First Thrills Volume 2

Wednesday’s Child by Ken Bruen

Had.

Funny how vital that damn word had become in my life.

Had… An Irish mother.

Had… Big plans.

Had… Serious rent due.

Had… To make one major score.

I’d washed up in Ireland almost a year ago. Let’s just say I had to leave New York in a hurry.

Ireland seemed to be one of the last places on the planet to still love the good ol’ USA.

And, they were under the very erroneous impression that we had money.

Of course, until very recently, they’d had buckets of the green, forgive the pun, themselves. But the recession had killed their Celtic Tiger.

I’d gone to Galway as it was my mother’s hometown and was amazed to find an almost mini-USA. The teenagers all spoke like escapees from The Hills. Wore Converse, baseball T-shirts, chinos. It was like staggering onto a shoot for The Gap.

With my accent, winning smile, and risky credit cards, I’d rented an office in Woodquay, close to the very centre of the city. About a mugging away from the main street. I was supposedly a financial consultant but depending on the client, I could consult on any damn thing you needed. I managed to get the word around that I was an ex-military guy, and had a knack for making problems disappear.

And was not averse to skirting the legal line.

I was just about holding my head above water, but it was getting fraught.

So, yeah, I was open to possibilities.

How I met Sheridan.

I was having a pint of Guinness in McSwiggan’s and no, I wasn’t hallucinating but right in the centre of the pub is a tree.

I was wondering which came first when a guy slid onto the stool beside me. I say slid because that’s exactly how he did it. Like a reptile, he just suddenly crept up on me.

I’ve been around as you’ve gathered and am always aware of exits and who is where, in relation to the danger quota.

I never saw him coming.

Should have taken that as an omen right then.

He said, “You’ll be the Yank I hear about.”

I turned to look at him. He had the appearance of a greyhound recovering from anorexia and a bad case of the speed jags. About thirty-five, with long graying hair, surprisingly unmarked face, not a line there, but the eyes were old.

Very.

He’d seen some bad stuff or caused it. How do I know?

I see the same look every morning in the mirror.

He was dressed in faded blue jeans, a T-shirt that proclaimed Joey Ramone will never die and a combat jacket that Jack Reacher would have been proud of. He put out a bony hand, all the veins prominent, and said, “I’m Sheridan, lemme buy you a pint.”

I took his hand, surprisingly strong for such a wasted appearance, said, “Good to meet you, I’m Morgan.”

Least that’s what it said on the current credit cards.

He had, as he put it, a slight problem, a guy he owed money to and the how much would it cost to make the guy go away.

I laughed, said, “You’re going to pay me to get rid of a guy who you owe money to? One, why would you think I can do it, and two, how will you pay me?”

He leaned closer, smelled of patchouli, did they still make that old hippy shit? Said, “You’ve got yerself a bit of a rep, Mr Morgan, and how would I pay you, oh, I’d pay you in friendship and trust me, I’m a good friend to have.”

Maybe it was the early pint, or desperation or just for the hell of it, but I asked, “Who’s the guy?”

He told me, gave me his name and address and leaned back; asked, “You think you can help me out here, Mr Morgan?”

I said, “Depends on whether you’re buying me the pint you offered or not.”

He did.

As we were leaving, I said, “I’ll be here Friday night; maybe you can buy me another pint.”

Like I said, I didn’t have a whole lot going on so I checked out the guy who was leaning on Sheridan.

No biggie but on the Thursday, his car went into the docks and him in it.

Some skills you never forget.

Friday night, I was in McSwiggan’s; Sheridan appeared as I ordered a pint and he said to the barman, “On me, Sean.”

He gave me a huge smile; his right molar was gold and the rest of his teeth looked like they’d been filed down.

We took our drinks to a corner table and he slapped my shoulder, said, “Sweet fooking job, mate.”

I spread my hands, said, “Bad brakes, what can I tell you.”

He threw back his head, laughed out loud, a strange sound, like a rat being strangled, said, “I love it, bad break. You’re priceless.”

That was the real beginning of our relationship. Notice I don’t say friendship.

I don’t do friends.

And I very much doubt that anyone in their right mind would consider Sheridan a friend.

We did a lot of penny-ante stuff for the next few months, nothing to merit any undue attention but nothing either that was going to bankroll the kind of life I hoped for.

