figure out how you got down to the wooded area that I’d looked at so many times from my apartment window. I took a few turns and found a tiny sign pointing to Palisades Park, which seemed to be the spot I was looking for. From my side of the river it seemed an interesting and perhaps beautiful place, with cliffs and trees tumbling down to the water. Of course, now the trees had given up much of their cover, but perhaps it would still be nice. I took a road that was wending its way downward, and before I really knew it, I was in the middle of the forest and deep somewhere under the bridge. It was like that story of the troll and the Billy Goats Gruff.

The men had been tailing me since at least the bakery and probably all the way over from Manhattan. They had been in a blue car but now they’d parked it up the road and were on foot. They were keeping well behind, but I could tell there were two of them, both pretty heavy guys. I imagine they’d picked me up outside the apartment building and followed me onto the bridge, but because of the traffic, they couldn’t have gone at walking pace, so they must have made the decision to drive over and wait for me; hoping, I suppose, that I wasn’t going to stop halfway and turn back. If I had at rush hour, I would have lost them, but they’d gotten lucky and they were now behind me on the road, a good bit back, so it wasn’t life and death just yet.

It puzzled me. If they knew where I lived, why hadn’t they just come in the morning and got me? The building had some security, but nothing a professional couldn’t get around. My door, too. It would have been easy pickings. They couldn’t be following me to see where I was going, because once I’d gone down into the Palisades, the only way back out was the way I’d come. The thing to do would have been to have one man wait back at the car and the other slip down the road after me, to see if I was meeting anyone, or picking up a drop, or whatever. But they weren’t doing that. They had parked the car, and both of them were coming down the hill after me. It was an odd thing to do, for if I started walking back up and past them, it would then be pretty fucking obvious if they turned and began following me again. Whereas if there’s only one of you tailing the suspect, you just keep walking along if you see him double-back, and then the other guy follows him from the car. But both were coming, and I was pretty sure that the car had had only two occupants. They couldn’t have got to a phone, so, unfortunately, the only reason both of them could possibly be coming down this hill at this time was to intercept me and then probably kill me. Nothing else would quite make sense.

This, though, again begged the question as to why they hadn’t killed me in the apartment this morning when I was asleep. I thought about it. Perhaps they’d been watching one of a couple of buildings and didn’t know which one I was actually in. Maybe they roughly knew where I lived but not exactly. Perhaps they’d just got lucky again, cruising Broadway, knowing that I lived around there somewhere and then spotting me. If they’d reacted fast, they could have got me on the street, but maybe it was too late by then, maybe by then I was up at the George Washington Bridge and up there there’d been half a dozen traffic cops. Even in Washington Heights you couldn’t plug somebody in broad daylight in front of six cops and hope to get away with it.

It must have been very exciting for them. There they were chugging along, Sunshine’s voice ringing in their ears. He lives in the 180s near Broadway, I’ve had reports, spies. Just keep driving around and if you see him at all, fucking shoot him first, ask questions later. But don’t be stupid. And then suddenly one of them spots me. There he is. There’s the bastard over there, look. Look, isn’t that him? Tell me if it isn’t him. Longer hair, beard, but that’s our boy, isn’t it? Let me see the picture. Where’s that union ID photo? Aye. That’s him. Where’s he going? Shite, he’s crossing the fucking bridge. All right, be cool, don’t get crazy, just go over.

Yeah, they’d be all excited. Driving over here, cleaning their pieces, wondering if an opportunity would present itself. And there I was, going down into some park in the middle of nowhere with no one around. Jesus, half the population of New Jersey is going over the bridge above us, but down here it’s all quiet, peaceful, no witnesses at all.

I was slightly disgusted with them. I couldn’t really believe that both of them would just come plodding down after me, hoping that I wouldn’t hear, but then a thought occurred to me. Maybe there was more than one car. Maybe they’d be calling in backup. Four men would be a lot to handle, or perhaps the whole entire bloody crew would show up to give me a once-over before putting one behind my neck.

I’d have to be smart. They, of course, had guns, and I, stupidly, did not.

