companion. “But an ice queen.” Yeah, that helped. Saugherty poked around the condo, marveling at the appliances and utensils. The owner of the place, some guy named Feldman, even had a set of Tenmijurakus sitting on the counter. Swank.
It was getting to be that time, and the Percocets he got at the hospital were starting to lose their luster, so Saugherty found the appropriate cabinet, appropriated the appropriate bottle, then sequestered himself in the guest bathroom, near the entrance. Nothing fancy—just a bottle of Johnnie Walker. But when he closed the door behind him, Saugherty realized he’d hit the fucking lottery. It was Johnnie Walker
He unscrewed the cap and breathed in the smoky aroma through his nose. It was almost a contact high.
There was a dispenser of small plastic Dixie cups on the bathroom sink. Saugherty plucked one off the stack and poured himself a tall one, almost to the brim. This was not something to be sucked from the bottle, nor cut with tap water. Presentation was one thing.
The taste was everything else.
Saugherty sat on the closed toilet, in a frayed blazer not his own, drinking some incredibly fine Scotch that was not his own, either. For having woken up in a hospital bed and been grilled by humorless jackasses from Internal Affairs, he thought he was doing all right.
He let the liquid pleasantly burn down into his stomach, and felt the attitude-adjustment mechanisms turning in his brain. He lifted his face to heaven, by way of thanking God.
As his head returned to its usual forward-facing position, Saugherty spotted it.
The bathroom closet door, slightly ajar.
Saugherty didn’t go to it right away. He wanted to finish the Scotch in his Dixie cup first, because he knew what he was going to find in there. The lead he needed. And once he found it, he would be leaving the bathroom, and tracking down more leads, and eventually, tracking down his money.
The morning had been so charmed, how could it be otherwise?
Ten minutes later, the bathroom closet yielded a small black suitcase. Which yielded a set of women’s clothing and toiletries. And beneath that, identification and a passport.
Hiya, Katie Elizabeth Selway.
“
“Mary, Mother of God,” she said, sighing.
“You’re not gonna tell me?”
“Yes, I’m going to tell you. But this isn’t how I’d planned it.”
“Ah. Right. Puerto Rico. He supposed to meet us there?”
“He’s there right now.”
“And why aren’t you there now?”
“I got worried.”
Lennon leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. Katie was a few feet away, reclining on the mattress.
He didn’t want to say it, but he’d told her a million times: no matter what, even if I’m arrested, don’t come looking for me. I can take care of myself. That was Rule Number One. That had always been Rule Number One, ever since Lennon had reunited with his sister, and confessed to her what he did for a living. But Katie wasn’t much for rules.
“Do I know him?”
“No … not really.”
“So I fookin’ do know him. What’s his name?”
“Oh, Patrick.”
“His first name, at least.”
“You know, this
“Yeah, so did I.”
They sat there in silence. Mulling things over. Waiting for the doctor to arrive. Sunlight was starting to creep around the cheap fabric window shades.
“I’m going to have to find that money,” Lennon said, at long last.
“Why?”
“You’re going to need a crib.”
“Michael has … shit.”
“Michael? Fucking Michael who?”
Lennon spun through his mental Rolodex of pro heisters, but nothing came to mind. Common enough name, Michael. But he really didn’t know any. At least, he hadn’t worked with any Michaels in the past few years. Had he? Unless it was that … nah. Couldn’t be.
“Okay. Last name.”
“Never you mind. Keep your mind on the money. You hate being distracted in the middle of a job, remember?”
“Too fookin’ late for that.”
“Come on, Patrick. Don’t be a shithead. We can just walk away. Last time I balanced the checkbook, we were doing okay. This money was for the future.”
“I have more immediate needs.”
“Like what?”
“Like I need $350,000 to pay for this house and torn-up suit I’m wearing.”
“It’s a nice suit, but I think you paid too much for the house.”
Lennon chuckled, in spite of himself. It broke the dam. He could be himself with his sister. She was the only person in the world he felt comfortable around.
So he told her everything that had happened since Friday morning—the double cross, the attempted burial at the pipe down by the river, the dorm, the car theft, the rogue cop, the gunshot wound, the threats, the black guys with guns, the burning house, the 7-Eleven heist, the parking lot, the meeting with the junior-grade Mafioso, the deal, the trip to Wilcoxson’s condo … .
Lennon lapsed into Gaelic every so often, but Katie understood enough to follow. She had grown up in the U.S., and had a faint New England accent. Lennon had spent most of his time in Listowel, and then Dublin, before emigrating to the U.S., mostly to find his sister. Their parents had died years before.
“If you want the money, there’s one thing you have to do.”
“What’s that?” Lennon asked.
“Go back to the pipe, and see who’s buried there.”
“You’re thinking of Bling.”
“I’m thinking of Bling.”
Lennon sighed. “I’m not sure what I want more—to find his body, or not to find his body.”
“I think you want to find his body.”
That’s when the doorbell rang. Dr. Bartholomew Dovaz was back for the second time in a twelve-hour period.
“I’ll get it,” Lennon said. “But as soon as he leaves, you’re telling me which Michael defiled you.”
Things happened quickly after that.
