Dead I Well May Be

12: METRO-NORTH

It had rained in the morning and then it had snowed and then it had sleeted and then, as if exhausting all possible combinations of the three, the precipitation petered itself out and stopped. The sky was gray and the sun could only make brief, faded cameo appearances where the clouds thinned. Irish weather, not really like New York at all. Cold, too cold for snow, a weatherman said. It was December.

Last December, I’d come here. It didn’t seem like a year ago. It seemed longer.

I thought of Nan. I hadn’t thought of her in many months. I’d sent her some money in February and I’d spoken to her a few times, the last occasion in the spring. Nan didn’t have a phone, so it was a complicated process of calling the neighbors and then having them go over and getting her and her getting all flustered and coming over and so on. Still, it was no excuse.

In Belfast it would be three o’clock in the afternoon, getting dark. If I called now I’d be admitting that I was alive, but I supposed they all knew that anyway.

I didn’t want to call, though. The hassle of it, and every conversation usually degenerated into crossed purposes or farce. Also, I was in no mood to placate Nan’s neighbors with lies about my life in America.

I dressed as warmly as I could and exited the building. I scoped about for a Chevy or a Lincoln or any other cars I didn’t like the look of. But it was clean. Really, I should have moved to Hoboken or somewhere, but I liked this place, the bridge view, and besides, I was always cautious.

I took the train to Fairway. The one in the seventies. There’s one now where we used to take people and give them a hiding, down at the Hudson. A place I thought Darkey and Scotchy were going to take me and shoot me one night a long time ago. A night when Rachel Narkiss was in my life and could have been a major part of a different existence. Such things were not to be.

Fairway was packed full of Christmas shoppers, but I braved it, bought some potato bread, soda bread, black pudding, and sausages. It wasn’t the real Irish stuff, but there was no way I could go near any Irish neighborhoods to get the imports. If I needed a fix of the Old Sod, I figured an Ulster fry might help. I took the supplies home and I fired up the old grill and cooked myself one, and it was quite good. Of course, I cooked it in vegetable oil, not dripping or lard, but still.

I exercised in the afternoon for an hour and then did yoga and meditated for another two hours. I slept. I woke and saw the George Washington Bridge light up. I watched the cars move on the decks, and when I was bored and tired, I slept again.

It was another day and gray.

I got up, stretched and meditated for a half hour. I stretched again and did some exercises. I ran on the machine and when I was sweating and exhausted, I showered.

But none of it was any good. Bloody Belfast was still nagging at me.

I opened the fridge. There was still some potato bread left. I wondered if I made another fry, would it cure me. I got out a pan, ripped open the packet of potato bread, and at the smell finally cracked, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.

Mrs. Higgins was in her eighties and slightly scatterbrained and deaf, and it took me a minute or two to explain the nature of my call.

Mrs. Higgins, please, it’s Mike Forsythe, you remember Mikey, here calling from America. America. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind getting Nan for me, please, if she’s around.

Mrs. Higgins said that she was around, explaining that she could see her through the back window hanging out her washing. Mrs. Higgins said that at the moment Nan was talking to Mrs. Martin. I remembered Mrs. Martin: she was a frightening woman who had a soft spot for Nan, but who scared the crap out of me and most of the rest of the parish. Among a number of suspects, it might have been her that grassed me out to the DHSS about working that one bloody time.

She’s a bad woman, that Audrey Martin, a bad one, Mrs. Higgins was saying.

Yes, now please, would you mind at all, getting Nan for me, I asked with great patience.

I heard Mrs. Higgins put the phone down and shout across the garden. Mrs. Higgins was also about to do her washing, and before mentioning the long-distance phone call, I could hear her scold the other two for hanging out their washing with the rain about to come on. This was the wrong thing to say, since for the next several minutes they got into a heated discussion and talked with a professional eye about the prospect of foul weather. Mrs. Higgins’s and Mrs. Martin’s loud voices managed to enter the telephone receiver and carry all the way under the Atlantic to America. This was typical, and I knew the process of getting Nan would take some time. I cursed myself for calling. I put them all on the speakerphone. I put some oil in the frying pan and heated it and waited for Mrs. Higgins to get to the point in hand. Apparently, the Pentlands’ dog was barking, which could only mean hail, and the rotted cabbage leaves were still closed, so Nan reckoned the rain wouldn’t come until after lunch. Mrs. Martin divined signs in the movement of the birds and concurred with Nan’s prediction. Mrs. Higgins, however, had been watching TV. The BBC was claiming that it had been raining all night and, in fact, was raining right now in Belfast on top of all three of them and although the sky was overcast, it was dry, and she had to admit that there wasn’t much physical evidence to prove this extraordinary statement.

Mrs. Martin started yelling at children playing on the fence two houses down. Mrs. Martin’s voice was booming and loud and might just have carried across the Atlantic without any need for a cable. I shuddered. For reasons that never really came to light at trial, during a jumble sale in the Gospel Hall, Mrs. Martin had brained her husband with a fire iron. She’d gotten a suspended sentence at the district court in Newtonabbey, though it was agreed that had she not been so big and intimidating, and had not the magistrate come from just two streets over, she would have done six months. The weans must have keeked their whips when she yelled at them, and I managed to laugh a wee bit. There was the sound of panicked squeals and flight and then a brief discussion among the women about the youth of today.

The youth of today must have got the wheels turning, for finally Mrs. Higgins remembered about the phone call and told Nan to hurry because it was coming all the way from America.

I heard Nan come up the path and then come breathlessly on the phone, all excited.

Hello, Nan.

She caught her breath.

Michael, I might have thought you were dead. I’m very angry with you. I haven’t heard from you. Your drunken eejit of a da was over and when he asked about you and I said I hadn’t heard in months, I could see even he was worried.

I’m sorry, Nan, you know what it’s like.

I suppose you’re not coming home for Christmas?

No.

Aye. Audrey Martin said that now you wouldn’t be.

Mrs. Martin?

Aye.

I don’t trust her, Nan. I think she grassed me to the dole about that picture in the Belfast Telegraph.

Ach, Audrey Martin wouldn’t harm a fly, Nan said.

