Disaster Inc

by Caimh McDonnell

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Porterhouse Lodge was reasonably busy with the after-work crowd, but the bar area remained surprisingly empty.

  “No offence,” said Jackie, “but you two guys are bad for business.”

  Smithy glanced at him before returning his focus to the matter in hand. He had his fingers on either side of Bunny’s head and his thumbs on his nose. “Are you sure you won’t go to an emergency room and get this thing done properly?”

  “No, no,” said Bunny. “Just do it.”

  Smithy sighed. “Alright, but before I do – two things. Firstly…”

  “Ahhh!” Bunny screamed as Smithy jammed his fingers in and shoved his nose back into position as best he could.

  “Fecking – shitting – buggering – tiny bastard!”

  Jackie tried to smile at the work crowd, who were regretting their choice of establishment. “Sorry about that, folks. Just a bit of first aid. Everything is fine.”

  Bunny wiped the tears from his eyes. “Drinks for everybody!”

  This was met with a cautious cheer. People liked free things, but they disliked scary things, and “don’t take alcohol from a bleeding man” was very much the adult version of “don’t take candy from strangers”.

  Jackie leaned in. “Can you afford that?”

  Bunny nodded, pulling a wallet from his pocket. “I can indeed. Or at least the fella who busted my nose can. Speaking of which…” Bunny glanced at the clock on the wall. “Shite. Turn on Channel 8 there, would you, please.”

  With a suspicious look that implied the welcome mat was wearing thin beneath their feet, Jackie changed the channel. The screen was filled with the face of Douglas Randall, trying very hard not to grin like a lunatic.

  “Ah,” said Jackie, “I hate that smug prick. Always smiling away to himself.”

  “Shut up!” said Bunny, and then caught Jackie’s look. “Erm, sorry. I mean, could you turn it up, please?”

  Jackie gave it a second’s consideration and then grudgingly did so. Douglas Randall’s broadcast-quality tones rose up, the hubbub of the bar dying down to see what this new interruption to their Friday evening was.

  “… will shock you. This is not an ordinary broadcast. I am joined tonight by two guests. Matt Clarke is a fund manager at Lanark Lane Investments, a hedge fund on Wall Street, and with him is a lady you may recognise – Amy Daniels, who was implicated earlier this week in the brutal murder of Charlie Fenton, who worked with Mr Clarke at Lanark Lane Investments. As we went on air, our producers made the NYPD aware of Miss Daniel’s presence here, and she has agreed to fully cooperate with their investigation as soon as this broadcast ends, as has Mr Clarke. Before that, though, they have a truly extraordinary story to tell. Mr Clarke.”

  Matt cleared his throat and looked nervously into the camera. “Yes, hello. My name is Matt Clarke, and for the last few years I have been a fund manager. My… my main client in that time has been a group of people who identified themselves to me as current or former US government employees in the Intelligence Community. I have, under their instructions, undertaken a series of… highly unusual investments, using what could be called insider information.”

  “Big fecking deal,” said one of the old fellas who propped up the bar.

  “Shush,” said Smithy.

  “Feck off, ye midget.”

  “Donal!” said Jackie sounding outraged.

  “Another word, old man, and you’ll be remembered as the octogenarian who got his arse handed to him by a midget.”

  The old man looked at Smithy for a long moment, then nodded and went back to his paper. “Fair play.”

  “And what,” prompted Douglas Randall, “was the exact nature of this information?”

  “Well,” said Matt, “most recently it was being told two weeks before it happened of the attack on the Millennium Faction Data building.”

  It was hard to tell if the gasps they heard were all from the bar or if there’d been some in the TV studio too.

  “To be clear,” continued Douglas Randall, “you are saying that current or former members of the US Intelligence Community knew of Adaal Ackbar’s intentions before the attack happened and attempted to profit from it?”

