scenario. Chick gives guy head while they're waiting for the shooting to start.
What the hell is it with these people?
He heard the door slam and knew she was gone.
He crawled around the edge of the sofa and quick-peeked. Chair was empty. The guy was backing toward the door, difficult because his pants were still down around his ankles, swinging the gun side to side at waist level. This wasn't turning out right, his look said. He saw Stoke's face appear for a split second and put another burst into the sofa, shredding Stoke's beautiful leather furniture to pieces.
You can mess with me, Stoke thought, but not with my furniture. That really pisses me off. He shouted at the guy from behind the sofa.
'Pull your damn pants up, asshole, and tell me why you were getting a blow job in my favorite chair without even being invited in.'
Another burst, high and into the ceiling. Stoke peeked around the side. Saw the sweaty three-hundred-pound guy frantically reaching around behind him for the doorknob still at least five feet behind his fat ass, waddling backward like a goddamn duck with his pants down. Wasn't pretty.
Stoke called out, 'Here I come, chubby, ready or not.'
He popped up at the opposite end of the couch and put two rounds in the guy, one in each knee. Fat Boy screamed and collapsed to the floor. Hearing the MAC-10 clattering on his beautiful parquet floor, Stoke, seriously angry now, yanked his ruined sofa backward toward him and leaped right over the thing. He was squatting on top of the fat man with his gun in his face in less than two seconds.
At that moment two cops in black Kevlar outfits took the door down, putting their guns on Stoke, saying, 'Police! Freeze, asshole! Drop the gun! Now!'
Stoke accidentally dropped his SIG on the fat guy's face and backed away. The cops looked at the half-naked limp-dick white man on the floor, then up at the huge black guy in the New York Jets sweatshirt.
'This ain't exactly what it looks like, Officers,' Stoke said, putting his hands up.
'This is Miami, asshole,' the older cop said. 'It's always exactly what it looks like.'
TWENTY-FOUR
ALEX HAWKE AND AMBROSE CONGREVE HAD flown Hawke's plane across the Irish Sea, arriving in Northern Ireland at the tiny airport at Sligo. Very tiny. Only two flights a day, one to Dublin, one from Dublin. They had driven by hired car almost due north to the tiny fishing village of Mullaghmore, stopping briefly at a small inn for a Plowman's lunch and a chance for Ambrose to get on the telephone and arrange for tonight's meeting.
They now walked through the heavy rain past The Pennywhistle pub to the end of the Mullaghmore town's wooden dock.
There they paused, looking down at the choppy black water. It was a dark, blustery night, and the scattered lights of the little fishing village shone like halos through the mist on the surrounding hillside. At the top of the hill behind them, Lord Mountbatten's Classiebawn Castle was a looming, dark presence.
'This is it, then,' Congreve said, shining his flashlight into the dark water. 'Shadow V was moored right here, the night before the murder. Usually she was moored to one of those buoys over there near the shore, but Mountbatten had ordered her moved right here to the dock that afternoon.'
'So they could get an early start pulling pots next morning,' Hawke mused.
'Precisely.'
Hawke looked over his shoulder, down the glistening length of the dock to the noisy Pennywhistle. 'So the bomber carried a fifty-pound bomb the length of this dock? Past the pub? Even on a dark night that would carry considerable risk of discovery.'
'True. That is why we surmised he arrived at the crime scene via hired boat. From Sligo most likely, as it's the nearest harbor. Much less conspicuous, a boat, especially at night. Simply come alongside the Shadow V, his confederates drop him off, he climbs right aboard Mountbatten's vessel with his package. The hired boat, an anonymous fishing vessel, steams away, never to be seen again. The killer plants the bomb in the bait well with the lobster pots and disappears down the dock and up into the woods.'
'Makes sense.'
'There's an old Norman watchtower up there. Splendid view of the entire bay. I'll show it to you in the morning. We found reason to believe he slept there. Bits of day-old food, cigarette stubs, a book of matches. Sleeps on the ground, wakes up at dawn, and climbs to the top. Follows Mountbatten's movements with binoculars all next morning from atop the tower. That's where the killer, whoever he was, detonated the bomb, in my opinion.'
'That was in your official report?'
'It was indeed. Seen enough?' Ambrose said, rain streaming down his face.
'Yes. Let's go have a pint and see if your old friend has decided in our favor.'
Ambrose, upon entering the pub and shedding his macintosh, saw his man standing at the far end of the long bar, staring into the smoky mirror, raising a glass of whiskey to his lips.
'There he is,' Congreve said to Hawke. 'End of the bar. White-haired fellow.'
Hawke nodded, staring at the man. He'd never expected him to come.
'You never cease to amaze me, Constable.'
'I have hidden powers of persuasion. I keep them folded in my breast pocket. Get them from the Bank of England. May I suggest you take that table in the corner by the window? I think it best I have a word with him alone. Complete our financial transaction without causing him any embarrassment. Then we'll join you.'
Hawke sat, staring at the raindrops running down the window and the hazy harbor lights beyond, letting his friend conduct his business in privacy. A pretty barmaid agreed to bring him a pint of Guinness and he sipped it slowly, not knowing how long this evening might last.
Ten minutes later, Congreve appeared with a gaunt, white-haired man, tall and stooped, with very sad eyes.
'Alex, this is Thomas McMahon.'
Hawke got to his feet and shook the man's gnarled hand, looking him in the eye. 'Mr. McMahon, thank you for coming. I'm sure this can't be pleasant for you. Won't you sit down? Another whiskey?'
The man convicted of the murder of Lord Mountbatten nodded his assent and sat down, staring in stony silence at the scarred and battered tabletop. He was in his eighties and looked every day of it. Broken blood vessels made a map of his cheeks and long thin nose. His eyes were pale blue and watery. His hands trembled. A man who had traveled a hard road and seen more than enough of it.
Ambrose took the other chair and signaled the barmaid over.
'Three whiskeys, please,' he said, pushing his chair back to accommodate his rather expansive midriff. Then he said to McMahon, 'Tom, Alex and I are old friends. He bears you no ill will for events in the past. We've come to Ireland to find answers to some old questions, that's all. We'd be extremely grateful for any help you can give us.'
'I'll say what I know. No more. I ain't a tout.'
'That is all we ask,' Hawke said gently.
'I went to bloody prison for a crime I dinna commit.'
'The jury thought otherwise, Tom,' Ambrose said, putting a quieting hand on the old fellow's trembling forearm. 'Based on the evidence presented.'
'The jury was wrong. And so were you, damn you!' he said, raising his voice and peering fiercely into Congreve's eyes.
Clearly the man had started drinking much earlier in the day.
Congreve kept his tone under control. 'That is entirely possible. I did the best I could. It's all any man can do.'
'Ah! You admit you may have been wrong, then, Detective Inspector?'
'I admit mistakes may have been made during the investigation and the trial. That's all I will say.'
