Jackson. Apart from that, jack shit.
'Can we go home now and show this to Daddy? Maybe he's better now. You said we could, if we saw anyone.'
I was digging myself deeper.
'No, not yet. I have to make sure that this is the man who came to see Daddy. But not long now, not long.'
I lay on the bed, pretending to read the fishing magazine.
She knew who they were. My heart was beating loud and slow.
I was trying to keep to my game plan of concentrating only on the matter at hand, but I couldn't. Why would Kev be killed by people who knew him? Had it been Luther and company?
It must have been. What did Kev know, or what was he involved in? Why would he tell me about his problem if he were corrupt? Was the DEA investigating PIRA and drug dealing?
Maybe Kev was, and the murders were carried out by PIRA or the drug dealers because of something he had done or was about to do? But why did they know him?
Conjecture would get me nowhere. It was just a waste of time and effort. Kelly was stretched out beside me, looking at the magazine. It was a strange feeling having her head on my chest. I moved my arm around her to look at my watch. She thought I was going to cuddle her.
It was nearly time for Pat to call. I got up and switched on the mobile phone, then stood by the window, pulling a gap in the curtain, looking at the highway through the rain, deciding on my next move. I tried to think of a good RV It wouldn't be secure to meet again at the shopping mall.
Right on time the phone rang.
'Hello?'
'Hello, mate.' I could hear the traffic going past a phone booth.
'Things are happening,' I said.
'I need an RV' 'In two hours, is that OK?'
'Two hours. Union Station all right for you?'
'Er... Union yep, no problem.' He sounded spaced out.
I'd traveled through it a few times and could remember the layout.
'Come in through the main entrance,' I said.
'Go up to the top floor, to the coffee bar facing the stairs. Buy a cup of coffee, sit down, and wait. I'll pick you up there, OK?'
There was a long, worrying pause.
'Is that OK, Pat?'
'I'll be there. See ya.' The line went dead.
Union Station is so grand and elegant that it should be in Paris, not here in the home of cinder block and dark wood veneer At most major railway stations in the world you expect to find the seedier side of life, but not at Union. The ticketing, check-in, and baggage-handling areas look like part of a modern airport. There's even a first- class lounge. You don't see the trains because they're behind screens, and in any case you'd be much too distracted by the shopping mall, the food court, the coffee shops, even a multiplex cinema. More important for me, however, I'd remembered it as a big, busy lo cation, and because of the Easter holiday I knew there'd be a big transient population of people from out of town who would know nothing of the events on Hunting Bear Path.
A cab got us to the station early. There was just under an hour to fill, so I made the most of it shopping for items I'd be needing for the reconnaissance of the PIRA office, besides the stuff I'd already bought at Wal-Mart. Now that Kelly had recognized the black guy, the only option was to get in there and have a look around.
I bought a Polaroid camera and six packs of film; a pair of cheap and nasty polyester coveralls, more rolls of gaffer's tape and Scotch tape; heavy-duty scissors that promised I could cut through a shiny new penny with them; a Leatherman, a tool that's a bit like a Swiss Army knife; running shoes; rubber gloves; batteries; Saran Wrap; a plastic bottle of orange juice with a large spout; a box of push pins; a dozen eggs; and a quartz kitchen clock, nine inches in diameter. Kelly looked at it all and raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask.
By 1:40 I had a couple of shopping bags full of gear, as well as the books and time-wasters I'd had to put in her basket to keep her involved.
I remembered the beautiful tiled floor in the entrance hall, but I'd forgotten the cathedral ceilings. In the middle was a rotunda with a newsstand and groups of tables outside.
Above it, reached by a flight of stairs, was a restaurant. It was absolutely perfect for what I needed.
We were greeted at the top by a waitress.
I smiled.
'Table for two, please.'
I pointed to a table right at the back.
'Can we have that one?'
We sat down, and I put the bags under the table. I couldn't see the main entrance, but I'd be able to see Pat heading toward the coffee shop because that was farther into the main part of the station and up a level.
The waitress came to take our drink order. I asked for two Cokes and said, 'I'm ready to order now, if that's all right?
We'll take a nine-inch pizza.'
Kelly looked up.
'Can we have extra mushrooms?'
I nodded at the waitress and she left.
Kelly smiled.
'Mommy and me both like extra mushrooms. Daddy says we're like forest pixies!' She smiled again, wanting a reaction.
'That's nice,' I said. This was a conversation that needed nipping in the bud.
Kelly got stuck into her Coke, enjoying being able to watch real people for a change.
Pat was early, wearing the same clothes as a VDM visual distinguishing mark. Either that or the fucker simply hadn't changed. As he walked past and below me, something about him didn't seem right. There was a very slight stagger in his stride, and I knew it hadn't come from drinking too much beer. I feared the worst.
I continued my checks, covering his back to protect my own.
I gave it about five minutes, got up, and said to Kelly, 'I have to go to the men's room. I won't be long.' On the way out I asked the waitress to keep an eye on Kelly and our bags.
Another set of doors took me into the main ticketing and train area. The place was heaving; half of the USA must have been on the move. Even the air-conditioning was finding it too much: the combination of heat and humidity from the people made it feel like a greenhouse. I joined the packed crowds slowly shuffling up to the top floor.
He was in line at the coffee shop, about three or four people ahead of him. Very hale and hearty, I went over and slapped him on the back.
'Pat! What are you doing here?'
Reciprocating my big smile, he said, 'I'm here to meet somebody.' His pupils were as big as saucers.
'Me, too. You got time for a Mickey D's?'
'Yeah, yeah, why not?'
We started to walk beyond the coffee shop, following exit signs through automatic doors, and took the escalator up to the multi story parking garage.
Pat was a step or two above. He looked down at me, puzzled.
'What the fuck's a Mickey D's?'
'McDonald's,' I said, as if he should have known. But then he didn't have a seven-year-old on his case day and night.
'Come on, Pat, get with the program!'
He started to do a Michael Jackson moon dance
By now we were nearly at the bus station level. I said, 'If there's a drama, I'm going to the bus station area, turning right and out an exit.'
'Fine. No problem!' He sounded OK but looked like shit.
