He unlocked the armoured door and I went inside the room and waited until he closed the door again. There were a hundred safety deposit boxes in two rows. In the centre of the room there was an oak table.
I went to box 27, put the key in and turned it.
I pulled out a long metal box and set it on the table.
I opened the box.
Inside was a brown envelope.
I opened the envelope.
Photographs. A dozen 8x10s. Black and white, taken with a telephoto lens.
They were all of the same subject.
A group of four middle-aged men having some kind of meeting at a restaurant. There were photographs of the men going inside the restaurant, photographs of the men sitting by the window and shots of them coming out again.
One of the men, unmistakably, was John DeLorean.
I stared at the photographs for five minutes to confirm that I was right, but there was no possibility of a mistake. Who the other men were I had no clue at all, and I wasn’t sure where the photographs had been taken. The only car I could see was a Volkswagen Beetle, and you can get those all over the western world.
I put the photographs back in the envelope and put it under my arm.
I closed the empty safety deposit box and locked it.
I knocked on the door.
The guard opened the door and buzzed me into the street.
The sunlight startled me.
What to do now?
Only one thing to do now. Find out who these men were. Who was DeLorean meeting and why had O’Rourke taken photographs of the meeting? And why were the photographs in a safety deposit box? And who the fuck
Jesus, what the hell was going on?
Should I take this to the local peelers or the FBI? Maybe. But, I’d have to think about it. Have a think, find a phone box, maybe call Crabbie, get it all sussed.
I walked to my car which was parked in the lot behind State Street.
I decided that I would drive to the VFW Post, give them the five hundred dollars and perhaps try to talk to some of O’Rourke’s buddies. What if he wasn’t a retired IRS agent? What if post-retirement he’d taken on a new career? A PI or something? Maybe someone would know.
I got in the Buick and drove out of Newburyport along the 1A. I’d gotten about a mile out of town when I saw flashing lights behind me.
It was an unmarked police car.
Had I been speeding?
Who knew what the limit was around here.
I pulled the Buick to the side of the road.
Thick woods on either side of the car. An odd patch of snow in the deeper parts of the forest. I wound the window down. There was a smell of salt water and marsh gas.
A man wearing sunglasses and a suit and tie got out of the unmarked prowler behind me. He had a gun drawn. Didn’t traffic cops always have to wear uniforms?
“Get out of the vehicle and put your hands on the hood.”
I sighed, got of the car and put my hands on the roof of the Buick.
“Spread them!” the man yelled.
I spread my hands far apart.
I heard him come up behind me.
“Was I speeding, Officer?” I asked.
“Give me your right wrist and do it real slow,” he said.
I put my right hand behind my back. He slapped the cuff on. He asked for my left hand and cuffed that, too.
“How can I get my driver’s licence out now?” I said.
“We won’t be needing that, Duffy,” he said.
I just had the time to experience a little rush of panic before he hit me in the neck and I crumpled to the ground.
I wasn’t unconscious, but I was dazed.
Two men were dragging me into the trees. There was a third man keeping an eye on the road.
When I was well off the road one of the men kicked me in the head. Another kicked me in the gut. The wind was knocked out of me and I winced in agony. Somehow, I scrambled to my feet, but I was hit twice in the ribs in quick succession by a really big guy with a long reach who was a fighter and fast and strong.
My heart was pounding and there were white spots in front of my eyes.
I threw up in my mouth and I felt myself being tossed down a small embankment.
A momentary respite and then more kicks.
Blood in my eyes.
Scrapes all down my back.
Pain everywhere.
Red out …
Black out …
Faces.
“Shut the fuck up, he’s coming to!”
Tape over my eyes, and then they were holding my mouth open, pouring in bourbon.
I choked, spat, and they poured in more.
It was a goddamn classic.
I almost laughed.
Someone held my head in his greasy paws and they made sure I got the bottle down.
I was scared now. Drunk and scared. They could kill me and make it look like an accident.
“Motherfuckers! What is this all about? I’m a cop.”
A punch in my kidneys.
“You’re not a fucking cop. You’re a fucking Brit, you’re a fucking black and tan bastard.”
“Stop talking to him,” another man said.
They slapped my face. Gut punched me. Sucker punched me.
Hands squeezing my throat.
More booze.
I was well gone now.
Beyond the pain. Across the border. Into the dark.
I watched as the world erased itself.
I was being carried.
I was in the car.
“This is a good one, lads. This is an old-school fix up,” I said.
The engine kicked into life. The car was moving. Fast.
Death stamped her iron hooves. She was coming. With Finn’s spear and Ossian’s bow. At the speed of understanding.
The car hit.
Exquisite silence.
Fire.
I was on the car’s ceiling. I was upside down.
I wanted to lie there.
I couldn’t breathe. The seat was burning. The seatbelt had trapped me in.
“Help!” I said weakly.
