face was tanned, the skin pulled tight across her high cheekbones, and her brown eyes flashed as she laughed. Her hair spilled over her shoulders — it was virtually the only feminine thing about her. She even walked like a man. As she went back to her car the final sniper arrived: Lou Schoelen. Rashid greeted him and they carried their suitcases and rifle bags together into the house. Carlos shook hands with Schoelen, and then showed the two of them where the bedrooms were.
Later, Carlos went out to the bottom of the garden and stood looking at the bridge in the distance. Mary Hennessy was right — the weather was improving.
Joker put the last glass up on the shelf and scratched his chin. “That’s the lot, Shorty,” he shouted.
“Good man,” Shorty called back. He was in the basement, changing a keg which had run dry. “I’ll lock up; see you tomorrow.”
“Is it okay if I take that carton of milk in the fridge?” asked Joker.
Shorty laughed. “You and that cat,” he said. “Sure, take it.”
Joker opened the small refrigerator under the bar and took out the pint of milk. He put on his pea jacket and pulled his wool hat down over his head and let himself out, pulling the door shut behind him. It was two o’clock in the morning but the city streets were still busy. A taxi cruised by with its light on and the driver sounded his horn, letting Joker know he was for hire. Joker shook his head, he didn’t have far to walk. He decided to visit the automated teller machine on the way back to his room and he shoved the milk carton into his pocket. As he approached the bank machine he looked left and right to check that there were no suspicious characters lurking in the shadows. New York was never a safe place to be, no matter what the hour. He slid the Visa card into the machine, tapped out his PIN number, and waited while it processed his request. Two large men in raincoats, their collars up against the wind, walked on the opposite side of the road, laughing uproariously. The machine made a clunking sound and Joker reached for his cash. As he slid the notes into his back pocket he realised he wasn’t alone — the two men had crossed silently and were standing either side of him. Both men were as tall as Joker but much wider, as if they spent a lot of time lifting weights.
Any hopes that they were just there to use the bank machine were dashed when one of them put a restraining hand on Joker’s shoulder. “You seem to be using this machine a hell of a lot,” the man said. He had a wide forehead and one thick eyebrow which went across both eyes, giving him a perpetual frown. His accent was pure Belfast.
“Aye, for a barman paid in cash, yez make a lot of withdrawals,” said the other. His accent was also Irish, but softer, from Derry maybe, Joker thought. He had small, piggy eyes and fleshy jowls, but his body looked rock hard under the thin raincoat.
“So who are you guys, the bank police?” Joker asked. He turned to walk on, but the grip tightened on his shoulder.
“We’d like a wee chat, Mr O’Brien, if that’s your name,” said Piggy Eyes.
“Damien O’Brien it is,” said Joker. “Who would you be?”
“There’s no need for introductions,” said The Frowner. “We’ve just a few questions fur yer, that’s all.” His hand was deep in his raincoat like a cheap hoodlum in a gangster movie, but when he pushed it forward into Joker’s kidney he could feel the hard outline of an automatic, a big one. “We’ll be going back to yez room with yer, okay?”
“Sure,” said Joker, wishing that he’d procured himself a weapon. He’d decided against it because he hadn’t wanted to attract attention to himself, but with the heavyweights either side of him he could have done with a decent gun. “Can I go on ahead and make the place presentable?”
“Very funny, O’Brien,” said Piggy Eyes. “Just walk.”
The three men walked through the dark streets, his two escorts laughing loudly again as if they were just friends on their way home after a night’s drinking. The main entrance to the hotel was locked as it always was after midnight, but the night manager had given Joker a key because he was often getting back in the small hours. Joker unlocked the door and the three men walked up the stairs, the gun never more than a couple of feet from Joker’s back. They said nothing while he unlocked the door to his room and went inside. Piggy Eyes switched on the light, then closed and bolted the door. The Frowner took the gun out of his coat pocket. It was a matt black SIG-Sauer P228, a 9mm autoloader with a double action trigger, and the safety was off. It wasn’t an especially large gun, and it seemed even smaller in the big man’s hands, but without a silencer it would still make one hell of a bang. As if reading his thoughts, The Frowner took a bulbous silencer from his pocket and screwed it into the barrel.
Joker took off his hat and dropped it onto his dressing table. “Okay if I take off my coat?” he asked. Piggy Eyes nodded and Joker slipped off the jacket. He placed the carton of milk on the window sill and hung the jacket on the hook on the back of the door. The Frowner kept the gun aimed at his gut and Joker knew there was no chance of making a run for it. “Can I offer you gentlemen a dram while we talk?” he said.
“Sit down,” said The Frowner, gesturing at the wing chair in the corner facing the window.
Joker did as he was told. As he walked across the room his eyes searched for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. His half-empty bottle of Famous Grouse was the nearest possibility, next to the television. He could reach it in two steps, but The Frowner would have more than enough time to plant a slug in his chest. The automatic would make a hole the size of an orange in a body. He waited for the questions to start.
Piggy Eyes went over to the window and pulled down the blinds. “Yez been asking around about Matthew Bailey,” he said, his back to Joker. “We were wondering why.” He turned round and stared at Joker, his eyebrows raised.
“He’s an old friend, he’s in the States and I just wanted to say hello.”
“How long have you known him?”
Joker shrugged. “Seven, eight years maybe.”
“So how come yez don’t know how to get hold of him yerself?”
“I lost touch with him.”
“So how did yez know he was in the States?”
“Someone told me.”
“Who?”
Joker held his hands out, showing his palms. “Jesus, I don’t know. Someone in Glasgow, I can’t remember who.”
Piggy Eyes sighed as if he was disappointed. “I don’t think anyone in Scotland would know he was over here.”
“What can I tell you?” said Joker.
The two heavyweights said nothing for a while. Joker knew that they were doing it to make him sweat, so he tried to relax. It was The Frowner who eventually broke the silence. “Yez told Billy O’Neill yer had a telephone number for him, but that it had been disconnected.”
“Billy O’Neill?”
“Guy from Filbin’s. At the Gaelic football match.”
Joker rubbed his chin with his hand, feeling the stubble. “Aye, that’s right, I did.”
“So who gave you the number?” asked Piggy Eyes.
“I don’t know,” said Joker.
“Billy says yer told him that Matthew gave it to you,” said The Frowner.
“I guess he must have,” said Joker, a chill running down his back. They had him bang to rights.
“Well, I don’t think he’d have given yer his number here, O’Brien,” said Piggy Eyes. “In fact, I’m pretty bloody sure he wouldn’t.”
Joker didn’t know what to say. He began to tense his legs, preparing to spring, either for the gun or the bottle.
“And yer told Beaky Maguire that Matthew wanted a Green Card,” said The Frowner.
Piggy Eyes shook his head. “Big mistake that, O’Brien. Matthew doesn’t need a Green Card.”
“I must have made a mistake,” said Joker.
The Frowner grinned. “That’s for sure.”
“So tell me, are you a Sass-man, O’Brien?” asked Piggy Eyes. He walked over to the dressing table and picked up Joker’s wallet. He stood next to The Frowner as he went through it. “We had a Sass-man here a few months ago.” He pulled out the Visa card and looked at it, then showed it to The Frowner, who nodded. “He had a Visa card, too. And he used the money machines a lot.” They both looked at Joker. “So, O’Brien, are you a Sass-man or