No, that’s true. The lower forms of life are safe from her wrath, but you must admit that the sentient creatures have much to fear, I said, trying to be jokey with her, but it didn’t really work. With Nan it never really worked. I started throwing bread and sausages in the frying pan. The conversation with Nan was going as I’d expected-not at all well.

You’ve a cold, she said. Do you go out without your scarf?

Nan, I lost that scarf ages ago.

See, that’s why you’ve a cold.

Nan, I believe in the germ theory of the transmission of disease.

Aye, you’ll see when you catch your death, germ theory up your arse, Nan replied in what for her was uncustomary coarseness. I guessed she was upset about something. Probably me blowing her off for so long.

Look, Nan, I’m sorry I haven’t called. Don’t be angry with me.

Ach, I’m not angry at all now, Michael. But you can’t do this again. Promise me that.

I promise.

Well…, she began and stopped.

There was silence now, and I waited for her to say her piece. I waited still as the bacon, egg, soda, and wheaten bread joined the other components of the Ulster fry sizzling in the big pan. I waited as the smell drifted up and filled the apartment and the sausages blackened and the black pudding crystallized. Finally, Nan came to it.

Michael, is everything ok? she asked.

I nodded and remembered to speak.

It’s fine. Nan, what is it? What’s wrong?

Listen, Michael. Mrs. Martin said you wouldn’t be back for Christmas because people are after you.

What?

She saw a couple of policemen come round the other day and they asked all these questions about you. I was out, it was late-night shopping in town, but they asked about you, asked her if she’d seen you. Well, she sent them off with a flea in their ear and no mistake. And for all your talk about her. But Michael, I was wondering if you were in any trouble. They haven’t been back, and I’ve said nothing.

I stopped cooking the Ulster fry and turned off the gas.

Nan, you’ll have to go get her. I’ll have to ask her about them myself, I said, seriously.

Nan put the phone down and went to get Mrs. Martin, a woman I’d hardly ever spoken to in my life because I’d always been too afeared. I heard them talk in whispers, and then she came on the line.

Hello, young man.

Hello, Mrs. Martin.

How are you in America?

I’m good.

I see…

Listen, uh, Mrs. Martin, I was wondering if you were sure the men who came looking for me were peelers.

I didn’t think they were policemen at all, Michael. Your nan said that they must have been, but they didn’t look at all like policemen. They had crew cuts and they were wearing jeans. They might have been your detectives, but I don’t think so.

What did they ask?

They asked if I’d seen you, and I said that as far as I knew you were in America, and they started asking all these other questions and I sent them off about their business. I’m sure if they were police they would have showed me a card or something.

Local accents?

I think so, of the most vulgar sort in any case, hardly police.

They weren’t police, I said. Listen, thank you. Please put Nan back on. Thank you.

Nan came back on and I told her to tell anyone who came looking for me that she hadn’t heard from me in a long time. I told her to tell Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Higgins the same thing, and Nan said she would do it. She didn’t ask me why and she must have sensed that I was in some kind of shit. She knew it, but she didn’t want to know. I stayed on for a while longer and made up some lies about having a new job and a new girlfriend. I was sure she didn’t believe them.

After I’d hung up, I wondered if they would try to get to me through her. I felt weak as fear went through me, and I was terrified for Nan for a moment or two.

No, it was a tough estate and you’d be the brave boy who’d send hooligans down into that one-way street. And an assassin of an old lady in that part of town would never get out of Belfast alive. No, Mr. Duffy and Darkey would come after me, if they came at all.

I suppose they’d just called local people up to check in on Nan to see if she’d heard from me. An interesting thought occurred to me. Maybe Sunshine hadn’t passed on the rumors about me. Was it conceivable that they weren’t sure if I was alive and out of Mexico? Was that possible at all? Could Sunshine have been telling the truth? Could they really still be in the dark? No. My heart sank. That would be too good to be true. And not after Bob and the boys and Sunshine.

The smart thing, though, would be to keep them guessing. To lie low until it was time. And it’s not as if I was doing anything stupid. I was being patient. It was weeks since Sunshine had got topped and yet it still wasn’t quite time yet. Not quite yet. Relax them down a wee bit more.

I was still living the life.

I knew no one. I’d seen no one.

The talk with Nan had been the first real conversation in a long time.

Every week Ramón had sent a boy round with money. I was no mad ascetic, so I’d taken it and spent it on things. I’d got myself special sneakers, the running machine. I’d put on weight and got stronger. I rarely left the apartment and then sleekitly, and since it was winter always with my hood all the way up. I spent my time in meditation and exercise. I watched TV and ordered in food and learned Spanish from a book.

When I did go out, it was to distant places on the subway line. Places where I knew they wouldn’t find me. I had to go out early in the morning with a crowd. I had to be sly. There was Sunshine’s men, and Mr. Duffy’s, but there was also the black Lincoln to be considered. The peelers might have got wind of a few things, as peelers are wont to do. They might have got it from any number of sources: a tap on Sunshine’s phone, an ID at Bob’s place, a slabber among one of Ramón’s lieutenants. Still, it couldn’t be that exact or they, like Darkey’s men, would have come knocking.

I wondered when Darkey was supposed to be back from his hols, but then I realized he would have come back early once they’d found Sunshine. Aye, he’d have to. Yeah, Darkey would be home by now with Bridget. With Sunshine dead, he’d really have his hands full.

He’d be home, and probably he’d be waiting for me. Even scouting up there would be dangerous. If it were me and I was in his position, I’d have a man at the railway station twenty-four hours a day; I’d have a dozen patrolling the grounds and I’d have half a dozen inside the house. I’d also have a dozen looking for me in my last known location, cruising in cars, maybe stopping people in the street and showing them my picture. No, not the latter, Ramón wouldn’t allow them to do that, it was his turf. They’d have to be discreet or Ramón’s boys would lift them for something, for surely by now Ramón owned the precinct.

I could only guarantee my safety if I stayed in the apartment, but like I say, sometimes I had to move in the outside air.

The day after I called Nan, I woke up freaked and had to get out. I did my usual shifty maneuvers and then rode the bus to the Cloisters and spent a morning freezing up there. A day after that I slipped downtown and took the PATH to some hellhole in Jersey. No tails, no problems.

