Shadow Box (24 page)

I was about to leave when I noticed a letter under my door. A hotel envelope, probably containing details of that night’s menu or cleaning services, I thought. I opened it and found a handwritten note. The writing was poor, in looping capitals:

What the…?! I sat down again, my heart in my mouth. Read and reread the note. The tone was not threatening, but neither was it over-friendly. I didn’t have any friends in New York, old or otherwise. “Old friend” was the kind of thing they said in
Doctor Who
or Sherlock Holmes stories.

Had Sharpie put someone on my case already? Fast work if he had.

I looked at the map. The East Village and Avenue A would only be about fifteen minutes’ walk from the hotel.

Kelly’s Bar. There had to be something in that.

I didn’t want to go. Also, Simon Sharp had told me to wait for his word, so I decided I would follow his instructions.

Five minutes later I changed my mind, the old phrase “curiosity killed the cat” running through my mind.

I turned the corner into West 8th Street, magnetically drawn towards the East Village. I decided that I would check out Kelly’s Bar. It would still be a good couple of hours before the suggested meeting.

I crossed Broadway, checked the map and walked across Astor Place and on to St Mark’s Place, where the street became narrower and tree-lined. It felt a little safer, more like London in scale, and I continued until the junction with Avenue A.

There was a park opposite Tompkins Square. I walked in and strolled along the path under the trees, parallel to the street, until, across the road, I could see the arched door of Kelly’s, complete with the green, white and orange Irish flag.

I decided to sit and wait.

By 5 p.m. I was bored stupid. I had seen few people come and go from the bar. I walked around the park, watched kids playing basketball and toyed with the idea of going back to the hotel, the butterflies in my stomach building. I was getting cold feet.

At 5.30 p.m. a few more punters started to go into Kelly’s. I didn’t recognize any of them. Then it occurred to me that if I was to arrive early and find myself a quiet corner, I might steal a march on my “old friend”, whoever he might be. I could always work out an escape route if it went wrong.

I went across the road and, after checking the windows, pushed the central door open.

A large TV screen at the end of the bar played a silent baseball game. It was dark. Good. Squeezing between a couple of big men wearing baseball caps, I ordered a Bud.

I found a booth hidden in the shade of the bar and watched the door. Like someone in an old movie, I picked up a sports paper and pretended to read it, bringing it up to eye level when any new customer entered.

Ten minutes later, the door opened and I raised the paper again. I peeped over as the man scanned the bar and went to order a drink. Lit by the overhead lights, I recognized him. I now knew who my “old friend” was.

And I didn’t like it one bit.

The plane began its descent into New York.

Donnie had finally relinquished his grip on Marcie’s hand, but she continued to pat his, resting on the seat arm, as the captain apologized for the turbulent flight and thanked them for flying with American Airlines. The sense of relief in the whole cabin was palpable. A bonhomie born of fear had struck up and engendered conversations and connections that would never otherwise have taken place. People chatted and exchanged phone numbers, all the while praising cabin staff for their calmness. Free drinks were circulated once the storm had passed, and Donnie had swallowed a large brandy with shaking hands and then drunk Marcie’s, too.

The cabin staff had been attentive, helping Marcie calm Donnie, bringing him water as his body shook and sweated with fear and he struggled for breath. He seemed to have had some kind of crisis or panic attack. The biggest, scariest looking man on the flight had also been the most scared of dying.

“There we go,” Marcie said. “Nearly there. I told you we would be fine.”

“Thank you,” was the best Donnie could muster.

“But Donnie, I get a strong feeling from you. A strong sense of sadness. I think you are a good man, but there have been many bad things in your life.”

Donnie looked sideways at Marcie.

“Yeah?”

“I sense a loneliness, and I don’t know why you’re coming to New York, but I think you will be lonely here, and sad, too, unless you make some changes. You were so scared back there, so alone. I’m glad I was here for you. You need to make your peace with God and he will always be by your side.”

Donnie considered.

“Will he?”

“He will.” She grasped Donnie’s hand again and looked at him. “I see a beautiful girl, maybe your daughter?”

“Donna?” Donnie never really considered his daughter beautiful. He couldn’t see beyond the nose piercing and dyed black hair.

“Blonde.”

Not Donna.

“And a young man, lonely, like you. Look after the girl, Donnie. Look after them both.”

Donnie began to sweat again as he digested Marcie’s words and felt the bump of the undercarriage lowering.

“Nearly over,” she said, and seconds later they were on the runway.

Donnie helped Marcie down with her bags from the overhead locker. She took a card from her purse and handed it to him. It had pink edges.

Donnie struggled to read the kooky font on the card. He tucked it into his top pocket.

