The reporter's voice was slightly whiny, like he'd been called out of bed. '. .. It's too early to say, John, but certainly from talking to eye-witnesses, there was a gun battle, there were bodies on the ground, and the fire followed soon after.'
'Any indication, Jerome, as to who was involved in this gun battle?'
'Nothing yet, John, but according to my police sources, the mosque, besides serving the local community, was also the headquarters of the Sons of Muhammad terrorist organization. And if that's the case, the possibility is that the fighting may have been between rival factions within that organization.'
'Yeah, sure,' said Matchitt. He turned back to the bathroom.
'Stanley,' I said.
He stopped, raised his eyebrows questioningly. I nodded at the TV. There was a photo of Bobby McMaster on the screen.
'What the fuck has he done now?' Matchitt growled.
A plastic blonde had replaced John and Jerome. '. . . has done it again. The controversial Irish boxer whose comments last week angered the Afro-American community apologized for his words on the David Letterman show tonight - and then appealed to the President to withhold financial help for the north of Ireland until the British Government makes clear its intention to withdraw. Mark Sawyer reports. ..'
Matchitt sat beside me on the bed. He shook his head. 'Well, I'll be a fuckin' Fenian,' he said.
24
We had a board meeting. Or maybe we had a bored meeting. Poodle Clay yawned at one end of the table, flanked by two heavies. He flicked through some papers and generally gave every indication of preferring to be somewhere else. Geordie McClean sat hollow-eyed at the other end, drumming his fingers on the table. I sat opposite Stanley Matchitt. We'd been waiting on Bobby McMaster for ten minutes. Ten minutes of silence. Love wasn't in the air. The Mirage had provided its own board room for our use. It wasn't so much a magnanimous gesture on their part as a desire to hide us in the most private and remote part of the hotel. One of their security men assigned to guard the contender had been stabbed earlier in the morning. The size of the protest outside the hotel had doubled since the fire in the Shabazz. The management wasn't happy.
McMaster, suddenly the champion of Irish unity, hadn't yet explained himself. He'd come straight back from the TV show, sullen-faced, lips sealed, and locked himself in his room with Geordie McClean. All McClean would say was, 'I'll sort it, I'll sort it,' but hadn't. I was left to deal with the press. The Americans weren't showing that much interest, but the British pack, who until now had virtually ignored us, was suddenly rabidly keen. McMaster was no longer the joky Irishman, good for a funny quote on a quiet day, but public enemy number, well, forty-three, for the sake of argument. I spent most of the night giving noncommittal answers to questions I was dying to ask myself. Those who weren't persuaded by my quiet, self-effacing manner were punched by Matchitt.
I didn't even manage to give Smith a second thought.
McMaster eventually arrived, sweat-soaked. He grunted hello to the room and took a seat beside me. Matchitt stared at him. McMaster avoided his gaze. Jackie Campbell stood at the door for a moment, observing, then shook his head. 'I can't be bothered with any of this shite,' he muttered and left. One of Poodle's heavies closed the door.
'Well,' said McClean, after a further minute's silence, 'I don't know whether to laugh or cry.'
'Cry,' said Matchitt, sullenly.
Poodle Clay set his papers down. 'Gentlemen, what is the problem?'
Matchitt stabbed a finger across at McMaster. 'He's the problem.'
McMaster tutted and sat back in his chair. His eyes wandered round the room.
'Gentlemen, Madison is sold out; our man's the most talkedabout guy in town; since last night's interview alone we've signed up another three hundred closed-circuit outlets and trebled our sponsorship deals. Our boy's been promoted from marcher to the guest of honour of the St Patrick's Day parade. New York's gonna salute him! Now what's the problem? I'm a busy man. I love you all, but I haven't got the time to nursemaid you through these blips.'
McClean jumped out of his seat, waving his finger vigorously at Poodle. 'Blips! Jesus! A man was killed last night because of us! Half the Muslims in New York are trying to kill us for burning down their temple! Bobby's wife is missing!' He sat down just as quickly, breathing heavily. He took a deeper breath. Another. Calmed himself. 'You're right,' he said, 'there's no problem.'