I was fine, I had outsmarted them. The peelers, Darkey White, that’s how you’ll beat them, Mikey boy. Your native wit. Your charm. Your Celtic cunning. But don’t forget that other legacy of an Irish boyhood. The Paddy curse, not quite American Indian levels, but high enough. Enough to fuck you up. I decided I needed to get drunk, but it would be ok, I could handle it, I could handle anything.

I left the next morning after daylight and took a complicated route to a café on 112th Street. It was a Cuban place and I got rice and beans, fried eggs, and toast for breakfast, as well as a big con leche and a juice. It was good and it buoyed me. I was going to go on the piss, but I was still getting paranoid about tails, so I sat in the window seat looking out at the street, memorizing everyone. I walked down to a bar on 79th Street and sat in the blacked-out window, but there was no one I recognized.

The whole week had been depressing. Starting with that call to Nan. I needed this. A release.

The Dublin House, a black hole with Irish bar staff.

Not a good place to start-too chatty. One pint and out.

The Kitchen Bar, the Dive Bar, Cannon’s, the West End. A pint in each. I wanted to have lunch, but too many students. South again.

It was freezing. I had my thick navy coat and my knit hat, but I was still cold.

The Abbey Pub, a Brooklyn beer, a nasty lunch of curly fries and ketchup, a cute Dutch waitress who lived in the youth hostel on 103rd and Amsterdam and had not yet been mugged or worse by Les Enfants Brillants, the Haitian street gang that ran Amsterdam above 100th.

We talked, and I told her to move to a Dominican part of Broadway. She asked if I had plans next week and I said I had to kill a guy and she gave me a wide berth after that and I left her a twenty-dollar tip.

I was half tore by now, clearly. I went east towards Central Park and into a library to get out of the cold. Read the last few months of Time and Newsweek. Things and people I’d never heard of: Hurricane Andrew, Murphy Brown. The security guard said I was singing and asked me to leave. I walked to the subway, stopping outside a liquor store. I stared at the window for a while, and the man gave me an are-you-coming-in-or-not look. I went in. I bought a pint bottle of brandy, and he gave it to me in a brown paper bag. I was thus constitutionally protected against unlawful search if I drank it in the street. It was only encouraging me.

I decided to walk all the way home and drink the brandy as I walked. It was snowing now and I’d lost my hat somewhere. I shivered. I drank the bottle and went into another liquor store and got another one. I drank most of it, too. I’d only walked up to about 106th Street and Broadway when I thought it might be a good idea to take a wee nap in the middle of a snowstorm on a bench in the traffic island.

A cop car came by and some kindly peelers clearly didn’t want me dying on their patch, so without further ado they decided to lift me. I think they were only going to move me on or suggest a shelter, but unluckily, as soon as they laid paws on me, I reacted fast, turned, and belted one in the chest.

They were pretty quick with the old pepper spray and it hurt like hell. I went down like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t see them at all now and they were right on me. Two of them. Just two. I put it down to the drink. They cuffed me behind my back and walked me without any fuss to a cop car. The cop car already had three dodgy-looking characters inside it, so they radioed in for backup. They searched me and found the driving license that Ratko had rescued for me. That license had never been good for anything and now it apparently was bad for something, because while I leaned against the car and the peeler talked on the radio, I could see his expression change (even through pepper tears). My name was obviously known to someone. I thought of the black Lincoln. The Feds? The other cop was standing beside me. The door was closed. The pepper spray had caught the left side of my face only; if it had been full on, I would have been unable to do anything; as it was, I was pretty fucked, gasping for air and barely able to stand. The snow helped a little, though. Copper number two inside was nodding and getting excited but copper number one was stamping his feet and looking out for the other paddy wagon. My hands were cuffed behind my back, so it would have to be something pretty special, and special isn’t easy with a fake foot. Still, it was worth a go.

I shuffled back from the car and made as if to puke. (I’d been crying the whole time, hamming it up as you do if you’re still figuring what you’re capable of doing and what you’re going to do.) The copper turned his head to spit. I tensed, and the copper was looking up and was about to say something, but by then I had jumped straight up and was making my body go horizontal. With my good foot I kicked him in the balls. He was wearing a cup, but I heard it crack. He went down in a sitting position against the door. I landed hard on the ground on my side, got up-try doing that with your hands cuffed behind your back and with a prosthetic foot-and set off running.

The other cop would take a half a minute or so to get his partner away from the door or else he’d have to climb out the driver’s side. It would be enough.

I ran up Amsterdam and kept running and cutting streets until I was at Morningside Park. The only people around did that New York thing and completely ignored me. I was handcuffed and crying and running and not a man jack chose to see me. Not even at the Columbia law library, where you’d think they’d be a bit more public-spirited. At the brow of the hill I stopped, took a quick breath or two, sucked in the deep cold air, and ran down into the park, slipping on the big wide steps after a few feet and almost doing a header and breaking my neck. Instead, I righted myself, got my balance together, and skipped on down. I didn’t look back once until I was safe in the park at the basketball courts. There were no signs of pursuit. Jesus H. Christ. I’d bloody lost them.

I laughed and jumped about. I’d lost them. I’d lost them. Peeler Pete and his Porky Pals.

Bastards, I yelled, delightedly.

Aye, I’d lost them, but suddenly it put the fear of God in me. It was close. And Jesus, I was on a list somewhere. My name was on a list. My real name. Shit. Drunken Mick stupidity had almost got me lifted. Fucking Paddy Curse.

Farther into the park I found a bloke with a quarter, and he was nice enough to dial the phone for me too. He was a good guy, well into his sixties, skinny, really sweet, and sadly some kind of downer junkie. He didn’t like the look of me one little bit, but since I was cuffed, he figured I couldn’t be all bad. Ramón came down half an hour later, and I asked Ramón to give the bloke twenty bucks. Ramón did just that.

Ramón and I went back to his place and they cut the cuffs off me in about five minutes.

I haven’t seen you for a long time, man, Ramón said later.

We were alone now, the boys gone. I sipped some of Ramón’s hot chocolate mixed with cream and brown sugar and wicked Dominican rum.