Which was

Sea

Sun

And knock-you-on-your-ass cash.

An oddity, and definitely something I should have paid real attention to. I’d pulled off a minor coup involving some credit cards I had to dump within twenty-four hours. With Sheridan’s help, we scooped a neat five thousand dollars. And at the time when the dollar had finally kicked the Euro’s ass.

See, I do love my country.

You’re thinking, “Which one?”

Semper fi and all that good baloney. It pays the cash, it gets my allegiance.

So, we were having us a celebration; I split it down the middle with him, because I’m a decent guy. We flashed up as Sheridan termed it.

Bearing in mind that the Irish seven-course meal is a six pack and a potato, we went to McDonagh’s, the fish-and-chipper, in Quay Street.

We sat outside in a rare hour of Galway Sun; Sheridan produced a flask of what he called Uisce Beatha, Holy Water. In other words, Irish Moonshine, Poteen.

Phew-oh, the stuff kicks like one mean tempered mule.

Later, we wound up in Feeney’s, one of the last great Irish pubs. Here’s the thing: I’d sometimes wondered if Sheridan had a woman in his life. I didn’t exactly give it a whole lot of thought, but it crossed my mind. As if he was reading my mind he said, “Morgan, what day were you born on?”

I was about to put it down to late night-drink speak, but I was curious, asked, “That’s a weird question, what day, how the hell would I know what day?”

He looked sheepish, and when you add that to his rodent appearance, it was some sight, he said, “See, my girl, she has this thing about the nursery rhyme, you know, Monday’s child is fair of face and am… Thursday’s, is, yeah, has far to go, she judges people on what their day of birth is.”

My Girl!

I was so taken aback by that it took me a moment to ask, “What are you?”

No hesitation, “Thursday’s child.”

We laughed at that and I don’t think either of us really knew why.

I asked, “Who is the girl, why haven’t I met her?”

He looked furtive, hiding something but then, his whole life seemed to be about hiding stuff, he said, “She’s shy, I mean, she knows we’re mates and all, but she wants to know your birth day before she’ll meet you.”

I said, “Next time I talk to Mom, I’ll ask her, ok?”

As Mom had been in the ground for at least five years, it wasn’t likely to be any time soon.

Another round of drinks arrived and we moved on to important issues, like sport. Guy stuff, if ever you reach any sort of intimacy, move to sports, move way past that sucker, that intimacy crap.

I meant to look up the nursery rhyme but, as far as I got, was discovering I was born on a Wednesday.

Told Sheridan it was that day and he said, “I’ll tell her.”

He was distracted when I told him, the speed he took turning him this way and that, like a dead rose in a barren field.

I’d noticed he was becoming increasingly antsy, speed fiends, what can I tell you? But he was building up to something.

It finally came.

We were in Garavan’s, on Shop Street; still has all the old stuff you associate with

Ireland and even… whisper it, Irish staff.

And snugs.

Little portioned off cubicles where you can talk without interruption.

Sheridan was on Jameson; I stay away from spirits, too lethal. He was more feverish than usual; asked, “You up for the big one?”

I feigned ignorance; said, “We’re doing ok.”

He shook his head, looked at me, which is something he rarely did, his eyes usually focused on my forehead, but this was head on; said, “Morgan, We’re alike, we want some serious money and I know how we can get it.”

I waited.

He said, “Kidnapping.”

Without a beat I said, “Fuck off, that is the dumbest crime on the slate.”

He was electric, actually vibrating; said, “No, listen, this is perfect, we… well me really, snatch a girl, her old man is fooking loaded and you, as the consultant you are and known, as such, you’re the go between; we tell the rich bastard the kidnappers have selected you as the pick up man, you get the cash, we let the girl go and hello, we’re rich.”

I picked up the remnants of my pint; said, “No. Kidnapping never works. Forget it.”

He grabbed my arm, said, “Listen, this is the daughter of Jimmy Flaherty; he owns most of Galway; his daughter, Brona, is the light of his life and he has no love of the cops; he’ll pay, thinking he’ll find us later, but we’ll be in the wind and with a Yank as a broker for the deal; he’ll go along, he’s a Bush admirer.”

I let the Bush bit slide.

I acted like I was considering it, then said, “No, it’s too… out there.”

He let his head fall, dejection in neon, and said, “I’ve already got her.”

