A Season for the Dead

Fifty-Five

It was a black Mercedes with darkened windows. Michael Denney looked through the windshield: Two men in dark suits sat in the front, anonymous behind sunglasses.

“Do I tip them, Brendan?” he asked Hanrahan.

The Irishman carried Denney’s case to the back of the car. Then he looked around. The street was empty. That seemed to meet with his approval.

“I can carry my own luggage,” Denney said, watching Hanrahan reach for the trunk.

“If you choose.” Both men looked at the case. It seemed so small, so insignificant.

“Have a good journey, Michael. Call me when you’re settled.”

“Of course,” he answered, and extended a hand. Hanrahan looked at it.

“Come on,” Denney laughed. “I’m not a leper. And you’ve got what you want, haven’t you? No embarrassing revelations. No more scandal.”

Hanrahan took his hand and pumped it in a summary fashion. “Call me.”

“Yeah,” Denney replied as he started to climb into the passenger seat, taking the case with him. “If I don’t just disappear into thin air.”