Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

  “I was shitting myself,” laughs Valentine, taking another shot. “Never flown before, and those bastards were a day ahead of me. I was on my own. Drank half a bottle of Jameson before I even got on board. Was all I could do not to scream when it took off. Woke up at JFK. My phone wouldn’t let me make calls because I was in a new time zone, and every time I tried to call Brish on a pay phone it wouldn’t connect. I was hungover as shit. All I could remember was the address of Dezzie Estrada’s gym, so I got a taxi there. I was feeling awful, so the driver dropped me at a bar and I had a few drinks to get myself in the mood for the fight. I went to Dezzie’s place, thinking that was where the bout was gonna be. I thought Shay would be there. Dezzie was there—the man himself. Told me Shay had already had his tryout and they’d gone to look at some church. I was getting pissed off. Thought it was going to happen without me. Then Marcel came and found me on the street and told me where I needed to be. We got a cab together, out to this shithole.”

  The waitress emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with soups, breads, and little dishes of spiced cabbage and potato dumplings. She frowns at Valentine.

  “What did you say about my restaurant?”

  “Sorry, love,” says Valentine, looking at her with eyes that put McAvoy in mind of a baby spaniel who is sincerely sorry to have eaten its owner’s favorite shoes. “Not this place. This place shines, love. This is somewhere that’s first-date material. I love your place. No, I mean some crappy area a few blocks over. You wouldn’t like it. You’ve got class.”

  The waitress knows she is being charmed but it does not stop her smiling at the young man and forgiving him his slander.

  A waft of spiced meat engulfs McAvoy and it is all he can do not to let his mouth begin to water. He sits forward in his chair and rips a piece of bread from the pie-sliced hunk in the center of the table.

  “My sister’s married somebody who doesn’t pray?” asks Valentine, shaking his head disapprovingly. “We’ll be having words.”

  Valentine mutters a quick blessing under his breath and McAvoy, red-faced, mumbles an amen. When he dips the bread in the solyanka he feels an overwhelming urge to text Roisin and inquire whether she knows how to make it. He tastes lamb, tomatoes, onions, and a dozen different herbs and spices. The dish is so addictive that if the waitress revealed it contained a mild trace of cocaine, he would not be in the least surprised.

  “We got to Cheb’s gym and there was a good crowd,” says Valentine between mouthfuls. “You wouldn’t know it from the street because there was barely a car parked there, but that was because all these massive great four-by-fours and limos were dropping off so many rich Russians, you’d think it was a pay-per-view in Vegas. All these blond women with diamonds and furs and pearls. All these men with tailored suits and shiny shoes and red faces, like they were trying not to fart. Place was packed. Cheb had these gorgeous lasses in cocktail dresses waltzing about with trays of champagne and caviar. Place looked awesome. Had a real big-fight feel. I found Shay and Brish, and it was clear something was wrong.”

  “Brishen didn’t want the fight to go ahead?” asks McAvoy.

  “The plan had changed,” says Valentine, more quietly than before. “Cheb had suddenly offered Shay twice the money to fall in the tenth.”

  “And Shay refused?”

  “Shay was fine about it. It was Brishen who wasn’t going to let his man take a dive.”

  “Pride?” asks McAvoy.

  Valentine waves his arms dismissively, splattering the tablecloth with gravy from his spoon. “He wasn’t himself. He and Shay had been out seeing churches all day, making new friends. He’d got himself all confused. Didn’t know what was right and what wasn’t. Either way, he wasn’t agreeing to take the fall. And that pissed Cheb off. He said that if Shay put his man down, there was likely to be a fucking riot. Brish didn’t budge. I tried to talk sense into him and he just kept saying that he was a Rom, a traveler, and that’s the only thing that mattered. So the fight went on. Good bout, too. Evenly matched. It got to the tenth and Shay kept looking at Brishen, hoping he’d let him go down, but Brish was having none of it. The crowd got nasty. So Cheb got in the ring and said the rules were changing.”

  “Bare-knuckle . . .”

  “Too right. Brish looked like he was going to pass out and Shay was getting frightened. I did what I had to.”

  “You started a riot, Valentine.”