It’s hard to surprise me. You live purely on your wits and instincts as I’ve always done; you have envisioned most scenarios. This came out of left field.

I gasped. “You what?”

He gave me a defiant look, then, “I thought you might be reluctant and I already made the call to Flaherty, asked for one million and said I’d only use a neutral intermediary, and suggested that Yank consultant.”

I was almost lost for words.

Almost.

Said, “So I’m already fucked; you’ve grabbed the girl and told her father I’m the messenger.”

He smiled; said, “Morgan, it’s perfect, you’ll see.”

I was suddenly tired; asked, “Where’s the girl now?”

His smile got wider; he said, “I can’t tell you, see, see the beauty of it, you really are the innocent party and… here’s the lovely bit, he’ll pay you for your help.”

Before I could answer this he continued, “You’ll get a call from him asking you to help, to be the bag man.”

I asked, “What if I tell Mr Flaherty I want no part of this?”

He gave me that golden tooth smile; said, “Ah Morgan, nobody says no to that man; how he got so rich.”

I left early, said to Sheridan, “I don’t like this, not one bit.”

He was still shouting encouragement to me as I left.

I waited outside, in the doorway of the Chinese café a ways along. Sheridan had never told me where he lived, and I figured it was time to find out.

It was an hour or so before he emerged and he’d obviously had a few more Jamesons. A slight stagger to his walk and certainly, he wasn’t a hard mark to follow.

He finally made it to a house by the canal and went in and I waited until he’d turned on the lights.

And I called it a night.

Next morning, I was the right side of two decent coffees, the Financial Times thrown carelessly on my desk, my laptop feeding me information on Mr Flaherty when the door is pushed open.

A heavily built man in a very expensive suit, with hard features and two even heavier men behind him, strode in.

I didn’t need Google search to tell me who this was.

He took the chair opposite me, sat down, opened his jacket, and looked round.

The heavies took position on each side of the desk.

He said, “What a shit hole.”

I asked, “You have an appointment?”

He laughed in total merriment, and the two thugs gave tight smiles; said, “You don’t seem overrun with business.”

I tried. “Most of my business is conducted over the phone, for discretion’s sake.”

He mimicked, “Discretion… hmm, I like that.”

Then suddenly he lunged across the desk, grabbed my tie, and pulled me halfway across, with one hand, I might add. He said, “I like Yanks, otherwise, you’d be picking yer teeth off the floor right now.”

Then he let go.

I managed to get back into my chair, all dignity out the window, and waited.

He said, “I’m Jimmy Flaherty and some bollix has snatched me only child; he wants a million in ransom and says you are to be the go-between.”

He snapped his fingers and one of the thugs dropped a large briefcase on the desk.

He said, “That’s a million.”

I took his word for it.

He took out a large Havana and the other heavy moved to light it; he asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

He blew an almost perfect smoke ring and we watched it linger over the desk like a bird of ill omen till he said, “This fuckhead will contact you and you’re to give him the money.”

He reached in his pocket, tossed a mobile phone on the desk, said, “Soon as you can see my daughter is safe, you call that number and give every single detail of what you observe.”

He stood up; said, “I’m not an unreasonable man, you get my daughter back, and the bastard who took her, I’ll throw one hundred large in your direction.”

He’d obviously watched far too many episodes of The Sopranos and I was tempted to add, “Caprice.”

But reined it in.

I said, “I’ll do my best, sir.”

He rounded on me, near spat. “I said I liked Yanks, but you screw up, you’re dead meat.”

When he was gone, I opened my bottom drawer, took out the small stash, did a few lines, and finally mellowed out.

My mind was in hyper drive.

I had the score.

One freaking million and all I had to do was… skedaddle.

Run like fuck.

Greed.

Greed is a bastard.

I was already thinking how I’d get that extra hundred-thousand and not have Flaherty looking for me.

That’s the curse of coke, it makes you think you can do anything.

I locked the briefcase in my safe and moved to the bookshelf near the door.

It had impressive looking books, all unread, and moving aside Great Expectations, I pulled out the SIG Sauer.

Tried and tested and of a certain sentimental value.

I’d finalized my divorce with it, so it had a warm history.

I headed for Sheridan’s house on the canal, stopping en route to buy a cheap briefcase, and when the guy offered to remove all the paper padding they put in there, I said, no need.

I got to the house just after two in the afternoon and the curtains were still down.