  Matt shook his head. “No, sir. I mean, they did intend to profit from it, but it wasn’t him. I believe he was a patsy and the attack was carried out by members of this group.”

  This time the gasps were mixed with shushes, evening out the amount of air in the bar.

  Douglas Randall looked into the camera. “We’ll get into the exact details of that right after this short break.”

  All around Smithy and Bunny, the crowd erupted into excited conversation.

  Smithy picked up his whiskey and held it out to Bunny.

  Bunny picked up his Guinness and clinked it against it.

  “Not a bad day’s work,” said Smithy.

  “Nope.”

  “So, what now?”

  “I’m going to get back to why I came here in the first place. I need to find a particular woman, and to do that, I need to find a particular bunch of nuns.”

  Smithy lifted his chin and nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  “And yourself?”

  “Well,” said Smithy, “I’ve got to find a good home for a Siberian husky that looks nothing like Gene Simmons, then I’m going to have to calm Diller down, because I bet this little adventure has given him all kinds of wild ideas, and oh yeah, I’m pretty sure I got a tad overexcited myself and told a woman that I loved her, so there’s that.”

  “Don’t you love her?”

  “That’s hardly the point.”

  “Take it from me, that’s exactly the point.”

  Bunny felt a vibration in his coat. He pulled out a phone that had suddenly started working again.

  “What’s the deal with that?” asked Smithy. “You never did say.”

  “’Tis indestructible, apparently. Gorilla Glass and rubber something or other.”

  “Cool. Does it get the baseball scores?”

  “No,” said Bunny, shoving it back into his pocket. “But that’s exactly what I asked. Well, sorta.”

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  “Not yet.” Bunny nodded at Jackie. “Same again, please, Jackie – and is your missus doing the breakfast tomorrow?”

  Epilogue 1

  Someone to Watch Over Me

  Amy watched as the first fingers of dawn spread across the Manhattan skyline. The lights were still twinkling on the Queensboro Bridge. As views went, it wasn’t half bad. She pulled her coat a little tighter around her and took a sip of her coffee, resisting the urge to check her watch. He’d be here. She could count on him. Her crutches lay on the ground beside her.

  For a man his size, he did move with a deceptive grace. She only noticed him when he appeared seemingly out of nowhere to sit beside her.

  “This isn’t the original bench, you know,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. I looked it up. Apparently, the bench that Woody Allen and Diane Keaton are sitting on at the end of the movie was never here. They brought it in especially.”

  “Oh,” said Bunny, “is that right? I’m not sure I wanted to know that.”

  “Hey,” said Amy, “it’s still a great view.”

  “’Tis that alright. How’s your knee?”

  “Fine. I mean, it will be, soon enough. The doctors said I was pretty lucky. A horse is a big animal.”

  “That it is.”

  It had been a couple of weeks since everything had happened. After their revelations, life had been intense and hectic. Not quite as bad as it had been for the five days previous, when she’d been wanted for murder, but still a long way from normal.

  “Oh, sorry, by the way” said Amy. “You must’ve been coming here for the last few mornings looking for me. I only got your note yesterday.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I was back home seeing my dad.”


  “Right.” A moment’s pause and then, “How did that go?”

  Amy absent-mindedly turned her coffee cup around in her hand. “OK, I guess. I mean, there were some conversations that were mortifyingly embarrassing but, ultimately, I suppose it wasn’t too bad. Not to be too ‘movie of the week’ about it, but facing death and everything else we’ve been through… it does help put things into perspective.”

  He nodded. “That it does. That it does. I see the Mayor of New York has personally promised you’ll be allowed to finish law school?”

  “Yeah. I’m taking some time off, but I guess I’ll do it next year. I have been talking to a couple of groups. Suddenly, I’m thinking that campaigning to ensure that everyone gets a fair trial is an issue that I can really get behind. I might as well use my new-found ‘celebrity’ for something positive.”

  “Fair play. Any news on the investigation?”