  “It was going to happen anyways, and the way the crowd turned I don’t think we’d have got out of there without somebody getting hurt.”

  “You made a run for it?”

  “Sure did. One of those Russian bitches had a gun in her handbag. Pretty little thing. I smacked a couple of lads and we got the fuck out of there.”

  “All three of you?”

  “Yeah, man. The rules had changed. We ran like there was no tomorrow—Shay still in his shorts. Brishen was a state. Never seen him like that. We jumped in a taxi and headed back for the city. Brishen had an address in his pocket for some old bloke that he and Shay had met earlier in the day. Cab dropped us off at the apartment block. Old bloke buzzed us up. No bugger else lived there and he had this swanky apartment on the top floor. Gorgeous, it was.”

  “Molony,” says McAvoy, closing his eyes and pushing away the last of his meal.

  “Yeah. Creepy-looking fuck. Looked like Friar Tuck, or a mole or something. Fat. Round glasses. Baldy head. But he was okay, man. Invited us in like we were family. Soon as we got in, Brishen went for me. Hit me so hard I was seeing stars. Knocked out my fucking goldie.” Valentine pulls up his lip to show the hole in his smile. “Told me it was all my fault and I’d let him down. Said Shay had been cheated and now they were going home for nothing. He cheapened his soul for nothing, that was what he said. Starts banging on about the honor of the gypsies, about being part of a noble people who were above things like this. Said he knew that I’d set him up and manipulated him. He’d gone against the wishes of a priest. Said I was a devil, tempting him. I’ve got to be honest, he hurt my feelings. I love Brish, man. I’d never do that to him.”

  “So you decided to make things right.”

  “I had tears in my eyes,” says Valentine, and doesn’t look ashamed to say it. “I wanted to make it up to him. I still had the gun and I figured Cheb would see sense once it had all calmed down. I told Brish and Shay to go fuck themselves, and headed straight back to Brooklyn.”

  “But Cheb didn’t see sense?”

  Valentine shrugs. “I played it wrong. I went in there angry. There were still a load of them there, drinking and joking and cleaning up. I went in with the gun in my hand. They laughed at me, man. Made me feel like a kid. I was already bleeding from the smack Brish had given me and Cheb said I would be lucky if he paid a cent after what I’d done. So I stuck a gun in his face. I wasn’t thinking. Da says I never do.”

  “What happened?”

  Valentine finishes eating and takes another hit of vodka. “I didn’t have much of a plan. Just grabbed Cheb and headed for the door. Gave him a couple of slaps to show I wasn’t kidding.”

  “And?”

  “Brish and Shay showed up like the cavalry,” says Valentine, letting a warm smile flash across his face. Just as quickly, it fades. “It all kicked off. It was like something from a cowboy movie. People shooting and shouting and making a break for it. Somehow, Brishen and Shay grabbed Cheb.”

  “And you?”

  “Nearly made it. Then I got nicked.” Valentine rolls up the leg of his track pants to show an ugly scab surrounded by purple-yellow bruising. “Went down like a sack of shit.”

  McAvoy drops his head to his hand. He can see it all.

  “They took you? The Russians?”

  “Yeah. Put a few kicks in. Slapped me about. Tied me to the fucking wall and said they were going to cut my head off if I didn’t tell them where Brish had taken Cheb.�
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  “And did you?”

  “I had no fucking idea,” says Valentine. “I didn’t know the fat bloke’s address and Brishen didn’t know anybody else in the city. They kept me there for ages. Pissed my pants,” he adds ruefully, and it sounds like he is making a confession for a grave sin.

  “But when I got there tonight—”

  “Things all changed the next day,” says Valentine, and he reaches for his e-cig. “They moved me to an apartment. Stunk of cigs and meat and women. Not a very nice place. Left me in a room with the door locked. Only a mattress and a chest of drawers full of condoms and lube. It was grim.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Day or so. Somebody brought me some food. Some vodka. This thing,” he says, indicating the e-cig. “Next day Cheb walks in, bold as brass. He’s had a few slaps and he’s pissed off but he’s gentle in the way he tells me what happened. About Brish. About Shay. I appreciated that.”