No.

We’re ok, aren’t we? he asked.

Yeah.

Good.

He stuck his hand out over the couch, and I shook it. He gave me the gangbanger shake and I went along with it.

You want something for the pepper spray? he asked.

What ya got?

Home remedy.

Ok.

He went off to his kitchen and made a poultice to shove on my bad eye. I thanked him and he said it was no problem. We sat for a while, silent. I had nothing to say and Ramón didn’t want to upset me again. I was the first to break the ice:

Listen, I, I probably won’t see you again, Ramón. It’s going to be this week. I’ve delayed too long. Darkey’s boys are after me and I think the cops now, too. They’ve forced my hand. It has to be now. After it’s done, I’m leaving.

Where to?

I don’t know. Australia, Ireland, I don’t know.

Ramón looked at me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I never could. He was a smart guy in a dumb guy’s business, though like I say, all those brains couldn’t do a thing to stop the gun of edgy young Moreno F. Cortez, a gun and nineteen fucking bullets (and Moreno a cousin and trusted lieutenant). Moreno, incidentally, got shot in the head about a month later by José Ramírez, who in turn… but you know how it goes.

We sat there and talked about trades and signings during the offseason. In Tampa there was some kid from Michigan who was going to be the future shortstop. 1993, Ramón predicted, was going to be the Yankees’ year, this year, next year, very soon, he said. He didn’t live to see the World Series, or Sosa in the Home Run Derby-it would have pleased him very much.

So, Michael, it will be soon, because of the heat, he said.

Yeah.

You will be careful?

I will.

Do you need any help?

No.

I stood up. We embraced. I didn’t say goodbye and afterwards I didn’t see him again. His death was just one more stat in the bloody catalog of uptown deaths in the early nineties.

The next day I went down to Gray’s Camping and Sport. I looked at camping equipment and sleeping bags. I decided against a tent. I placed an order for a down sleeping bag, which would take two days from the warehouse. That was ok, I said, I’d be back. I bought a big bowl rucksack that was like a Royal Marine Bergen.

I dyed my hair black and shaved everything but a mustache, which I also dyed black. I dressed in jeans and desert boots and a sheepskin coat. I got on the Metro-North at 125th. I took an early morning train to Peekskill, got off, and went to the nearest bar. I found a place to observe the railway platform. I sat there all day. There were no watchers, or if there were, they were very good. I went back to Manhattan and adopted a dog from the ASPCA volunteers on Union Square. They needed my name and address but that was ok too. I took the dog up to 181st Street. I called him Harry. He was a mongrel. A lazy character, who had been housetrained for a house and not an apartment. There is a difference, and I soon discovered what this was. I bought a Peekskill town map and studied it. I found Darkey’s place. I lost the mustache and dyed my hair red with blond streaks in it. I dressed in a black coat and brown cords and tasseled brown loafers. I bought myself a pair of clear-lens glasses and a walking stick. I caught the train from Grand Central. I got off at Peekskill. I walked the dog and found the house. From the map it had seemed to be about a thirty-five-minute dander from the Metro-North stop, but when I got up there, the walk ended up taking over an hour. (The map lacked contour lines.) I strolled past the property and checked the initial security. No gatehouse, and I couldn’t see anyone in the grounds. A Jeep and a Bronco in the driveway. A Jag in the open door of the garage. I went by, and I let the dog off in the trees. The dog and I found a back area that was thickly wooded and seldom trekked through. There was a boggy wee swamp that you had to wade through, knee-high, to get to a convenient little copse with thorny bushes. If you could make it through the swamp to the bushes, and you had a good pair of binocs, it would make a wonderful place for lying up. Your average private security guard wouldn’t think much of it because your average private security guard was a lazy arse and he’d have to wade through the little swamp to get there; and in any case, it seemed far too far from the house. If, however, your average private security guard was a thorough bastard and had a dog sniffing about, well, then you’d be fucked.

I hopped the train back to Grand Central and took a subway to Union Square. I gave the dog back, using the pooping problem as an excuse. I donated fifty bucks to cover my embarrassment.

I washed the dye out of my hair and packed a rucksack with a week’s worth of pork and beans and digestive biscuits. Seven cans of beans, seven packets of digestive biscuits. Multivitamins. I bought some Marie biscuits for variety. I bought some water purification tablets and two plastic liter bottles. I bought a funnel with a connecting tube, so I could take a piss without moving. I bought a large bivouac bag and spent a day scraping it from emergency orange to white. I bought the expensive down waterproof sleeping bag and a pair of night-vision binoculars. I bought silk undergloves and thick ski gloves. I bought long johns and sweatpants and fatigues. I bought a stopwatch and binoculars that came with a tripod. I bought a snow camouflage jacket, a snood ski mask, a black wool hat, a black cotton scarf, and a wind-breaker. I bought two pairs of wool socks and a pair of cotton ones. I bought a flashlight and boots and, unable to find a knife I liked, I sharpened a long screwdriver and bought a nice new Stanley box cutter. I bought two T-shirts, a sweat top, and a black sweater. I bought a notepad, pens, pencils, and plastic bags. I bought rope, duct tape, and thin leather gloves. On impulse I bought a pneumatic nail gun, but I didn’t bring it. I bought matches, a water can, a big bag of Peanut Butter Cups, and a toothbrush. Finally I bought a box of AA batteries, a Walkman, and an audio version of War and Peace. Some people think you should get listening gear or infrared body-heat sensors or motion detectors or a device for tapping into cellular phones, but then some people are fucking eejits.

The house lay on a quiet road, with about two acres around it. A house on each side, all three of them what in Ireland we’d call mansions. The lucky break was that opposite the house was a thick, swampy wood that eventually curved all the way down to the Hudson. I suppose the marsh was why this area hadn’t been developed. It was winter and the cover wasn’t what it would be like in the summer but still pretty substantial flora nonetheless. There were bushes and big old deciduous trees and some pines and because of the water and the muck it wasn’t the place you’d go for an idle walk or take the pet pooch.