Use the head. Have to remember. I was lucky, though, because I had experience, I’d been through the mill in Belfast, I’d been through the mill in Mexico, and maybe most important, in the army I’d done those two very useful courses. The recon course on Saint Helena, where I punched the guy and got chucked off and out, and a corporals’ course back in Blighty, which I managed to fail, but really there was no shame in that. I mean, you hear a lot about standards these days. They tell you that the Army Rangers is a really hard outfit, except that the pass rate for army basic training is about 95 percent. They don’t tell you that the Navy SEALs pass half of their candidates, desperate for manpower. Honestly. So there’s tough, and there’s tough. Anyway, I did that course in the West of Jock and I redded it, but by way of excuse let me say that the corporals’ course of the British Army is one of the hardest bitches in the world. See, the Brits consider corporals the backbone of the whole organization: corporals and sergeants run everything, so you have to be good. You learn exponentially. In four days, you get months, years of distilled experience. It’s like the wisdom of the I Ching.

Now one of the things I did on the course was a night foot patrol through a forest. There’s another foot patrol looking for you and if they find and “kill” you, you lose. In the patrol, it’s creepy, and you’re approaching a mock village from different parts of the wood, and, believe me, you learn to slow down, to halt your boys, to listen, to hear. People don’t know how to listen these days, but anybody can do it.

In that moment on that hill, in New Jersey, after all my slagging off the army, I remembered all of this in an instant and tried finally to do what they told me. Listen, unclog your ears of bog, you Paddy fuck. Try. Listen. Come on.

I stopped, crouched, and cupped my hands behind my ears. Took my hands away, got in a better position. You could barely hear them at all, but if you listened for a minute and sorted the sounds and deciphered them and filtered out birds and traffic and riverboats and ambience, you could tell that first, they weren’t running; second, they were walking but their footsteps were not regular, not normal; third, they were walking but they were treading lightly, carefully, they were actually trying not to make too much noise. They were confident, but not cocky. This told me two further things: one, they were dumb enough to think that I hadn’t heard them in the first place, which Helen Keller could have done a mile away with a Walkman on; and two, there was probably no backup coming. It was just them, and they, in their half-arsed, crappy way, were trying to be careful. So the two of them and the one of me.

I stood up and started walking again, following the path along the leaf-strewn road, all the way down almost to the river. It was really quite striking. The naked trees with huge branches twisted and gnarled. Underfoot, golden leaves carpeting everything, and in the distance, fleeting glimpses of the Hudson and a mammoth weird city perched precariously on an island.

At the next turning, you approached the water and there was a bit of a grassy meadow and a stony beach. It had to be either at this turning or the previous one. I decided on the previous one because the cover was better. I ran up to the last meander of the road and got in behind a bush just above the path. I hid there and pulled my raincoat close and waited. I was glad I’d been wearing dark colors. The boys were going a wee bit faster now, still careful, but nervous, sensing their big moment was coming up.

If I’d had two functioning feet, the ideal play would have been to let them go past, jump, drop-kick one of them in the back and head (with separate feet), and as he’s going down at least try and get a swipe at the other bastard. But with my left foot unreliable, I decided against this. Instead, I’d jump the bigger of the two guys and try and bowl him over into the other and hope somehow that it all worked out.

I waited for the boys, breathed, kept calm, and remembered that I’d actually failed that corporals’ course on the very first night. Jesus. Who was I kidding? Distilled experience, my arse. I-fucking-Ching. Knowing me, I was almost certainly blitzed that night too. Any U.S. Army week-two reject was probably better than me.

It was in the midst of this period of self-doubt that finally they came. One big and fat, one big and thin. They were both smoking, which was ridiculous. I could have smelled it. I didn’t, but I could have. The big and fat one I recognized as Boris Karloff from the tail on Bridget. The other I’d never seen in my life. He was sallow-faced and skinheaded and probably another import from Erin. I wonder if Darkey made him sing bloody “Danny Boy” to see if he was the business. They were both walking fast and neither had his weapon out, which suited me just fine.

The trail was narrow. The Thin Man was on the inside, so I had to go for him first. It would all have to be very quick and very hard. Hesitation would be the death of me. I held my breath, tensed, poised, and then when they were just past, I jumped the bugger. I took off on my good foot and landed on the Thin Man’s back. I got my knee into his spine and knocked all the air out of him. My right hand was already under his neck and pulling his head back. He staggered and fell into Boris. The fall helped me, and I twisted his neck hard and tight. By the time all three of us were sprawled in a heap on the ground, the Thin Man’s neck was broken and I’d scrabbled up his gun, a little six-shot revolver of unknown caliber. Boris was fumbling for his weapon somewhere on the ground in front of him. I took a couple of breaths and pointed the revolver at him. I clicked back the firing pin.

Don’t, I said.

He stopped what he was doing and put his hands up. He was still lying on the ground with his mate splayed out over his legs.

Car keys, I said.