Sheridan sleeping off the Jameson.

I went round the back and sure enough, the lock was a joke and I had that picked in thirty seconds.

Moved the SIG to the right-hand pocket of my jacket and ventured in. This was the kitchen. I stood for a moment and wondered if there was a basement, where Sheridan might have put the poor girl.

Heard hysterical laughter from upstairs and realized Sheridan was not alone.

“Way to go, lover,” I muttered as I began to climb the stairs.

Sheridan as late afternoon lover had never entered my mind but what the hell, good for him.

I got to the bedroom and it sounded like a fine old time was being had by all.

Hated to interrupt, but business!

Opened the door and said, “Is this a bad time?”

Sheridan’s head emerged from the sheets and he guffawed, said, “Fooking Morgan.”

The woman, I have to admit, a looker, pulled herself upright, her breasts exposed, reached for a cigarette and said, “Is this the famous American?”

There was a half-empty bottle of Jameson on the table beside Sheridan and he reached for it, took a lethal slug, gagged; said, “Buddy, meet Brona.”

She laughed as my jaw literally dropped.

She said, in not too bad an American pastiche, “He’s joining the dots.”

I put the briefcase on the floor and Sheridan roared. “Is that it, fook, is that the million?”

He didn’t enjoy it too long; Brona shot him in the forehead; said, “You come too quick.”

Turned the gun on me and was a little surprised to see my SIG leveled on her belly.

Nicely toned stomach, I’ll admit.

She smiled, said, “Mexican standoff?”

In Galway.

I said, “You put yours on the bed, slowly, and I’ll put mine on the floor, we have to be in harmony on this.”

We were.

And did.

I asked, “Mind If I have a drink?”

She said, “I’ll join you.”

I got the bottle of Jameson and as she pushed a glass forward, I cracked her skull with it; said, “I think you came too quick.”

I checked her pulse and as I’d hoped, she wasn’t dead. But mainly, she wouldn’t be talking for a while.

I did the requisite cleaning up and now for the really tricky part.

Rang Flaherty.

First the good news

I’d got his daughter back and alive.

Managed to kill one of the kidnappers.

Got shot myself in the cluster fuck.

The other kidnapper had gotten away.

And… with the money.

He and his crew were there in jig time.

The shot in my shoulder hurt like a bastard and I hated to part with the SIG, but what can you do.

Wrapped it in Sheridan’s fingers.

I don’t know how long we were there; Flaherty’s men got Brona out of there right away and I had to tell my story to Flaherty about a dozen times.

I think two things saved my ass

1… his beloved daughter was safe.

2… One bad guy was dead.

And I could see him thinking, if I was involved?

Why was I shot?

Why hadn’t I taken off?

I even provided a name for the other kidnapper, a shithead who’d dissed me way back.

He produced a fat envelope; said, “You earned it.”

And was gone

Four days later, I was, as Sheridan said, “In the wind.”

Gone.

A few months later, tanned, with a nice unostentatious villa in the South of Spain, a rather fetching beard coming in, as the Brits would say, and a nice senorita who seemed interested in the quiet English writer I’d now become; a sort of middle list cozy author persona. I was as close to happy as it gets.

One evening, with a bag full of fresh-baked baguettes, some fine wine, and all the food for a masterful paella, I got back to the villa a little later than usual; I might even have been humming something from Man of La Mancha.

Opened the door and saw a woman in the corner, the late evening shadows washing over her; I asked, “Bonita?”

No.

Brona, with a sawn off in her lap.

I dropped the bags.

She asked, “What day were you born on?”

I said, “Wednesday.”

She laughed; said, “Complete the rhyme…”

Jesus, what was it?

I acted like I was thinking seriously about that, but mainly I was thinking, how I’d get to the Walther PPK, in the press beside her.

Then she threw the said gun on the floor beside my wilted paella feast, smiled, said, “Here’s a hint, Tuesday’s child is full of Grace… so…”

Now she leveled the sawn off, cocked the hammer; said, “You get one guess.”

KEN BRUEN was a finalist for the Edgar, Barry, and Macavity Awards, and the Private Eye Writers of America presented him with the Shamus Award for the Best Novel of 2003 for The Guards, the book that introduced Jack Taylor. He lives in Galway, Ireland. To learn more about Ken and his novels go to www.kenbruen.com