Peekskill is up the river, past Sing Sing. It’s famous for being the birthplace of Mel Gibson, the scene of an important 1950s race riot and a 1980s sitcom. It’s also the home of Governor Pataki and a couple of 1930s socialist Utopian communities. Darkey lived quite near one of these communities but in winter almost all of its residents went down to Florida. So really there were very few people around and if you found yourself a convenient little bunker, established yourself in the cover in your bivvy bag, and coated yourself up with snow, you could lie unfound for weeks, months, or maybe even until the spring. Aye, I had to admit that it was a nice wee spot and the only drawback was that it wasn’t that near the house and you’d need at least a 12 × 50 pair of binocs or a telescope. I had the binocs only because they were less bulky.

Things had gone smoothly. Napoleon was invading Russia and having a wry old time of it. A couple of the main characters were dead and this was a relief because I’d gotten a bit mixed up anyway. The lying up had been easy. I’d taken the first morning train from 125th and doubled away from the station and back through the woods. I established the OP in darkness and by first light it was snowing lightly and this made things pretty sweet. It snowed all week, and this suited me fine. Peeing was no problem and because of the cover, if I’d chosen, I could have even stood up to go, but I didn’t. Water was good too. I used the swamp and the snow. I had water-purifying tablets and with them there was a new development: a pill you put in that made it so that it didn’t taste of iodine; this was a terrific invention, and I felt very happy about it. The pork and beans were good too; I ate them cold, but I was warm enough, snug even, and most important of all, I could see a good three quarters of the house through my binocs.

A couple of times, I saw Bridget go in and out. My heart leapt and it was all I could do not to stand up and wave and let her see me. Darkey left and came back every day. He drove the Bronco; Bridget, the Jeep; when they went together they took the Jag. Darkey left early, came back late. He had two personal bodyguards and there were two more who lived on the estate and who came in rotation. There were also two servants: a man in his sixties and a woman about the same age. Four guards, that was all. I was surprised, but not that surprised. Darkey didn’t know for certain that it was me. It had been a long time since Sunshine’s death. No one knew where he lived and besides, he could look after himself, he was a big boy, hadn’t he proved that after twenty years on the street? It took me a full seventy-two hours to be sure of the routine and another three days to check it. I was all ready to go on the 23rd of December, but they’d gone out to a party and they hadn’t come back until early in the morning. I was worried about Christmas Eve, too. Wasn’t that also a party night? But by one A.M. the cars were still in the driveway and I was fairly sure they weren’t going anywhere.

Technically now, it was Christmas Day.

My batteries had finally died. I was three quarters of the way through War and Peace and finally getting into the book but if all went well I’d come back and dismantle my OP and sweep it over and take all traces with me to a dump somewhere. I could finish W &P on the plane ride to wherever the plane was going.

It still wasn’t quite late enough, but there was just enough battery life to listen to the radio. I stuck on classical to calm my nerves. They were doing the nine symphonies and I had enough third-form German to switch off after Alle Menschen werden Brüder…

It was time.

I put away the Walkman and listened to the stillness of the woods.

I checked through the binocs again, but there’d been no change. The domestics had been given the day off and aside from Darkey and Bridget, only one guy was walking the grounds, three other guys in the house. The lights were out and you could assume that Darkey and Bridget had gone to bed. If the three men were in shifts, I guessed one other would be awake in the house. That’s how you’d do it, split the night into two. One man on the grounds and one man waiting by the radio. The other two would sleep until it was their watch. So hopefully there’d be only two people awake to deal with. That was all. Unless, of course, I’d been a complete idiot. But I didn’t think I had. Shifts would be the smart thing to do. Four guys, Darkey, and Bridget. Not one of them had thought to get a dog. Jesus. I mean, did they want to be murdered?

I put on my black sweater, boots, thin black gloves, and combat trousers. I pocketed the duct tape, screwdriver, and Stanley knife. I carried the Glock, too, but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use it just yet. I left the OP and went to a closer spot where I could see the groundsman. There was a small window of opportunity because they did a radio check every fifteen minutes at night, which at least was something you could give them credit for. I spotted the guard. I walked around the hill, following him in his circuit. I’d tail him until I saw him do his check. I knew this character, guard B. His call-ins were irregular. I assumed he was a young guy. The earliest he’d done a check was thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds and the latest he’d left it was seventeen minutes and fifty seconds. He was in darkness, but I knew him and I was well accustomed to the night now. He picked up the radio and called in and said something about it being freezing. He put the radio down and muttered to himself about the cold. I went quickly to the wall. It was eight feet high and topped with glass. Not a problem. I wouldn’t even need rope. I went up and over and lowered myself onto the snow on the other side.

At this point, you have to ask yourself, was there no indecision? And no, I can honestly say there was none. If there had been, it would have been before I killed Sunshine. Not here with Darkey. Not now, not tonight.

I stood up, braced to see if he’d heard me. But he wasn’t hearing anything. With the radio check done, it would be up to seventeen minutes before anyone would get suspicious. Plenty of time. He was wearing a parka with an enormous hood, so big in fact that it restricted his field of vision to about ninety degrees in front of him. He was walking and muttering and carrying a.38 revolver in a thick woolen-gloved hand. So thick it would make finding the trigger difficult. I mean, I ask you. He turned and the moonlight caught him. I was a bit surprised to see that it was our old chum David Marley from way back when. He’d put on weight. He was humming a Chieftains song and banging the gun rhythmically against his leg. He turned away. I crept up behind him and shoved the screwdriver into his throat at the same time as a knee went into his back and my left hand went over his mouth. I left the screwdriver in and with my right hand I removed the gun from his grip. I had it before he even hit the snow, stone dead. I fell on top of him and we lay for a moment. Blood trickling over the snow. He gurgled for a while, and I removed the screwdriver. I looked at his gun and checked it for cleanliness: in a pinch it would do as an extra. I put it in safety mode and slipped it in my side pocket. I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes to find and kill the other guard. With luck there wouldn’t be a shift change and I could let the other two guards sleep and live. With luck.