  Amy shrugged. “If there is, they aren’t telling me a whole lot about it. Matt and that Brad guy aren’t going to see any jail time as they’re cooperating and they can make the case they were coerced. They’ve got that guy Cole in custody but he’s not talking. They’ve got a couple of others, but the main woman, Miller or whatever, they seem to have no clue how to find her. I believe there’ll be a congressional inquiry as soon as the criminal investigation is done. She’s long gone, I bet. Everything else will be just talk.”

  “Yeah,” said Bunny. “Doesn’t really seem right, does it? Although, on the upside, there’s that two hundred and forty million dollars that we made for the US government.”

  “True. I’m hoping for a really good tax rebate next year. Oh, speaking of which.” Amy reached down into the carrier bag that was sitting beside her. “I got you a present, but I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  She had thought he might laugh, but when she held it out, real emotion filled his eyes. “How did you…”

  “This is New York. Everything is here if you just know where to look.”

  He took it and held it up in front of him. “That’s… that’s a beautiful thing.”

  She nudged him gently with her elbow. “Steady there, big guy. Don’t go ruining your hard man persona by bawling your eyes out over a box of teabags.”

  “Barry’s teabags, though. How did you know?”

  “I googled Irish teabags,” responded Amy, feeling slightly embarrassed at how much credit she was getting for what was actually a pretty simple acquisition. “Oh, there’s something inside too.”

  He opened the box to see the white envelope stuffed with cash.

  “Ten thousand dollars, as agreed.”

  He shifted beside her. “Ah, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “A deal is a deal, and you could use the cash.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I’ve got my ATM card back and my pocket money has been upped.”

  “Oh really?”

  He nodded. “Let’s just say that Agent Dove has had to do a fair bit of grovelling and apologising for not helping us out when she had the chance.”

  “Damn right.”

  “So, honestly, you can have the money back.”

  He tried to hand her the envelope.

  “Oh no, cowboy, that’s yours. Do with it as you see fit. I’m doing OK, thanks. I’m getting a book deal. Let’s just say I’ll have a nice retirement nest egg. I’m also moving out of the city. I’ve got my eye on a little cottage in the country. Nothing fancy, but it’s got a couple of acres. A certain horse’s days of ferrying tourists around Central Park are over.”

  “Ok,” said Bunny, “if you’re sure.” He took the envelope and shoved it into the inside pocket of his sheepskin coat. “I know a promising young actor who I think is well deserving of a scholarship.”

  Amy smiled. “That’s a great idea.” Then she caught herself. “Oh sorry, I meant to ask – how’s your thing going? Y’know, the hunt for that particular woman?”

  Bunny shrugged. “Slowly. I’ve just got back to my search for a bunch of lunatic nuns. They’ve got to be here somewhere.”

  She looked out across the river as the light of a new day crept up on the city. “Yeah. This is New York. Everything is here if you just know where to look.”

  Epilogue 2

  Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

  In the corner booth of a bar in a mid-range hotel in Bolivia, a statuesque older lady, her dyed mousy hair showing its roots, sat nursing a drink. A man sitting at the bar had been eyeing her for a couple of minutes, and he decided to make his move. He swayed as he walked, looking a little worse for the drink but nothing too severe.

  She was a little older than he was, but then, this wasn’t a normal situation.

  “Hey there, I was wondering if you’d like to buy me a drink?” He gave her a winning smile.

  “No, I would not.”

  “OK,” he said, sliding into the booth opposite her, “I’ll buy the drinks, but you’d better be damn good company.”

  “No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”

  The man raised his hands. “Me too! What are the odds?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “What’s your name?”

  “Steve.”

  “Steve,” she repeated. “Here’s the thing, Steve. 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 Steve, “I was just trying to be friendly.”

  “No, you weren’t. I think we both know your motives.”

  He grinned. “I bet you don’t.”

