“I’m—”
“Now!”
With a wince, the black guy dropped his gun and raised his hands in the air.
“Back away, back away!”
The patrolman, his hands jittery with excitement, stepped forward as Cole retreated as instructed.
“Now get on the ground…”
“But…”
“GROUND! NOW!”
As he slowly lowered himself to the ground, Cole registered the sound of the door of the building opening and his opponent slipping through it.
He swore quietly to himself.
The fifth and final principle of the McGarry fighting philosophy was that when all else fails, run like hell.
Fifteen minutes later, down by Central Park, runners from the half-marathon stood with silver recovery blankets wrapped around them, rehydrating while comparing personal bests. To the left of the main group, one man stood alone. While he was wrapped in a recovery blanket, it was over a black sheepskin overcoat and street clothes, because he hadn’t been in the race. He took a gulp from the complimentary water bottle he hadn’t actually earned, swirled it around his mouth and spat some bloodied fluids into a nearby trash can. You’d have to have been watching closely, but if you were, you’d have noticed that while he didn’t appear to be doing much, he was regularly looking up West 88th Street, where three NYPD patrol cars were currently blocking traffic. Some of the runners were looking in that direction too, curious as to what was happening. They soon turned their attention elsewhere though. Whatever it was, it appeared the excitement was over. A nearby resident stood on the street, not interested in the incident so much as he was keen to confirm that it wasn’t going to in any way damage his new Porsche, which he had bought in the mistaken belief he could afford it. Now even he, with one last lingering look at the object he loved more than life itself, was about to head inside. The patrol cars were starting to pull away. On the sidewalk, a discussion was taking place between a sergeant, one of his fresh-faced new patrolmen and a well-built black man in a suit. The sergeant handed the man back his wallet and gun and then looked at the patrolman, who dutifully offered an apology while his body language screamed that he wished the ground would open up and swallow him. The black man put his gun back in its shoulder holster, shook his head in disbelief, turned and walked back up the street.
Half a block away, the man wrapped in the recovery blanket unnerved some of the nearby runners by saying “bollocks” slightly too loudly and then turning to limp off.
Chapter Thirteen
Amy sat on the sofa stroking Evil the cat, who sat in her lap. She’d been back for an hour and she’d heard nothing from Bunny. It dawned on her – too late – that she didn’t actually have a number for his cell. When she’d left him, she’d run like her life depended on it, shooting across four lanes of traffic on Central Park West and dodging runners who’d just finished their half-marathon. Also, as per Bunny’s instructions, she hadn’t gone back for her car, which was parked over at the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle. Normally, Amy wasn’t wild about following anyone else’s instructions, but she felt she should this time, seeing as her arguing had allowed whoever that big black guy was to almost catch up to her. On the rare occasions she’d chanced a look back over her shoulder, there had been no sign of him – she assumed that was something to do with Bunny. When she reached Fifth Avenue, she’d managed to grab a taxi someone was getting out of and then she’d come straight back to Jonathan’s place, watching out the back window all the while for any sign that she was being followed. She was now terrified, more than anything, that her dithering and obstinance might have got Bunny killed. She’d only met him twelve hours ago and knew almost nothing about him, but she was still racked with guilt that she might’ve got him into trouble – or worse.
Just then, there was a knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Bacon delivery,” said an irritating voice she was delighted to hear.
“Hang on a sec— Ohhh, fuck you, you little douchebag!”
“Thanks very much. Great to hear yer voice too.”
“No,” said Amy. “I mean, sorry. The damned cat just dug her claws right into me.”
“Well, it’s been a rough day for all of us.”
Amy flung the door open.
Bunny McGarry limped in, holding a bloodied paper napkin up to his mouth. “What in the hell are ye doing just opening the door?”
“I knew it was you.”
“Yeah, well, I could’ve had a gun to my head. You’d want to be more careful.”
Bunny reached the big armchair to find that Evil was now sitting on it. “Believe me when I say this, cat, this will not go well for you.”