I had no glass cutters and I was no alarm guy. I’d searched Marley for keys, but I knew he wouldn’t have any. The indoor man let the outdoor man in and out. My plan was to go in the garage door. If the garage door was alarmed I’d have to abort, but I didn’t think it was. It wasn’t an automatic door, and I’d seen them come in late when the house was alarmed, and when the garage had opened, nothing had gone off; but another time, when they’d opened the house door first: flashing lights, whoop, whoop, whoop. But still, that wasn’t exactly proof, and if wishes were horses we’d all have a ride, as the Scotch boy used to say. But what else could I do? It was the garage door or nothing. I slipped around the side of the house. I found the garage door and jemmied it up with the screwdriver. It was aluminum and bent easy, and I made just enough space to slide underneath. I was so busy doing stuff I didn’t notice that the alarm hadn’t gone off until I was in.

The garage was connected to the house by a door that not only was not locked but did not lock. Hubris, if you ask me. I went inside through a room that contained the washer and dryer. Little night lights everywhere, and I saw that I wouldn’t need the flashlight. I crouched on the floor and listened, but it was quiet. It was the night before Christmas and all through the house, nothing was stirring, not even Darkey or Mouse.

I walked into a large, airy kitchen with marble counters and many appliances. I looked for a dog bowl or cat bowl or any evidence of annoying pets, but I didn’t see anything. I walked into a hall and listened again. The floor was carpeted, the central heating was quietly humming, faint sounds were coming from a room at the end of the hall to the right. I walked down there and listened. Someone was watching TV. The other guard? I spent a minute turning the handle and then I opened the door very slightly. The guard was in front of a small TV set. Jimmy Stewart on the screen. The guard engrossed. His back was to me, turned three quarters away from the door, which made me think that Providence was on my team, for otherwise I would have had to rush him and stab the fucker in the heart or neck, making no end of commotion. I slipped quickly over and put a hand on his mouth and the barrel of the pistol in his ear.

Who? he managed, before I silenced him by pressing in with hand and gun.

Father fucking Christmas. Now hear me. You don’t have to die. You don’t have to die, but if you make one sound or one move that upsets me, I will blow your brains out. Do you understand? If you do, do not nod your head; I don’t want you to move at all, in case I blow your fucking head off by mistake. I’m a jumpy fuck, you see. So instead, indicate that you understand by making a gentle humming sound once.

A frog was in his throat, but he managed a hum. I kept the gun in his ear and went round to take a sideways look at him. A ginger bap, freckly, young. I didn’t want to kill him. He was wearing a T-shirt and baggy jeans. There was a duffle coat on a desk beside him. I frisked him and he was clean. I took the duct tape out of my pocket and told him to take his shoes off very slowly using only his left hand. Then I told him to duct-tape his ankles together with both hands, but in slow motion. He was sweating and clumsy, but he did it. His back was to me the whole time, but I didn’t particularly care if he saw me or not. On the whole, I suppose I preferred not.

What’s your name? Whisper an answer, I said softly.

J-John.

Ok, John, now listen to me. I’m going to wrap your wrists in duct tape, behind your back. I will need both hands to do this for about one minute. Therefore, I will need to put the gun down; however, it will be beside me and if you make any sudden moves at all, instinctively I will grab the gun and shoot you in the head. Do you understand? Hum if you understand.

He hummed. He put out his wrists, and I wrapped them in duct tape behind his back. I picked up the gun again and blindfolded him with the tape. I tilted the chair.

John, I’m going to roll you on the floor; I’m going to do it gently so as not to make any noise. I need you to go limp and cooperate, ok? You can nod now.

He nodded and I laid him on the floor.

Now, John, listen to me carefully. I have business upstairs and there need not be any unnecessary deaths. I will, however, make sure that I fucking kill you if you raise an alarm or make any move at all from this position. Can I trust you not to be stupid? Nod your head if I can. He again nodded.

Good, now first tell me in a whisper when the next shift change is supposed to be.

H-half an-an hour.

Ok, good. You’re doing well. Do you wake them?

Yes.

Tell me in whispers where exactly Darkey and Bridget’s room is and where exactly the other two guards are sleeping. There are only two other guards in the house, aren’t there?

Yes.

He went on and told me where his mates were sleeping and where Darkey and Bridget were. I gagged him with tape and enjoined him not to move one inch from this cozy spot on the floor. I left the TV on quietly and went outside the room. The stairs were carpeted and curved round in a thirty-degree angle. You could see the whole house from here and it looked quite nice, a bit busy and overdone, but that would be Darkey, not Bridget. I went upstairs and paused at the top. This was the only moment of indecision I had the whole night. Darkey’s room was down the landing to the left. The guards’ room was the second door on the right. They had bunk beds and slept in the one room, John had said. (Bunk beds indeed, Darkey being a tight bastard, no doubt.) Now the smart thing would have been to go in to the guards’ room and cut their throats. But I’d already made a wee promise to myself in the outside that if I could, I’d let them sleep and live. I mean, I thought I didn’t care much about finesse, but clearly I did. Even so, just because I said I wouldn’t kill them didn’t mean I’d jeopardize the whole mission over it. Jesus. What could I do? I couldn’t very well have them wandering about the house while I was still in the process of executing their employer. Hmmm. I hesitated. I wondered what would happen if I went into their room and gave them each a hefty blow on the head with the blunt end of the screwdriver. It sounded so plausible, but wouldn’t the first blow wake the other guard?

All this went through my brain in a second, and I decided that I would take the bloody chance. It was stupid, but you have to make a decision one way or the other.

I inched up to the guards’ room and spent another minute opening the door. There were bunk beds on opposite sides of a small room. The guards were both asleep in the one to my left, one man in the upper bunk and the other in the lower, which again was lucky.

Here goes, I thought, crept over to the lower bunk, and clubbed the guard behind the ear with my screwdriver. I didn’t wait to see if it bunned him; instead, I got up immediately and thumped the other guy. I pulled out the Stanley knife to cut their throats, but it wasn’t necessary. They were both out of it. I found a lamp, turned it on, and worked fast. I hog-tied both of them with duct tape, blindfolded, gagged them, and stuck them in the recovery position. It was hard because they were unconscious, but it was all done in under ten minutes. I was proud of myself. I hadn’t topped them. A regular Mother Teresa, I was. Sparing the innocent.