Clay shook his head. 'Minor crisis, gentlemen, minor crisis. Do you not think that if you'd thought to come to me in the first place some of this might have been avoided?'
'You're a busy man,' said Matchitt, heavy on the sarcasm.
Poodle, being American, missed it. 'Yes, I'm a busy man, but your concerns in New York are my concerns. I know it sounds ridiculous, but this city answers to me. I get things done. You didn't tell me about Bobby's woman disappearing. I had to find out for myself. You didn't tell me about hiring that detective. I had to find out for myself. You didn't tell me that you were mounting some kind of rescue mission. I had to watch the news to work that one out.'
'We didn't tell you because we heard you were brown-nosing with the Sons of Muhammad.'
'Brown-nosing?' Poodle smiled. 'Is that a term of endearment?'
'Work it out for yourself.'
One of the heavies shifted slightly. Matchitt glared at him.
I put my tuppence worth in. 'We were told you were a regular visitor at the Shabazz. We feared the worst. We thought it better to work independently.'
Clay shook his head. 'And look where it got you. Gentlemen, you don't know New York. You should have put your faith in me. Of course I'm a regular visitor at the Shabazz. You'll find me at a dozen mosques. A dozen cathedrals. Two dozen synagogues. You'd find me at a Klan rally if I could get away with it. I talk, I mix, I connect. Always have, always will. I've been talking to the Brothers of Muhammad for years. They're mostly harmless. They talk big, that's all. I talk big too. So we get together, try to work things out. I've been negotiating to get this threat on Bobby lifted. And they were coming round, until you crashed in there last night. Now they won't even come to the phone.'
'It probably melted,' said McMaster.
'Who're you to say anything?' snapped Matchitt. 'Fuckin' turncoat.'
'I'm what this is all about, Stanley. The contender.'
He said it quietly. He examined his nails. It calmed Matchitt, a bit.
'I just don't understand,' Matchitt said, 'why you had to go and say something like that. After everything we've been through.'
A little exasperated, but still quiet, McMaster said, 'Use your brain, Stanley.'
Matchitt picked up on the tone. 'I'll use your fuckin' brain ...' Clay raised his hands. 'Gentlemen, please. ..' He laughed. A fake laugh, meant to jolly up the proceedings. 'I always told you, George, your boy is a genius when it comes to publicity. I don't know where he got it from, but that plea for Irish freedom was inspired. Bobby, if you lose this fight - you won't, but if you do - you just come and work for me. A genius!' He laughed again. It wasn't infectious.
'What this genius did,' said Matchitt, through grated teeth, 'was give up his birthright just so that he could make some more money.'
A pained expression crept onto McClean's face. 'Stanley, don't,' he said, half weary, half annoyed. 'He's been under a lot of pressure. Mary's missing.'
'There's no call for that. None at all.'
McMaster blew air out of his nose, shook his head.
'If she's out there, I'll find her,' said Clay.
'Where have I heard that before?' said Matchitt.
'You have to trust me. I need a little time to get them talking again. If they have her, they have her for a reason - it's just a question of finding the reason. If it's money, fine. If it's political, fine. We can sort it out.'
McClean stood. He placed four fingers on the table, looped his thumbs underneath. He drummed the fingers for a moment. Everyone looked at him, even the heavies shifted their steady gaze off Matchi
tt.
'I'm thinking,' he said, his eyes flitting quickly to McMaster and then on to Clay, 'of taking Bobby home. Calling the whole thing off.'
'Jesus,' said McMaster.
'What?' said Matchitt.
Clay's cool eyes appraised McClean. He shook his head slightly, but said nothing.
'I've had enough. It's getting too dangerous. Mary's missing. Smith's dead. People are getting shot. People are getting stabbed. Did you see the crowd outside this morning? It's just not worth it.
,
'It's worth it to me,' said McMaster.
'Bobby, we can do it again. Some other time. Some other place. This one isn't for us. Jesus, Bobby, they have your wife. I thought we could battle on through it. I saw you sparring, I never saw you so good, I caught myself thinking, yeah, I hope they hold on to her until the fight's over because he's bound to win. Imagine thinking that.'
'Jesus, Geordie,' I said,'I do believe you're turning into a human being.'