Evil gave him an appraising look and then casually hopped down, like she’d been about to do so anyway and Bunny’s presence had no effect on proceedings.
Bunny sat down with a wince and a groan.
“Are you OK?” asked Amy.
“I’ve been better, to be honest. I’ve got a lump on the back of my head that feels like a golf ball. Any chance of a bag of frozen peas or something?”
“Right. Yeah. Sure,” said Amy, hurrying over to the refrigerator. “So, what the hell happened to you?”
“Well, the good news is – I found out quite a lot about that black fella who it seems is now working with the three amigos.”
“OK.” Amy looked at him across the counter. “Did you, like…”
“What?”
She lowered her voice. “Beat it out of him?”
Bunny gave a humourless laugh. “No, quite the opposite. I figured some of it out while he was kicking the bejesus out of me.”
“Oh.”
“The only good news is the fact there’s news; everything else is bad, I’m afraid. For a start, I’ve taken quite a few kickings in my time, but none delivered with that much panache. Whoever the lad is, he knows what he’s doing. I mean, he’s had some serious training. I’d guess military or something. Either that or he’s a very keen amateur.”
Amy found a bag of ice in the bottom drawer and brought it over to Bunny. “He can’t be that good. I mean, you got away from him.”
“Not exactly.”
Bunny put his hand out to take the ice but Amy shook her head. “Lean forward.”
With a wince, he did so, and she moved around to stand behind him. “So, where is this – holy shit!” She’d assumed he’d been exaggerating, but there really was an alarmingly large lump on the back of his head. “What did he hit you with?”
“The ground, mostly.”
“Have you got a headache?”
“Yes.”
“Woozy? Nausea?”
“Yeah.”
“We need to get you to a hospital,” said Amy, carefully placing the ice against the large lump clearly visible below Bunny’s hair.
“No, we’re definitely not doing that. Besides, a lot of them symptoms might just be a hangover. You’re lucky, being in your twenties. Your hangovers are like an alarm clock – first thing in the morning, a short, sharp shock, then you’re up and on with your day. At my age, it’s like a series of painful packages being delivered in the post. You can never be sure when the next one’s coming, and half the damage is done waiting for the bloody thing. Don’t suppose you happen to have a bit of hair of the dog about the place?”
“What?”
“Booze. Whiskey. Beer. I’ll even make an exception and go wine.”
“No. I don’t drink and neither does Jonathan.”
“Did the two of you meet in rehab or something?”
She could sense Bunny tense slightly after he said it, as if the flippant remark had come out of his mouth first and then his brain realised it might be something uncomfortably close to the truth.
“No. If you must know, I’ve never drunk.”
“Jesus. Do you’ve any bad habits at all? I mean other than the spanky-spank who’s your mammy stuff?”
She ignored the last part. “I
f you must know, I met Jonathan at a vegan cooking class.”
“If ever there was something you’d need to be pissed for.”
“Shut up. Even if I had it, I wouldn’t give alcohol to somebody with a probable concussion. What I am doing is calling you an ambulance.”
Amy left the ice balanced on Bunny’s neck and moved around to go and get her phone. He grabbed her wrist as gently as he could. “You can’t do that.”
She pulled her hand forward slightly and he released it. She didn’t look at him. “If you haven’t got insurance, I’ll pay.”
“No, it’s not that. Sit down for a second, will ye?” He said it in a quiet, measured voice – one she hadn’t heard before. It was probably meant to be calming, but if anything, it had the opposite effect. She sat on the couch, pulled her legs up and hugged her knees to her chest. He held the bag of ice with one hand and leaned back in the chair. “I only got away from the guy because he pulled a gun on me and a cop intervened. I got lucky.”
“Well, that’s good right? He’s been arrested.”
“No, it isn’t. I got away and then I circled around just in time to see him getting handed his gun back with a grovelling apology.”