“Don’t you go losing that, Donnie,” Marcie said, patting his chest. “My number’s on the back, so if you’re ever stuck in New York, or just need to talk, you know where I am.”

Donnie muttered shame-faced thanks, then walked slowly along the walkway to passport control. He had barely been able to squeeze his shoes back on at the end of the flight; his feet had swollen, and they hurt. He heard a rumble behind him and quickened his pace, paranoid on foreign ground. The rumble came closer and he realized that it was the wheels of a case being pulled along. Another few seconds and Marcie Kahan was back at his side.

“Whoa, Donnie. Where did you get to?” she puffed. “I musta lost you back there.”

She wittered on about dos and don’ts in New York, how much Donnie should tip a cab and the best place for a salt beef sandwich, until they reached immigration.

“I guess this is where we say our goodbyes,” she said finally, joining the queue of US citizens and pointing Donnie at the sign that read
Aliens.
“I’d offer you a ride into the City, but my sister’s collecting me and she only has a tiny Yaris.”

“I’ll be fine,” Donnie assured her. “Thank you.”

Marcie reached up on tip-toes and planted a lipsticky kiss on Donnie’s cheek.

“Remember, Donnie, put your faith in the Lord.” She patted his chest.

Donnie watched as his travelling companion waddled off to US passport control, dragging her wide load and her trolley case behind her. His shakiness was beginning to lessen, but, as he disappeared into the queue, he felt the unfamiliar catch in his throat again.

The man at the bar was one of the last people I expected or wanted to see in New York, or anywhere else. He was dressed like a construction worker in a sweatshirt, worn jeans, boots and a Dodgers baseball cap. Dark-haired, black stubble. Looked hard as nails.

I slid back in my seat while he ordered, worked out my escape route. I was not going to hang around.

His back was still to me as I stood, and I decided that a straightforward walk to the door would attract the least attention.

Then he turned.

“Kieran?” he said, putting an arm out to stop me. “I’m Michael. It’s been a while. I’ll get you a drink, but I warn you, the Guinness is shite here.”

He presented two bottles of Rolling Rock and pointed me back to where I had been sitting. We sat down.

“Cheers for coming,” he said. “I thought the name of this bar would raise your curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I said. He smiled.

And I found myself clinking bottles with Paul Dolan.

“So how long have you been here?” He sounded exactly like his brother, Martin.

“Not long,” I said, cagey as a schoolboy caught shoplifting.

“Anything interesting?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve been cooped up in a hotel. Jet lag.”

“Who knows you’re there?”

“You do.” I wasn’t going to give a thing away.

“Tony Morris? What about your case officer?”

“How did
you
know?” I asked.

“I didn’t get to where I am today by dishing up everything I know straight off the bat, did I?” He grinned and winked at me, just as he had on the marshes a couple of years back, the night he and Tommy got pulled in.

“Tony Morris? Sure,” I said. “He sent me here.”

Dolan clearly knew plenty. Pointless denying it. At least it would let him know I was protected. All the time I was talking my mind was racing, trying to work out whether it had been Tony or Sharp who had told Dolan where I was, and why. And, more importantly, whether or not I could trust him.

Dolan chuckled.

“If you take my advice, you’ll move as soon as possible. If I can find you, then other people can. You know what it’s like in this work, you stay still too long and you’re a sitting duck.”

“I don’t know where else to go.”

“I know a few places,” he said. “Bet your case officer told you to stay put as long as possible?”

I shrugged but didn’t deny it.

“’Course he did,” Dolan said. “They always want you where they can keep an eye on you. It’s all about control. They want you in your place until they pull your strings and then you dance off into the next sticky situation. You’re a puppet.”

I had to agree. This man was nothing like the Irish thug I had seen working for the Kelly firm in London a couple of years before, the thug who was known for his expertise in kneecapping and extreme violence. This Dolan was affable, as warm as his brother Martin had been steely cold.

“You need to be your own man in this game, Kieran,” Dolan said. “The feckers you’re working for mess you about just as much as the ones you’re working against.”

His view chimed with my own and, against my better instincts, I felt myself warm to Paul Dolan.

“Listen, there’s plenty of stuff I want to talk to you about,” he said. “But not here. Let’s finish our drinks and then we can go somewhere else. Somewhere quiet.”

I checked myself. I was being suckered in by blarney charm. Somewhere quiet would probably mean a bullet in the back of the head in the park opposite; another statistic on New York’s daily list of shootings.

“I’m OK here,” I told him.

“Sure.” He wasn’t pushing it. “So how did you find your way to New York?”

“I got on the plane in Manchester and seven hours later, there it was.”

“Didn’t know you were a wise guy,” he said.