H-his pocket, Boris said in a sad old man’s voice. Boris, I supposed, might even be in his seventies. Why had they sent him on a job like this? His accent had a trace of the Old Country, but it was tempered by years of living here, mostly in Boston, it sounded like. I reached into the Thin Man’s trousers and found the car keys and a wallet that I didn’t look at. I sat cross-legged beside him, still keeping the gun on his face.

Why didn’t you kill me in my apartment? I asked.

We-we didn’t know where you lived. We were looking for you. We saw you go up onto the bridge.

You just got lucky?

Yes.

Did you call it in?

We d-don’t have a radio or a c-car phone or anything like that.

Sunshine sent you?

He nodded.

Where does he live? Do you have his address?

Boris smiled for some reason and it disconcerted me. He leaned over and said in a whisper (as if there was anybody around to hear):

He always met us at the Four Provinces, always, but I know where he lives. Jackie Mac tailed him one day to see if he was whoring after the weans.

I smiled too. I wonder why I’d never thought of that. I knew he wasn’t a pervert, but it might have been good to know where he lived. Could have done the same to Darkey, too. Laziness, I suppose, had been at the bottom of it.

Ok, mate, what’s the address?

He told me, but I couldn’t find a pencil anywhere in my coat so I had to memorize it. I searched Boris and, finding nothing, I took his Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol, a truly beautiful weapon that became my handgun of choice from then on. I ordered him up and together we lifted his partner off the road, Boris at the feet and me at the shoulders. We dragged him into the woods and I got Boris to cover him with leaves.

When he was done, I shot Boris in the head. I did it quick and without any fuss and covered him as best I could. I checked to see if there were any spatter marks on me, but I was fine.

The car was parked half a mile up the road. It was a blue Ford with a manual transmission, and it took me quite a while before I got it up and running. I’m no driver, and with my injury it was a bloody nightmare trying to get over the bridge and back into the city and state of New York. Everything’s relative. A little pain for me, but at least I wasn’t in Sunshine’s shoes-a man who, with any luck, would not now live to see this day’s end.

It took me only about ten minutes to realize that the blue Ford was being followed. I noticed the old black Lincoln when I had just about negotiated the hazards of the George Washington Bridge and was making my way through Upper Manhattan towards Queens. There was an Irish neighborhood in Queens, but it wasn’t our turf and I’d never been out there. I knew only two bits of Queens: the airport and Rockaway Beach.

The Lincoln was tailing me about five cars back. Two men, both in dark suits and raincoats. I figured they’d been tailing the car and not me, and it was just conceivable that they thought I was one of the two original guys. I wasn’t sure where they’d picked me up, but if they’d seen me top Boris and his mate then the game would be up. Of course, they were cops, everything about them said that they were cops. They drove peeler fashion and they gave off that peeler vibe.

Why they were tailing people in Darkey’s organization was hardly a mystery either. Darkey had no charmed life and, despite Sunshine’s obvious talent, they couldn’t avoid the law’s attentions forever. Bob’s death out on Long Island wouldn’t help either. An organized crime unit of the NYPD was finally having to pay a wee bit of attention to Darkey’s shenanigans.

How to ditch them was the tricky part. I never drove in Manhattan and I wasn’t clear which streets were one-way or where the back alleys were. The one street I knew really well was 125th, and I racked my brain trying to think of where I could ditch a car along there and make a run for it.

Obviously, the first thing was not to let on that I knew a tail was on, so I drove normally and kept cool. I wasn’t heading at all for Queens now, just keeping her downtown in heavy morning traffic. I was hitting Broadway and the 130s when a plan occurred to me. The Kentucky Fried Chicken on 125th and Broadway had two entrances, one on 125th and one on Broadway. If I parked the car at the McDonald’s on the south side of 125th and then walked over to the 125th Street entrance of KFC (which had no parking lot), it would be the most natural thing in the world for the cops to park near me and wait for me to come out of KFC and go back to my car. They were cops, so they wouldn’t think that they’d been spotted and they wouldn’t be expecting me to ditch the vehicle.

I drove calmly and slowed down to the McDonald’s opposite the KFC and parked the car. I locked her up and waited patiently for the light to change to cross over 125th, which is wide and dangerous at that time of day. With an air of calm I went in the 125th Street entrance of KFC. A homeless guy let me in, expecting change on the way out. I was hungry and I had a few bucks, so I ordered a chicken sandwich and a coffee. I ate the sandwich, but the coffee was too hot and I didn’t have the time to wait for it to cool. The windows were so clogged full of posters advertising the latest specials that it was impossible to see through them, and so I couldn’t tell if the cops were over there or not, but I guessed they would be.