“But…”
Bunny put his free hand out, asking to be allowed to finish.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m… sorry.”
“’Tis OK. What I’m trying to tell you is, the guy was clearly some kind of law enforcement.”
“But…”
Bunny shook his head. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what we’ve got to figure out. It also changes the rules. Now, does anyone know you’d be here?”
“No. Jonathan is away for another month and he thinks I’m just popping in to feed Evil.”
“OK. Friends? Family? Boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a… and no, nobody. Jonathan and I are friends, but we have no friends in common, if you know what I mean. Nobody else would know about this place.”
“Good. Did you leave the car where it was?”
Amy nodded.
“Right, you’re going to have to forget about it for the time being. You also need to turn off your phone.”
“I can’t. I…”
“Amy.” There was a firmness to his tone now. “Look, love, you need to listen to me now, alright? I can help you, but you need to listen. Turn off your phone.”
Amy nodded and then reached across to pick it up off the arm of the sofa and turn it off.
“OK. Good. Now, the next thing is—”
Amy put her hand to her mouth. “Jesus. This is… what the fuck is happening? None of this makes any sense.”
Bunny nodded. “I know. I don’t…”
“I mean, these assholes try and scare me, then almost kill me and now the law is on their side? Seriously?”
“I know; it’s shite.”
“I mean…” Amy stopped and thought for a second before nodding to herself. “Look, this isn’t what you signed up for. You’ve already taken a beating from this guy. I’m not having your… y’know. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
He shook his head. “No can do. I’ve taken your money and I offer a strict no-refunds policy.”
“You can—”
“No. End of discussion. You’re not getting rid of me. I’m not the type to run away from a fight.”
“You just did!”
She felt bad as his face scrunched up, like she’d inadvertently added to the pain he was already in. “I retreated in order to regroup. Plenty of fellas have got the best of me, but nobody has got the best of me twice.”
He gave her a lopsided smile, which she tried to return.
“Now,” he said, “given the change in circumstances, we need to discuss what we’ve been avoiding. Namely, what this Matt fella told you that you really aren’t supposed to know.”
Amy gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve been thinking about that, and honestly, I have no clue. None of what I remember makes any sense.”
“Take me through it.”
“Well, we were…” Amy started to mime something with her hand, then looked at Bunny and thought better of it. “It doesn’t matter exactly what we were doing.”
“Leave it to my imagination.”
She nodded. “Then he suddenly breaks down and starts crying. He said, ‘It’s gone too far, I can’t stop it. I’m sorry.’ And then… ‘Admiral Ackbar is screwed. We’re taking out the Millennium Falcon.’”
Bunny gave her a long look. “Isn’t that…”
“Star Wars. Yes. I mean, I’m not a big fan or anything, but I think so. I looked it up just now. It doesn’t mean anything. Not in the real world, at least. Admiral Ackbar doesn’t even fly the Millennium Falcon or whatever. It’s gobbledygook.”
“That’s all he said?”
“He said lots of stuff, but it was hard to decipher. He had a…” Amy flushed slightly. “He had something in his mouth for most of it. There was also a lot of him saying he was an asshole, piece of shit, blah blah blah.”
“He was right on that front at least.”
“But, you see what I mean – it doesn’t make any sense. It’s gibberish.”
Bunny nodded and leaned back in the chair, moving the bag of ice around as he looked up at the redbrick ceiling.
“So, what’s our next move?” asked Amy.
“Honestly,” said Bunny, “I’m not sure. But that’s not what worries me.”
“No?”
“No. What worries me is what their next move is going to be.”