I walked down the corridor to Darkeys bedroom. I opened the door and made sure there were two persons in the bed. Yes. I felt around for weapons, got one, listened for weird sounds. Nothing. Darkey snoring, Bridget snuffling. It was all as smooth as silk.

I turned the bedside light on.

Bridget, her hair down, beautiful. A rock on her left hand that could have sunk the QE2. Darkey, sleeping soundly, tanned, relaxed.

Bridget woke first, looked at me, screamed.

Darkey woke and reached under his pillow. I’d already removed his piece and was pointing it at him. Tight little.38, do the job.

You’re alive, Bridget gasped.

I’m alive, I said.

Bridget and Darkey were wearing matching bunny pajamas. For some reason, I’d thought he’d make her sleep in a vulgar low-cut negligee. Instead, this was domestic and cute. Darkey wasn’t a bad lad really, I thought.

Bridget seemed to be on the verge of passing out. She threw up in her mouth instead. Darkey was looking at me with no fear whatsoever. Like I say, not a bad lad.

You killed Sunshine, he said. It wasn’t a question, just a confirmation of fact.

I nodded.

And Bob, too? he asked. This time, he really didn’t know.

Aye, Bob, too, I said.

Jesus, he said, still a ways away from being afeared.

Why? asked Bridget. What’s going on? Please. What’s going on, honey?

I realized she wasn’t talking to me.

Darkey looked at me and looked at her. He read the expression on my face. His number was up.

Sweetie, Michael and I have some business to discuss. I think it would be best if you went into the bathroom for a moment, Darkey said with admirable calm.

What’s going on? she demanded, hysterical.

I’d wanted to talk to her, to let her know what kind of a man Darkey was. To let her know about Andy, Fergal, and Scotchy. To tell her what I’d been through. To tell her that he was a fucking monster. Subhuman. That he deserved to die, that she was better off without him. Maybe even better with me. I wanted to make a little speech and tell her everything, to tell her that I was the strong right arm of the Lord’s vengeance. But once again, Darkey was correct. She didn’t need to see it. It would be better this way.

Darkey’s right, Bridget. We have to discuss a few things, just go to the bathroom, there’s things you can’t hear.

You’re not going to kill him? There’s four men in the house, all of them armed, you’d never get away with it. They’d kill you, Michael, kill you. My God, you’re alive. How? You survived the… Oh God, we didn’t know, Jesus. Is this about money? Michael, promise me you won’t do anything rash. Promise me.

She was looking at me. But she was clinging to him.

Promise me, give me your word, everything can be sorted out, she said. You won’t do anything rash. Promise, say it.

I promise, I said.

Darkey hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

I’ll explain it all later, Bridget, Darkey said. Please, love, do me a favor, just go to the bathroom for a minute. Just for a minute.

But why? she said, sitting up, leaning forward now, almost touching me.

It’s business, Darkey said firmly. Now go.

I looked at him with wonder. He looked back at me, his face a study in composure and concentration. What a man. He was old school. He was Darkey fucking White.

Why does he need a gun? We’re all friends. Michael, I’m so glad you’re alive. Oh my God, Bridget was saying.

Darkey turned and faced her. He could see that I was losing my patience and he wanted to spare her the scene.

Go to the bathroom, for two minutes. Michael and I have to talk business, he said, loudly, forcefully.

She turned to me.

Why do you need the gun, Michael? she asked.

Those eyes. Jesus. How could you lie to her? How could you storm in here, upset her? How could you even think about hurting her or those whom she loved? It was impossible.

I don’t trust Darkey, that’s all, I said, and gave her a smile. I think it reassured her a little.

And you won’t hurt him? she asked.

Me hurt him? I asked.

Yes, she said, soft, anxious.

Her hands folded themselves in front of her, as if in prayer. It unsettled me, rattled me; my weapon hand twitched.

I won’t touch him, I said.

She let go her hands and took a knot out of her hair.

Darkey breathed in and out.

I remembered to breathe too.

Ok, she said in a monotone. She believed me. She thought it was a misunderstanding, she wanted it all to go away. Tomorrow was Christmas, this was some kind of bad dream.

She looked at Darkey. Darkey nodded.

Two minutes, he said. The bathroom.

She blinked once, got up, and went to the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind her.

She’s gone. You might as well say your piece and get it over, Darkey said in a whisper. I’m ready.

You’re a hard man, Darkey, I said, trying to keep the admiration out of my voice.

Yeah, so are you.

Do you want to know why? I asked him, itching to spill the whole fucking story, but realizing now that I couldn’t.

I suppose I do, he said, still quite cool. If I could be half as together when my time came, I’d be all right. I sat down on the edge of his bed.

I promised Scotchy, after they shot him, I muttered to no one in particular.

Look, Michael. What if I told you that no one was supposed to die? Darkey said quickly.

Do you think it’s the sort of thing you’re likely to tell me? I asked.

Would you believe it? he asked.

Honestly, Darkey, now I don’t think it matters, I said.

He shook his head. Took a deep breath. His temples throbbed. He smiled at me. I was impressed. Was this the same crazy, impulsive, overacting Darkey White? Maybe, I thought, I was finally seeing the real Darkey White.

Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind? If I offered you a lot of money, or, or anything? he said.

I shook my head. It’s a blood feud, Darkey, you know the score. Nothing else will quite do.

He sighed and leaned back in the bed. He looked to one side and then stared at me square in the face.

Ok, Michael, you fuck, do what you’ve come to do. You realize Duffy will hunt you down and kill you? If it takes fifty fucking years, he’ll do it.

Darkey, somehow I never really thought I’d make old bones, I said.

Darkey looked at me and swallowed. He clenched his fists and brought them to his sides.

Get on with it, Darkey said, urgently. I’m ready now.

I raised the pistol, pointing it at his head, but before I could do anything more there was a bang and I was thrown sideways against the closet door. It smashed into the back of my head and I sprawled forward onto the bed and rolled to the floor. I scrambled up but then my foot gave way and I went down again. I looked over. Bridget had shot me in the side. Shot me from the bathroom with a.22 revolver. Silver one.

Fuck, Bridget, I said.