I went out the Broadway door and looked for the black Lincoln, but of course it was still back in the McDonald’s lot. I ran a block up to the subway escalator. At the top of the stairs, I waited for a minute to see if the cops were after me but they weren’t at all, they were still waiting for me to finish my breakfast at KFC and come out on 125th. Peelers, always the bloody same.

I checked the subway map and figured the best way to Woodside from there. It would mean a couple of changes at the ugliest part of the morning, but it would be ok.

I bought tokens for the return. I rode the train and lifted a Daily News off the seat and, sure enough, the election had been won by the Democrat, Bill Clinton, who was from Arkansas. It was only in that moment that I realized that the state of Arkansas is actually pronounced “Arkansaw,” not “Ar-kansas.” I’d been hearing Arkansas but had no idea where it was. I was quietly delighted with my discovery and wanted to share it with my fellow passengers, but only madmen talk on the subways and I had to keep a low profile.

When I got out in Woodside, the Irish part seemed to be just a few square blocks, surrounded by a much larger Polish neighborhood. It was small, and there were a lot of gossipy-looking witnesses hanging around cafés and Irish bread shops and pubs and the like, but at least I thought that its smallness would make finding Sunshine’s place relatively easy. I went in a store, bought a packet of Tayto Cheese & Onion, and munched as I explored.

I’d arrived around eleven o’clock, but in fact it took me until half past twelve to find his address.

Sunshine lived in a wooden house that was painted blue and was three stories high. It didn’t look to be a particularly nice house: no garden, the paint scuffed, it was right next to a busy street, the front yard had a few leaves collecting up against the metal fence. Aesthetically challenged, but I supposed that around here it cost a packet. It was close to the subway and the neighborhood was white and reasonably prosperous and safe. There was never a doubt in my mind that maybe Boris had stroked me-he was way too much of a good old boy for that. I had a pang of regret that I’d shot him, but I dismissed it; he would have said that he wouldn’t have talked, but he would have. And anyway, it was Boris who’d tailed Bridget that day, Boris who’d passed along the information, Boris who’d set this whole derailing train in motion. Would it have been so difficult to say that Bridget had gone shopping that morning? Give a guy a break.

The way into Sunshine’s would have to be the back door. There was no way I could dick around the front in the broad day with people walking by on the sidewalk.

I opened the fence gate and walked around the back. There was a bit of pathetic grass and a paddling pool clogged with leaves and rainwater. A paddling pool. Did Sunshine have kids? No. Maybe he was an uncle? A good uncle, no doubt, smart, generous, creative.

No screen on the back and the door was locked. I’m no lock guy, so the only thing for it would be to break open a window. Sunshine would hear, of course, so I’d have to be ready for him if he was inside. I selected the rear kitchen window, punched a hole through with my elbow, turned the handle, climbed in, pulled out the Glock, and waited for him to show up with his gun. He didn’t, and after a quick search of the house, I saw he wasn’t home. I’d wait.

I searched the place out of boredom and curiosity, but found little of interest. In a bedroom with lilac bedsheets and matching drapes I discovered a wall safe, but I don’t do combinations, either, so who knows what was inside.

There were no books, but I did find an extensive collection of videos. Over a thousand, maybe. It seemed that Sunshine had seen every bloody commercial film that had come out over the last ten years. There was no porn, and most of the films were complete crap. I tried five in a row before getting one that was ok. I put the sound on low and sat close to the box. The flick was about androids, who really are the good guys, and a cop chasing them, who really is the bad guy, in the future Los Angeles. In Los Angeles, it was raining all the time and it reminded me a bit of Belfast in the seventies.

After the movie I just sat. The house gave me the creeps. There were no pictures up and no personal details at all. It occurred to me that this was only his city house and he might have a real place up in Westchester or New Jersey or Long Island. Maybe he never came here at all. Maybe he rented this place out. Maybe he’d bloody sold it. Maybe this was his girl’s place. I put in another film. This one was about Vietnam, where it also rained a lot.

I was only about halfway through that when I heard the front gate. I switched off the telly and sat composed in the big leather living-room chair, ready with Boris’s nifty wee Glock.