  “He told you what had gone on?”

  Valentine nods. “They’d tied him up and thrown him in the boot. It had all got out of hand. Brish wanted me back and was willing to make a swap for Cheb. That was the plan. They parked this car they’d stolen in some garage underground. Left Cheb in the boot with a bottle of water. He was there for hours.” Valentine gives a quick smile. “Bet he pissed himself.”

  “Valentine, what happened?”

  “Next thing, they were driving like the devil was on their tail. Cheb says he was in there for an age. Then they stopped, he heard voices and, to use his words, some greasy wop motherfucker was pulling him out and slapping him around. They were in the woods, somewhere dark and full of snow. Brish and Shay were on their knees beside him. Brish’s face was all blood. There were two Italians with guns pointing at their heads. The young one was a nasty motherfucker. Enjoying himself, putting the boots in.”

  “Chebworz ran,” says McAvoy.

  “The way he told it he was the hero of the hour, but you could see in his eyes he’d got lucky. He took the older one down with a branch and shoved the young one out of his way. Shoved him harder than he intended. Skewered him like a pencil through a muffin. Ran like fuck. His boys came to pick him up. They’ve got contacts everywhere, and they got the news almost as soon as the cops did. Shay was dead. They reckoned Brish was, too. They were crossing themselves like proper Catholics when they heard he’d risen from the ground.”

  Valentine looks like he wants to hit something. His eyes fill with tears. “Cheb was okay about it all. Gave me a drink. Said it was going to be hot for me for a few days. Invited me to stay with him.”

  “Invited?”

  “He didn’t look like he was going to take no for an answer. And I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I was in a different country and my only two friends were either dead or dying. I didn’t even know who to wish bloody death on.”

  McAvoy sees genuine pain in the young man’s eyes. He wants to reach over and put a hand on his shoulder, but is in too much pain to risk moving. As he looks in his tear-filled eyes, he sees something of Roisin in her brother’s features. While she is dark and tanned, Val is red-haired and pale, but they share the same gray-blue eyes, and they are both capable of looking at him in a way that suggests their problems should become his.

  “You stayed at the gym?”

  “Brought me there from the apartment yesterday. They told me some English cop had arrived, asking questions and looking for me. They described you. I told them you weren’t English. They didn’t seem to care. They had a lot of discussions about what to do with me. With you. I don’t doubt there were people saying it would be easier if I was out of the picture. Last night they had a little chat with you. Two of the big lads and some pretty lass with purple hair. I saw them leave from the gym. Byki and me were doing some pad work. Sounds mental, doesn’t it? But they thought they may as well make use of me. And besides, I’d told a fib or two. Said the Teagues had the money to make their lives wonderful or terrible. They were sending over their problem solver. They didn’t exactly seem scared. But when I came up with the idea of a grudge rematch, they could see the value to it. I said I could set that up. Bring over a fucking terror of a man from Ireland. I think they still hadn’t decided whether or not to kill me about an hour ago, but then Sergey took a call from one of his connections and suddenly it was all smiles. Suddenly I wasn’t really important so they said I could go. Then you turned up.”

  “Did you hear what happened?” asks McAvoy. “After they let me go last night?”

  “This same greasy wop bastard blew up their car and took two of Cheb’s men. You’ve been busy, eh?”

  McAvoy looks away. His gaze takes in Rey, whose knuckles are now white around the Coke bottle. He looks undecided about whether he is enjoying this or wishing to God he’d never picked up tonight’s fare.

  “Is it bad?” asks Valentine without bravado. “At home? Is Ro there? The little ones? The Heldens don’t really think I’d kill Shay, do they? He’s my friend. He was, I mean. Here, pass the phone, I’ll try again.”