Clay stood up. He and McClean faced each other across the table. 'Nobody walks out on me.'
'I can. I will.'
'I'm telling you now. I have too much invested in this fight for anyone to walk away from it. You have signed on the dotted line. Your fighter has. Either of you back out of it I'll not even think about taking every penny you have. That would be too easy. I'll just have you killed. Killed.'
'That's not a threat, that's a promise,' said Matchitt, helpfully.
Clay kept his stare on McClean. 'That's a threat and a promise.'
'It's too dangerous to stay. The hotel wants us out.'
'That isn't a problem.' Clay sat down again. 'I've already thought about this. Okay. I understand your fears for your safety. For Bobby's safety. I'll tell you what I'll do. I have a place up on Cape Cod. Town called Princetown. Beautiful place. Quiet. Let me fly you up there. Make that your headquarters until the fight. It'll take the pressure off. I'll get a gym rigged up. It's no problem. Take my private jet. You'll be there in twenty minutes.'
McClean sat down. He put his elbows on the table and lowered his chin into his hands. 'What do you think, Bobby?'
'I don't much mind where I am, as long as I get to fight for the title.'
Matchitt shook his head at the contender. 'You're one callous cunt,' he said.
'Have to be to be a fighter, Stanley. Maybe you just don't have the killer instinct.'
'That's a laugh,' I contributed.
'And you shut the fuck up or I'll show you all about killer fucking instincts.'
'Gentlemen, please!' Clay stood again. 'Relax. Chill out. Every thing will be okay. Now, I must go. Be ready to leave at five. I'll have you picked up. I'll set my team to work on finding Mary. Now loosen up! We've a world title to win!' He gathered up his papers quickly and swept down the side of the table. His heavies swept with him. He patted McMaster on the shoulder as he passed, then put his hand out to McClean. Geordie hesitated for a moment. 'Keep your nerve, George, keep your nerve!'
They shook hands. McClean gave Clay an unconvincing nod of the head and quickly let go of his hand. 'Have it your way. We'll go to Princetown. But I'm keeping my options open. If there's any more trouble, or Mary doesn't appear before the fight, we're out, we're home.'
Clay smiled paternally. 'Don't worry!' He laughed. 'Options!' He laughed again.
A heavy opened the door. Clay left. The heavies followed. One of them winked back at Matchitt. He gave the fingers back. Stanley and I had been to the same finishing school, and never known it.
After the storm, the lull was missing. Maybe it was with Mary. Matchitt glared at McMaster. McClean, pale-faced, counted his fingers and shook his head. McMaster stood at the window, looking at the back end of another hotel.
I could see McClean's point. It was getting dangerous. I thought if we went home there was an outside chance it might improve my love life, but it would make the end of my book something of an anticlimax. But I could see McMaster's point as well. Even Matchitt's. Maybe it would fall to me to explain it all again to Jackie Campbell.
'I just don't understand why you did it,' Matchitt said, turning in his seat and looking at McMaster's back.
'Do we have to go on about this?' McClean snapped. 'It's done.'
'But why?'
'Because.'
'That's brilliant. Bloody brilliant.' Matchitt pushed his seat back. It toppled over. He bent to retrieve it. He crossed to McMaster. I thought there might be some violence, but he put a surprisingly restrained hand on his old friend's shoulder. 'What's happened to you, Bobby? Jesus, we used to hate those bastards so much. I mean, if I'd told you a couple of years ago, Jesus, a couple of days ago, that you'd go on live television promoting a fucking British withdrawal you'd've lamped me.' McMaster turned his head towards Matchitt. 'Wouldn't you?' McMaster nodded. 'I mean, I know you've changed a bit, Mary being a Catholic and all that, but this much? We've been through so much together. What got into you, son?'
McMaster sucked on a lip. For a moment the muscles in his face kind of gave way, like he might be about to cry. When the reply came, it was only a whisper. 'Mary told me to,' he said, and looked back to the window. I don't know, maybe there was a tear.
Certainly there were enough furrowed brows in the room for a mental ploughing championship, although if any of us had the brain power to think about it, it made perfect sense.