Chapter Fourteen
In a Manhattan bar, a man sat alone at the counter. He had stopped in for one drink about six drinks ago. Any other night, this bar would be rammed, but Wall Street doesn’t work Sundays. The reason he had been passing was that he had just worked Sunday, for fourteen hours straight – trying hard to fix his own mistake. Halfway through, he’d realised that he couldn’t fix it. Tomorrow he was going to have to go in and confess all. He fully expected to be fired. He wished he’d stolen some stationery, maybe a printer, on his way out this evening. Tomorrow he was going to be escorted off the premises by a security guard and would need to print résumés fast. He’d have to get them circulating quickly, in an effort to outrun the rumour mill that would carry news of his incompetency far and wide. Maybe he wouldn’t bother; it seemed like a futile gesture. As he sat there, he could swear that he could feel himself morphing into a cautionary tale.
He looked over at the booth in the corner. A statuesque lady with black hair streaked with grey sat alone, nursing a drink. She was a little older than he was, but then, he wasn’t exactly in the best shape of his life – so a little slack worked both ways. He didn’t want to go home. He wanted a distraction to take his mind off tomorrow.
He slipped off his bar stool and made his way over to the dimly lit booth. Sure, he was a little drunk, but he was feeling OK.
“Hi there.”
“Hello.”
She really was a good-looking woman. Maybe a little severe, but hey, she could be warmed up.
“I’m Mike. Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you, Mike. I’m waiting for someone.”
Mike plonked himself down opposite her. “Me too!”
“I didn’t say you could sit down.”
“Hey,” Mike said, with what he was sure was an endearing grin, “I took a chance.”
“Not a good one. Good night, Mike.”
“Hey, c’mon. Relax! I’ll just keep you company until your date gets here. I’m a good guy.”
When he thought back on these moments later on, one of the most unnerving things would be his memory of her facial expression. Namely, the fact that it remained exactly the same throughout. Glacial.
The woman took a sip of her drink. “Here’s the thing – Mike, was it?”
He nodded.
“Mike,” she repeated. “You’ve misjudged body language, verbal cues and now you’ve ignored a straight no. You’ve also crucially
misjudged your own limited charm. So now I’d like you to leave.”
“Hey,” said Mike, all hurt feelings and soured bravado, “you don’t even know me.”
“I do, Mike. I know you. I’ve known a thousand yous. You are nothing special.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s just your fragile little ego talking, Mike. Utterly, tediously predictable. You remind me of a Venezuelan man I once knew.”
“Did you screw him?” said Mike, with a bounce of his eyebrows, incorrectly deciding this might turn into a really good hate fuck.
“In a manner of speaking, Mike. He lied to me about something important.”
Mike shook his head expansively and tutted. “I knew it. You’ve been hurt before.”
“Not as much as he was. I took a Stanley knife and ran it straight across his gut.”
The smile on Mike’s face froze as his brain struggled to keep up with the left turn the conversation had taken.
The woman steepled her fingers together and rested her chin on them as she spoke. “Have you ever seen someone bleed out from a belly wound, Mike? It isn’t pretty. Most people defecate themselves. This guy, let’s call him the other Mike, certainly did. He died trying really hard to get one word out. Just one word. But it’s hard to speak when your lungs are filling up with blood and you’re effectively drowning in your own life.”
Mike went to speak but stopped as the woman raised a finger.
“So, one of two things is going to happen now, Mike. One, I’m going to take my thumb and, before you manage to get one more word out, smash it into your trachea in such a way that you would be unable to speak for the rest of your life, which would admittedly only last about a minute, as you endure death by oxygen starvation. I’m reliably informed that those sixty or so seconds are excruciatingly painful but, well, who can say for sure? By the time the waitress notices you sitting here slumped over the table and gets the burly barman to come over to throw the drunk out, you’ll be long dead, and I’ll be long gone – in another bar, enjoying a quiet drink. Or, option two, and I do urge you to consider this option carefully, Mike, you stand up and without saying another word – not one single word – you leave this bar and don’t come back. And the next time you find yourself tempted to impose your sweaty charm on a woman who is having a quiet drink alone, you’ll remember the time that other woman almost took your sad little life, and you’ll think better of it. So, what’s it to be, Mike? Are you talking or are you leaving?”
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