  McAvoy looks at his brother-in-law and suddenly feels bone-tired. He wants to ring Alto and tell him that he has Valentine. He wants Alto to accept the lad’s story and let them go. Then he wants to fly home, hug his wife and children, and pull the familiarity of Hull over his head like a blanket. But even as he sits here, he knows that there is still work to be done. He has been here for two days and has unearthed something that smells of blood and earth and secrets. He cannot forget the names on Molony’s wall or the link between Father Whelan and this city. His head swims with names and connections. Tony Blank. Sal Pugliesca. Luca Savoca. Paulie Pugliesca. Peter Molony. He scrunches up his eyes and hopes that when he opens them, the answers will be written on the wall. When he does, all he sees is Rey, looking at him with concern. McAvoy feels dampness on his face and wipes the blood from his top lip as it dribbles from his nose. He picks up his phone and tries Roisin again, praying under his breath that this time, she will answer. He fears the call will go straight to her voicemail and then suddenly, the call is answered by a male voice.

  “Hello, Ro’s phone,” says the quiet, Irish-tinged voice.

  “Hello?” says McAvoy, startled. “I’m looking for Roisin. My wife . . .”

  “You must be Aector,” whispers the man pleasantly. He pronounces his name perfectly. “I’m sorry, Roisin’s snoring her wee head off with her little girl right now. Away with the fairies, so she is. Slept right through every time the phone rang and when I saw it was yourself I thought it was less of a crime to answer it than to leave you worrying. I’m not much of a sleeper, so it’s no drama to me.”

  McAvoy’s face burns. He cannot feel his heart. Who is answering his wife’s phone?

  “Who is this?” he asks, trying not to let his voice betray him.

  “I’m sorry, this is Father Jimmy Whelan. If you’re worried I’m a threat on the romance front, even if I weren’t a man of the cloth, I’d be too old for that carry-on now.”

  “Father Whelan,” says McAvoy wheezily. He tries to get ahold of his thoughts. “What’s happening? The Heldens. The Teagues . . .”

  “Temporary cease-fire,” says Whelan brightly. “I’m staying with the Teagues for a couple of days. The hope is that the Heldens won’t risk any sort of nastiness while I’m here. Roisin has been a diamond, God bless her. Talking you up. Reckons you’ll be bringing Valentine home any day now, poor lass. She fought her eyelids for hours but she dropped where she sat, poor love. I’ll wake her if you insist but if you’ll take an old man’s advice, sometimes it’s as well to let people be.”

  McAvoy is about to blurt out the truth when something makes him pause. He reaches out and takes the shot of vodka from Val’s hand. He downs it and enjoys the burn.

  “Father Whelan, where precisely is Roisin?”

  “In her mother’s caravan, my son.”

 
“And where are you?”

  “Same caravan. Her da’s on the step, holding a jug and a shotgun, but she won’t do as I’ve asked and go into the village where she’s safe. All I can do is stay here—put a bit of holy fire between the innocents and the danger.”

  “My colleagues at Humberside Police have been in touch with your office, I think,” says McAvoy. His voice becomes more official. “It’s regarding your association with Paulie Pugliesca. Also with Peter Molony.”

  “Peter’s an old friend,” says Father Whelan in the same soft but cheery tone. “As for Paulie, I do wish the various authorities would accept that all men deserve spiritual counsel. I visit him because I believe him to be a man whose soul is worth saving.”

  “You’re a priest,” says McAvoy.

  “And I’m a New Yorker who does not give up on his friends or his flock. Might I ask why you want to know?”

  “Brishen,” says McAvoy. “I understand he met up with Mr. Molony at your old church the day before he died. He also visited him at his home. Has Mr. Molony informed you of this, or the fact he has been a regular visitor at Brishen’s hospital bedside?”

  There is a pause. At the other end of the line, McAvoy hears the other man take a sip of something and then give a polite cough.

  “When Brishen told me of the trip he was planning with Shay and Valentine, I was happy to help,” says Whelan. “He knows about my link to Saint Colman’s. I asked him to light a candle there for me. Peter was aware that somebody dear to me was coming to Manhattan. They met at the church. No doubt they shared stories about me, though I would not wish to have been a fly on the wall during that conversation. Peter told me they had hit it off, as it were. I am sure he has been great consolation to Brishen as he lies in his hospital bed. It pains me that I cannot be there myself and I pray that this situation can be resolved. For now, he is in my prayers. He is my friend, Aector, and I feel responsible in some way for what has occurred.”

  “You asked the bishop to write a letter for Valentine,” says McAvoy.