Sunshine came in with a brown bag full of shopping. He was heading for the kitchen, but he saw me from the hall and dropped the bag. I motioned for him to come in. He thought for a moment about making a run for it, but the door behind him was closed and I was pointing the gun straight at him. He was wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans, something I’d never seen him wear before (previously he was always a suit-and-tie man). He was more or less the same, greasy comb-over longer, maybe, but he looked well, tanned, content. Scared shitless at the sight of me, though. He came towards me and started to speak, but I put my finger to my lips. I held the gun against his head while I frisked him. He was clean, and I told him to sit on the floor with his hands on his neck. He began to blubber and explain, but I told him not to speak.

I ripped a page from the notebook beside the phone and gave it to him with a pen.

Write down Darkey’s address there for me, I said.

Listen, Michael, please, you don’t understand.

One more word, Sunshine, and I’ll blow the top of your fucking head off, get me?

He nodded and picked up the paper and pen. He wrote an address. I picked up the paper and looked at it. It was in Peekskill, New York.

I take the commuter rail up there, right? I asked conversationally.

Yeah, Sunshine said, still dry-heaving, though he’d calmed down a bit now.

Look, Sunshine, I’m not going to draw this out longer than necessary. Just tell me, you had a couple of guys on me and-

No, no, I don’t know what you’re talk-

Sunshine, don’t start. Now, how many are there looking for me?

He swallowed and tried to compose himself. He knew I’d seen them. There was no point debating it.

Four.

Do they know where I live?

Roughly.

What do you mean?

We found you, Michael. I found you. Somewhere in the 190s. Jesus, we would have had you tonight or tomorrow or the next day. Soon. A couple of days, that’s all we needed. We wouldn’t have killed you, though, don’t think that. You gotta know I would have had them bring you to me. I like you, Michael. I’m glad you got out. I would have given you money to leave town. That was the plan. Pick you up. Bring you over. Darkey’s not here, he would never have to know. I bring you to me and give you cash to leave forever. I like you, I owe you, Michael, I’d never hurt you.

What make were their cars?

What?

Was one of them a black Lincoln?

Er, no, no one I know has a black Lincoln.

What were their cars?

A Ford and a Chevy.

How did you find me, Sunshine?

I’d been hearing rumors, for about a week now.

How, what exactly?

When you killed Big Bob, you woke up a couple of local people. Some old geezer saw a Cadillac pull away. He knows everyone on the street, doesn’t know anyone that has a Cadillac. Cream-colored Cadillac. Young guy with a beard. Pretty distinctive.

What else?

Uh, well, you know, if you take the time to go through the police reports, you’ll find that a cream-colored Cadillac was stolen not too far from the Four Provinces the night Bob was hit. Someone had followed him from the Four P. See? And that it turned up again in the 190s. Who’d want to hit Big Bob? Like I say, I was hearing rumors. I showed the old geezer your picture. It might be you. Christ, I was so pleased. I figured you were alive. Come back. Hooked up with somebody to get us. Russians, maybe. I don’t know. But you were alive. Not hurt, clear from Mexico.

Did you tell Darkey?

I didn’t tell him anything. Michael, I wouldn’t, and besides, Darkey left with Bridget. They’re going to the Bahamas for a few weeks. I’m running the show.

When does he come back?

December, December early, I think. I can check. Jesus. We could clean him out while he’s away. Clean him out, Michael. You and me, Sunshine said, licking his lips from nerves, not anticipation.

How exactly did you find me, Sunshine? Who else knows?

It’s like I’ve said, Michael, I’m not lying. Cadillac. Around the 190s. You could have taken the subway from there, but I didn’t think so. Who thinks to dump their car and take the subway? You don’t, do you? Not after killing someone. You just want to toss your gun and wash your hands.

Should have had you advising me, Sunshine.

You should have, he said, looking at me, smiling, sweating.

He was keen to talk, talking was his whole life; his quick brains and quicker mouth would save him now.

What was the next move? I asked.

You were around there, but where? Where exactly? If you dump your car, you’ll walk at most twenty blocks. I reckoned between the 170s and 200th. I put four men on it from downtown. I was arranging it. Two teams of two. I take it you saw them. Fucking amateurs. Jesus. I was bloody arranging it. You’re a goddamn jinx. A bad fucking penny. I mean, Christ, couldn’t you just have fucking been cool. I mean, just this once. I mean, Jesus, Michael, please. I would have picked you up, all would have been well. Would have given you cash to go away, no guns.

So it’s just two other guys, Darkey doesn’t know.

No. Jesus, if you just had waited. I would have had them bring you to me. No guns. It would have worked out for the best.

I guess I’m unlucky.

Luck, nothing to do with it, he said, blinking, wiping the sweat off his lip.