She was walking towards me, shaking all over, eyes wide, face bright. She was determined. Cold. It was an expression I hadn’t seen on her before. Jesus, had I ever really known her at all either? Her lips narrowed.

I’m sorry, Michael. I don’t know what’s between you and Darkey, I don’t know what’s going on, but I love him and-

I kicked the legs from under her and she tumbled backwards. The gun flew out of her hand and onto the bed. Darkey and I both made a grab for it, but Bridget fell on top of me. The.22 slipped between the bed and the bedside cabinet. I dropped my gun, grabbed a fistful of Bridget’s hair, and smacked her skull into the closet door. Her head jarred back sickeningly, and she went limp. I regrabbed my gun and dived for cover at the bottom of the bed just as Darkey managed to find the.22 and began shooting wildly at me. Darkey, full of adrenaline, got off three rounds into the wall before I rolled to one side and shot him in the chest and face and neck. His gun fired another round and then stopped. Blood pumped from him, the left side of his face gone. A bullet had ricocheted off his jawbone, up through his cheek and into his brain. He sat there bleeding and dripping eye jelly onto the pillowcase. His face relaxed and what was left of his mouth drooped into a grimace. He balanced for a moment and then slumped forward. I went over and felt his pulse. It was still beating gently, which afforded me the excuse to lift up his head, take out the Stanley knife, and cut his throat from ear to ear. I checked Bridget and saw that she was ok. Bridget. Jesus.

She loved him. None of this had been necessary. He could have just killed me and told her about it, and she probably would have raged for a while but dealt with it because she fucking loved him. It would have been better that way too. Andy, Fergal, Scotchy, Sunshine, none of them had to die. She loved him, she would have understood. He shouldn’t have been so overprotective. Jesus, Darkey. You just didn’t have confidence enough in yourself. Darkey White-a lack of confidence in himself? Could have fooled me. Maybe it was that bloody gut he’d got, or his dyed hair. But it hadn’t mattered to her. He should have just topped me and been done with it. Scotchy would have done it. But he wasn’t sure enough of her and that had killed him.

You fucking idiot, I told him.

And now I remembered that I’d wanted to ask him if he’d ordered Andy’s beating way back then. It didn’t really matter. It was water under the bridge. I sat on the bed and fixed my foot. Bridget was out for the count. I put her in the recovery position and found Darkey’s wallet beside the bed. There was at least five thousand dollars in big bills. That would help. I grabbed the money and found the key to the Jag. I looked at my side and stomach. It seemed quite bad. Vital organs are in your side. I couldn’t remember what, but I knew they were pretty important. At least it wasn’t hurting yet. I cut off a whack of bed-sheet with the Stanley knife and wrapped it around me. I duct-taped it into place. I bent down and hog-tied Bridget with tape. She was still well gone, which was good. I threw a sheet over Darkey so it wouldn’t be the first thing she saw when she came to. I grabbed a sweater and a leather jacket from the closet and put them on. I pocketed the.22, so the coppers would have a harder time comparing slugs when the doctors took one out of me.

I went downstairs and checked in on my guard. He hadn’t moved a muscle. I regretted killing Marley, it would have been a neater operation without that, but it was too late now. I was dying of thirst, so I drank some water. I went into the garage and turned the light on. I opened the door manually and started up the Jag. I reversed it out of the driveway, closed the garage door, drove to the gate. I had to get out again and open the gate. If I hadn’t been wounded, I would have gone to the camp and dismantled it, but there wasn’t the time now.

I drove the car down the hill and found a sign pointing to New York. The car handled beautifully. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale, losing blood but not too fast. I found the right slip road, drove on, and everything turned into a bit of a blur; I think, but I’m not sure, that I went through a tollbooth and paid a couple of bucks. The drive was all hazed and dreamy, but at one point I stopped at a lay-by and threw the.22 and all the other weapons far into the woods. I got back in the car and drove on again.

In about an hour I was back in the Bronx, and not long after that I reached Manhattan. I left the Jag, doors open, keys in, on 123rd and Amsterdam. Someone would have it within ten minutes, but that’s what I’d thought about the Cadillac too, so I left the engine on as well, as extra incentive. I got about a block and took a breather and sort of fell down and then, of all people, Danny the Drunk caught up with me on his way to the twenty-four-hour boozer. Saved my skin, really. He was already wrecked, but I persuaded him to lend me his shoulder at least as far as Columbia U. He did, and went off and started yelling at the guards at the Columbia gates. Somehow by myself I managed to walk up the final bit of hill to St. Luke’s Medical Center. I was close to passing out, and I had to stop many times to catch my breath. I found the emergency-room door and went in.

It was the scene you would expect. Packed, noise, fucked-up people, harried doctors and nurses. “Christmas in Hollis” from a tinny stereo.

A nurse gave me a clipboard.

I blacked out for a minute.

A voice, voices. Comforting.

Always the same, Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve.

Yeah.

I don’t know. People go crazy.

Yeah.

Well. What happened to you?

I, I don’t want to go into it.

Lemme see? What is it?

Uh.

You been shot?

Again, I don’t want to talk-

I suppose you know we have to report this to the police?

You do?

Yes.

What about doctor-patient confidentiality?

Doctor-patient, my ass.

Funny.

Here, let me see… Whereabouts you hurt?

Here, side, here.

Ok, let me see now, just lift, oh, oh my goodness. Sylvia, get over here. Quickly, come on.

They put me on a gurney and when they took my jacket off they saw it was actually very serious. Off came my sweater and T-shirt, and I felt a drip go in.

The doctor was black, the other doctor was Indian, all the nurses were black. I was in Harlem, I was back home. There were Christmas decorations, and I realized again it was Christmas Day.

Hey, Merry Christmas, everyone, I said.

You save your strength, son.

I wasn’t sure what they were doing now, but it hurt like a motherfucker.

You know, I don’t think your anesthetic’s working, I said.

It’s working, a nurse said, holding my head, while another began inserting plastic tubes up my nose.

No really, it hurts, a lot.

You’re lucky you’re not dead, the doctor said, very irritated, and started doing something incredibly painful to my chest. My eyes were heavy. I blinked slow.

Fortune… favors… fools, I said, and smiled at him before finally contriving a way to lose consciousness.