weight, and over, like he was dumped trash. There was the splash. The car's lights illuminated the the of them as they walked back to where the Tagle waited. The boy would have been incapable of survival when he went into the water that flowed last, dark, deep, under the bridge's rail. They came towards him. The boy would drown. The drowning wouldn't help the Cruncher, nor the Cruncher's rent boys, nor the Cruncher's parents in their Torbay bungalow. It was about Mister's sell respect and Mister's dignity. As they reached him, Atkins was pulling off his glove and looking at his hand The Eagle heard Mister say,
'You're all right, didn't break the skin-nothing like a good pair ol gloves You did well, Atkins, brilliant.' At worst it was 'acting in common', at best it was
'accessory lo murder.' They didn't wait for him.
The Eagle bent over until his head was down at his knees, and vomited up his hotel dinner.
' I am not Falcone'
Joey shook his head, 'I don't know who is… '
'Nor am I Borsellino,' the judge said softly
' I don't know who you're talking about.'
She interrupted, spoke sharply, 'Giovanni Falcone was a magistrate in Sicily, He arrested many of the Mafia and prosecuted them, imprisoned them. He was killed by a culvert bomb, with his wife and his bodyguards. He was followed by Paulo Borsellino who pursued the Mafia with the same dedication.
Borsellino was killed by a car bomb, with his bodyguards. 'They stood against the tide.'
The room was a building site. They were itinerants, travellers, squatting in their own home. Across the table were layered sheets of newspaper: across the newspaper was a sandy shore of dust. Two of the four walls had been stripped of the plaster rendering, to expose old stone. It had been a room, as he remembered it, of dirty, uncomfortable peace when it had been lit by the oil-lamps, but the new electricity threw down a glaring brightness. There were shining new plastic window-frames in place of the rotten splintered wood that was now propped against the wall. Joey was perched on the end of the table and faced her father, who sat on the bed in his shirtsleeves, close to a three-bar electric fire. She rounded on them, with the restlessness of a zoo-caged animal, circled them in her chair.
' I am not a hero. They were martyrs to the reputation of jurisprudence. I am not them. They looked into the abyss, as I have done. They jumped, I stepped back.'
She said with scorn, as if to support her father,
'There were great demonstrations in Palermo after the killings, many thousands were on the streets to denounce the Mafia. The Mafia is still alive, but Falcone and Borsellino are dead.'
'You said you helped me so that you might regain your self respect.'
When the oil-lamps lit the room, the judge had had a face of old dignity. Under the new glare, the face was haunted by defeat. Joey had no business to be there, he was a criticism of them.
The judge said wearily, 'It was a dream… Do you know who has had the biggest funeral in Sarajevo, during the war and since? Musan Topalovic. To the people on the streets of Sarajevo he was a hero and a martyr. He called himself Caco. Who killed the hero?
He was shot by Muslim government troops during a few days of crackdown on criminality in the last year of the war, to show a skim of respectability to the foreign powers. In the first days of the siege he held a line with what he named the Tenth Mountain Brigade, a formation ot rats from the sewers. He was a butcher before he was a hero and a martyr, he slit the throats of Serbs who had stayed in the city, after he had robbed them, and he burned their bodies. He was a man of evil… Four years ago his body was dug up and carried shoulder high through the streets, to a new and more respectable grave. Shops emptied, and the cafe, and the bars. I see it in my mind, the worship of those who watched. I awoke, Joey, from the dream. The people ol Sarajevo did not want me – they wanted as their hero and their martyr the man who was a butcher, Caco. They would not want me who was an insignificant imitation of Falcone and Borsellino… Everything I said to you, it was only a dream.'
The judge's words faded. A week before, Joey Cann would have nodded sympathetically and would have understood. But a long week had gone by.
'So, what happened?' Joey persisted. 'What turned you?'
The judge looked up at him, and his dulled eyes blinked under the force of the ceiling light. 'There were two offers put on the table. The offer to be killed,
… Eighteen men came to the house this morning, at first light, with lorries, cement mixers, blocks, timber. They worked all day, until it was dark, and they will be here again in a few hours. At lunchtime the Mercedes came. In the afternoon the catalogues were delivered to us. We will have the bathroom of our choice with a special shower for Jasmina, the kitchen that will suit her and a refrigerator freezer and the decoration for the rooms. What do you say '
Joey, the week-old veteran of Sarajevo, said with spite, 'I say that the whole city will know you had a price.'
' It is Sarajevo, Joey, the city will applaud me, a fool has become sensible… In the evening a functionary came from the pensions department of the Ministry of Finance. He gave me back the document I had given nine years before to Ismet Mujic as part payment for Jasmina going to the Vrbanja bridge. With the document was an account statement, the scheme was paid up. They own me, they have bought me, and the world can know it. Don't you have a price, Joey?'
The question hurt, cut deep, and he hesitated. She was behind him, circling them. The wheels crunched on the fallen plaster and squealed. He could not see her face. He had bought her flowers. Anyone who'd cared to look from the pavements, or from their cars on the streets of this shit city, would have seen that a girl in a wheelchair carried his flowers. The question was under his guard.
' I don't know – if it was about someone I loved… '
' I did not think I had a price. I urge you, pray to your God that you never have to drink from the devil's cup.' The judge looked into Joey's eyes and asked simply,' Who would have looked after her?'
'Papa, enough of talking,' she snapped. 'He has no sympathy for what you say – look at him. He involved us, Papa. You should not justify yourself.' She came round the table, braked the chair between her father and Joey.
' If it had been about someone I loved I might have had a price. I don't stand in judgement. I hope I don't have that conceit.'
'Will you leave? You upset my father.' He saw the anger blaze in her eyes, and the colour flush her cheeks.
'The withdrawal of the authorization for intrusive surveillance, Joey, does that make it hard for you?'
The judge's thin voice seeped from behind her back.
'If I wore the uniform, had the mentality of the uniform, it would be impossible for me to continue.'
'Without the uniform, what is the action of a driven man? What do you do, |oey?'
Because he had come into their lives, the dignity was gone from them. He wondered if, when he was gone, they would curse him. The love that gave flowers was finished. He stood tall over them, and they waited on his answer. He did not know himself, and nobody who knew him would have recognized Joey Cann
He said, with savagery, 'I go to the end of the road, follow where I am led. I think it finishes tomorrow.
Tomorrow you will know whether you were bought too cheaply, whether you surrendered your pride too quickly… Look and listen.'
He went out of the room and into the night. They might curse him, they might weep in each other's arms or forget he had ever come into their lives. In a few hours it would be finished. He walked down the hill, left the building site and the Mercedes behind him, with his decency.
She passed the earphones to Salko, who began to scribble on a sheet of paper. When the call was finished, he gave the sheet to Frank. Frank wrote the translation, and palmed it to Maggie.
'Sorry about that, boys, a little bit of panic there for a moment,' she chimed. 'Turkish isn't one of my talents… If I was clever, which I'm certainly not at this time of a God-forsaken night, I'd rather fancy a limerick coming on. It's getting quite multinational, don't you think? Line one: 'There once was a Russkie, an Eyetie, and a Turk.' Then we've 'perk', 'kirk',
'dirk' and ' l u r k '… I'm too bloody tired. You know anything about Turks, Frank?' She eased back in her chair against him, liked the touch of him.
'Mainstream heroin trafficking.'