And I had to admit it was nice to talk to Sunshine after all this time. I liked his take on things. He was clever. It relaxed me.

Aye. It’s depressing, though, Sunshine, for a guy who’s trying to be incog-bloody-nito there’s an awful lot of people who know where I am, I said, ruefully.

Sunshine grinned.

Yes. You’re trouble. I was always worried a bit about you, Michael. Always.

Why?

Well, your references were good from Belfast and you were in the army and you were no thief. But you were always a bit too smart-mouthed. Too smart for Scotchy. You were the brains and he was the-

Don’t talk about him, I said, menacingly.

Sunshine was quick on the uptake and grinned sheepishly and changed tack.

Yeah, but you were too fast and smart, still are.

Is that why Mexico happened? I asked.

No. Not at all. You know why Mexico happened.

Darkey.

Darkey. And I was opposed. You know, I really liked you, Michael. I warned you to stay away from Bridget. Jesus, man, what were you thinking? I trusted you.

I trusted you.

No, I really liked you. You were here three quarters of a year, you were good and reliable, and you weren’t a thieving bastard like Scotchy, so Darkey and I were happy.

Mention Scotchy again and I’ll fucking plug you, Sunshine, I said.

Yeah, ok. Look, I’m very sorry about what happened. You have no idea. I was against it. You were a great worker.

Until.

Until.

How long did you know?

About what?

About Bridget.

I knew that week. Me, who is normally on top of things.

Aye. Whose plan was Mexico? It must have been yours.

No, not at all. It was Darkey. Darkey, the whole thing. I said no. I said no way. I said send him back to Ireland with a good talking-to, maybe a quiet kicking.

He was much calmer now and I preferred that. He was really thinking he could reason with me. I was cool, I seemed reasonable.

And, Jesus, Sunshine, you sacrificed the whole crew for me. Four good men and a hundred thousand dollars. Incredible. I mean, it was brilliant. Darkey could never have come up with something like that. Brilliant. You must have had contacts with the peelers down there-

Michael, you’ve got it all wrong, I-Sunshine interrupted.

I cut him off.

Sunshine, please. We both know how it was.

He nodded and sighed. Was he resigning himself? No, not Sunshine, he took an intake of breath and began again:

Michael, you’ve got to believe me, it was Darkey. Mr. Duffy had contacts with the Mexican police. Cancún police, big tourist area, big drug area. Darkey’s plan. The Mexicans get four convictions, and they keep the money. All Darkey, nothing to do with me.

And Bob sets it up, gets out, and we get ten years. Bridget marries Darkey and suspects nothing. Darkey wouldn’t sacrifice a whole crew for me. Really, Sunshine, you were very clever.

Michael, I opposed it the whole way. I said to Darkey, We’ll send him back to Ireland.

And I suppose if it fucked up and Bob got lifted too, it wouldn’t matter, it was only Bob, right?

Michael, why aren’t you listening? I knew it was madness. I said to Darkey, This is completely nuts.

Aye.

You’re not going to kill me, Michael? Sunshine asked, suddenly serious.

I have to. I’m sorry. Even if I did believe you, it wouldn’t matter, I made a promise.

With who?

The jungle.

Cryptic bastard to the last, Sunshine said. He was kneeling on the floor with his hands still on his neck. He leaned forward and started to sob. Gasping with it. Getting hysterical. His hands dropped from his neck, he was getting up, coming over. Hyperventilating.

Do you want to get it over with then, you fucker? he screamed, coming so close I had to step back.

Ok, I said.

He put up his palms and looked at me panic-stricken. He was going to beg, and it would be terrible. He started to cry frantically and dropped back to his knees.

Please, Michael, I have five hundred thousand dollars saved, more in a-

I put my hand up to stop him. He was prostrate before me, his hands together, girning his face off. Breathy, gasping, choking it out. Vomiting with fear. I could smell the fear on him. His bald head, puke on his weak chin and the sleeve of his outstretched arm. His dark eyes filled with tears. No one said this was going to be easy.

Michael, you’re a good guy, I know you’re a good guy. I’ll disappear, you’ll never hear from me, for good. Jesus, five hundred thousand, think of it. Darkey has a million, more, we could get it. Millions. Come on, Michael, I know you’re a good guy. I know it. I know it. You’re a good man.

I shook my head.

Sunshine, I’m not going to draw this out. Tell Scotchy I was asking for him.

What?

You heard, I said, and before he could say anything more, I shot him in the heart.