  “I’m sure I do, Steve. You see, I know you. I’ve known a thousand yous. You are nothing special. In fact, you remind me of a Venezuelan man I once knew.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. He was also guilty of grossly overestimating his charms. I knew his motives too.”

  Something changed when she looked across at the man. Suddenly, it wasn’t the same man. Physically, yes – but now he looked much more alert. The fake glassiness in the eyes had fallen away. There was something else there too.

  “I’m not trying to seduce you.”

  “No?”

  “No, Evelyn.”

  An icicle of terror slid down the back of her dress.

  She looked down at her drink. “You know my name.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Oh, I know everything about you. In particular, I know that you took a lot of money from people nobody takes money from – and you didn’t give it back.” Steve clucked his tongue.

  She wanted to say something, but suddenly her mouth was dry, so very dry. If she were lucky, maybe they’d make it quick.

  A figure pushed into the booth beside her.

  The woman who had been known by many names looked up to see a smile she knew all too well beaming back at her.

  “I believe you are familiar with my associate?”

  “Yes,” said the woman, who now knew it was definitely not going to be quick. “Hello, Lola.”

  Epilogue 3

  If You Go Out in the Woods Today

  “And then,” said Andy, his eyes wide, “they looked behind them, and there, sitting in the back seat, was a fisherman’s hat… and a hook!”

  Andy gave the word hook extra emphasis, just like his uncle Toby had done when he told him the story. It was greeted by a gratifying series of gasps from the girls and gleeful guffaws from the other boys. Everyone looked impressed except…

  “That’s bullshit,” said Lorraine Parks.

  “Lorraine!” said Mrs Wilkes. “Mind your language, young lady!”

  “Sorry. It’s BS.”

  Mrs Wilkes looked even more annoyed by this, as if Lorraine was getting off on a technicality. “Well, why don’t you tell us a story then?”

  “Fine, I will. Mine is way scarier because it’s actually true!”

  Andy stuck his tongue out at her. Lorraine glared back. She couldn’t believe that for a week last year she’d thoug
ht she was totally in love with him. “It was told to me by my aunt Mona and she’s in the police.”

  “Answering phones,” sneered Andy.

  “Andy Canworth,” said Mrs Wilkes, “women can be in the police force just like men!”

  Andy wilted under her gaze.

  “Anyway,” said Lorraine, “my story is about a guy who got kidnapped by terrorists or drug dealers or something.”

  “She’s making it up!”

  “Shut up, Kyle, that bit isn’t important.”

  Lorraine caught Mrs Wilkes’s warning look and moved quickly on. She didn’t want to clean pots again tomorrow while the rest of the camp went canoeing. “What is important is that this guy, to get him to do what they wanted, they put a bomb inside him! A bomb – right there in his belly!” She pointed at her belly as she looked around the fire. “The police shot the bad guy in the head – blam! – but they never found the detonator that set off the bomb. They looked everywhere. Everywhere. Doctors say they can’t take it out, so this guy, he had to live with a bomb wrapped up in his guts.”

  “What’d he do?” asked Tina, with perfect timing.

  Lorraine turned to her. “What could he do? He was scared, in case someday someone found the detonator and, y’know, didn’t know what it was and pressed the button. Then he’d go – BOOM!” Lorraine was smart; she knew the noises were how you sold it. “Besides, the detonator would’ve had like a frequency for the signal…” Lorraine tried not to look at Mrs Wilkes, but she was hoping putting in some science might get her back into her good books. “So if anything else had a remote with the same frequency – BOOM! He walks by the wrong garage door opener – BOOM! Someone tunes their radio to the wrong channel – BOOM! Phone rings – BOOM!”

  “He’d be dead by now, then – easy,” said Andy.

  Lorraine nodded. “Yeah, he would be – only he moved to the only place he could find where there was no technology. He moved right here, to Massapatchu Falls, Oregon, and got himself a cabin high in the woods. Away from everybody, right up that hill there.”