McClean rose from the table and crossed to his fighter. He put a hand on his free shoulder. It was quite touching. They looked like a family. I stayed where I was. 'Tell us, Bobby,' he said.
'I got a call. Yesterday. Irish voice. Irishman. Asked me if I was concerned about my wife. I said I was. He asked me if I wanted to speak to her. I said I did. He put her on. Simple as that.'
'And she said what?'
'She said hello. Hello, I'm okay, I'm fine, but they won't let me go. That was all. They said they'd talk to me later, not to mention it to anyone, then hung up. So they called back just before I went to the TV studio. First the man, then Mary was put on. She told me I had to attack the British. I don't know who the fuck they are. Some sort of offshoot of the IRA. They want to start the war up again. They said they'd let her go if I said it. It didn't seem like much to say. Not for her life. Do you understand?'
'Fuck,' said Matchitt. He squeezed McMaster's shoulder.
'But they haven't let her go,' I said.
McMaster shook his head.
'You should have told us earlier, Bobby,' said Matchitt. 'You should have trusted us.'
'I didn't know what to do. My first duty is to Mary.'
'I know that. I understand that. But ... I don't know. You should have said. We could have gotten Clay on the case.' McMaster shook his head again. 'He may know his own people, but he knows bugger all about Ireland. That's our territory. We can deal with our own sort.'
I shook my head too, and gave a little snort. 'You're not thinking about getting the A team back together again, are you, Bobby?' Matchitt gave a grim laugh. 'All for one,' he said, 'and all for one.'
'Jesus,' said McClean. 'If some real hardliners have her, that means Smith died for nothing.'
'I couldn't warn you.'
'I know. I know. But, Jesus, the Sons of Muhammad will be ...'
'Livid,' I suggested.
25
The McMaster training camp left for Princetown, Cape Cod. The McMaster training camp save for its dynamic young press agent left for Princetown, Cape Cod. Dan Starkey, erstwhile objective reporter but lately failed commando, was left to hold the fort, man the barricades and generally be last man at the Alamo.
Geordie McClean explained it as best he could. I had become a valued member of the team; they wanted to entrust me with the vital job of manning the phone in case whoever had Mary called back; they needed a connection in the city other than Poodle Clay, someone they could trust; they needed someone with a background in investigative reporting to get on the trail of Mary and her captors; they needed someone to deal with the press; I could be the diffe
rence between Bobby fighting for the title and going home in shame, considered a coward, or worse, going home as a widower. Also, he added, there weren't enough seats on the plane.
I could have argued contracts. I could have argued my past miserable record at, well, everything. I didn't. I don't know why. Maybe I was beginning to feel some sort of loyalty to them -all. Maybe.
Stanley Matchitt, touchingly, promised to come back and help me out. 'I want to see that Poodle's boys really know what they're doing up there,' he said. 'Once I see the security's tight, I'll come back and give you a hand.'
'I'm happier working on my own,' I said. 'No, I insist.'
'There's no need. Bobby's safety is paramount.'
'Like I say, that's what I'm checking on. Then I'll come down and start looking for Mary.'
'Geordie's already asked me to do that, Stanley. There's no need.
Matchitt gave me a disdainful shake of his head. 'What're you gonna do, start writing letters?'
'What're you gonna do, start cutting throats?'
'I told you I've changed.'
'Aye, I saw that at the Shabazz.'
'That had to be done. It was a life-or-death situation.'
'But you didn't need to enjoy it. You'd a big grin on your face the whole time.'
'Aye, you could see through a gas mask.'
'I could see through yours.'
'I'm telling you I'm not like that any more.'
'Aye, the proof is in the pudding.'
'Don't start me, Starkey.'
He bent, picked up his bag, and started for the lift. He looked back once, a slight grin on his face. I didn't see it for long enough to judge whether it was the cold-hearted grin of a murderer, or something much more whimsical, like an executioner.
Matchitt and the rest of the camp left under cover of darkness, using the proverbial tradesman's entrance. Even so, there were a dozen protesters shivering out back, but Poodle's heavies threw a ring round the team as it piled into the stretch for the journey to Newark airport.
Of wee sweetie mice and men Page 17
