A reason to kill, p.26
A Reason To Kill, page 26
~~~
They had been late. Only a few minutes, just long enough so he was left with the certainty he was waiting on them. Intentional, he guessed, so when they dropped this shit on him he’d feel the peon. Swearing under his breath, Hanlon slammed a palm into the tabletop. The action made no impression on his guests aggravating him all the more. “We had a done deal. Why the hold out?”
“Mr. Hanlon.” The man spoke English tainted by a thick Semitic accent. “The whole world suffers from inflation. It touches even us.” He held up empty hands.
“Sure,” Hanlon said as he poured himself a drink. Deliberately he offered the bottle, which he knew would be refused. He never offered anything else for he felt that their phony sobriety was just part of the act to increase their importance. Alone, he imagined, they cut the edge like any other man.
Sipping the whiskey, he studied the olive faces that he knew from past encounters would remain blank while he presented his argument. “Suppose to be aiding one another,” he said.
Covered in a surface smile the taller Arab’s words were blunt. “In what manner can you help us?”
“With friends in high places.”
“Who benefit few other than themselves?” There was no lift to his voice as the Arab continued. “You are not so juvenile as to believe otherwise? Even religious men who plead, eat fish not beef so the poor might eat also, enjoy a thick steak.”
Hanlon grunted, “The greater the cause the larger the profits?”
“Mr. Hanlon.” The Arab’s tone remained solemn. “Pardon, you, no doubt, are cold, hungry, and lack a comfortable bed?”
Heat touched Hanlon’s cheeks. For a youth who once traded a single sport coat and two pairs of trousers for prison garb, he had quickly developed a fondness for natural fibers and well-crafted clothing. He tapped out a cigarette, offered the pack knowing they would decline, and lied. “Can’t go that low on my own. Have to get new authorization.”
The shorter, fatter, Arab lacked the limitless patience of his leaner companion. He reminded, “The deal was to be concluded tonight. We had your word.”
“You’re changing the deal, not me.”
“It’s not so much—a small difference. Holding explosives can be more of a problem than a perishable commodity.”
Hanlon shrugged as he said, “Your fault, your problem, if you’d kept to the original deal.”
“It was not possible.”
The taller Arab, with a vague lift of his eyebrows, halted his companion’s angry retort. “Mr. Hanlon,” he said. “We warned you it was not a set price. You knew it might be less. You were agreeable then?”
“Hell! Few pounds one way or another we talked about. Now you go throwing boxcar numbers at me. I have a payroll to meet. You think I can move your stuff without hefty payoffs?” Hanlon didn’t have to refuse. Normally he wouldn’t. But earlier, Jock had accused. ‘Always they do the talkin’ the tellin’ while you sit with your finger up your arse—Must be ‘cause that usually makes more sense than your mouth and I hear nothin’ making noise.’
Hanlon freshened his own drink and again offered the bottle. This was again refused.
The taller Arab appeared to realize the Irishman was bent on being difficult. “It grows late,” he said as he put effort into rising. “You make your necessary calls tonight as will we. Perhaps tomorrow we can reach an agreement?”
“Try my best.” Hanlon lied fully aware they lied too. Tomorrow he would arrange what they wanted, and maybe gain a few thousand pounds over what they offered tonight.
Chapter 47
London, England, 1983
Hanlon had barely locked the door behind the Arabs’ retreating backs, when he heard the bawled, “Warned ya, I did.”
A grin tucked safely inside, Hanlon slipped into the darkened room. Aided by light from the hall, he eased the relic out of the old man’s hands. He handled the ancient gun cautiously. He propped it in its perfect print outlined on the dusty wall. Then he lent an arm to Jock.
“Told ya I did. Hold ya up, they did.” Joints invaded by arthritis often required the old man to lean on stronger limbs. “You’re a smart ass, ya are. If I’d not been listenin’ you’d of let ‘em cheat us. You go sprucing up like you’re courtin’.” Being forced to allow the younger male to help him to his bed irritated the proud man and caused him to be all the more abusive.
Hanlon untied Jock’s heavy work boots, pulling them off. Now Jock’s voice took on a whine as he switched to a different subject. “Fine lookin’ lass that Sally. Make a man a fine wife.”
Aware, when Jock got started on that subject he didn’t easily let up, Hanlon only mumbled a garbled reply and fled to the safety of his own room.
But sleep eluded him and Hanlon tossed restlessly on the sweat-dampened sheet as he worried, if the Arabs didn’t return, how he would explain his actions to Tom Devlin. Nervously he massaged his temples as he contemplated. Hell, it wasn’t like Devlin had any interest in the deal itself. Devlin never listened much to what he told him about arrangements or finances. Devlin’s only concern was the contacts Hanlon was able to establish within the Arab and Indian communities. His moving illegal merchandise was foraging partnerships that would prove beneficial to Devlin somewhere down the line. Tom had confided that much but no more. What the plans were, how these contacts were going to be useful in some far greater scope, Hanlon had no clue.
~~~
Though several hours had passed, time seemed to stand still. Hanlon grumbled to himself. Not even close on summer and already the fuckin’ city’s like an oven. Damn the old miser. He contemplated the bitch the old man would throw if he purchased a long desired air-conditioner. Jock kept close track of the household expenses; an increase in electricity could bring on another stroke.
The fan. Hanlon smiled remembering the fuss it caused. After only an hour’s use it sat collecting dust in the parlor. Quietly he rose. Moving on tiptoe by Jock’s slightly open door, like a criminal afraid of detection, he continued on in the dark. Then he located the fan by stubbing his toes against it and had to suppress an urge to yelp.
Soon, with it safely installed in his room, he lay enjoying the sensations as the cool breeze tickled his flesh and he started to relax.
Attractive, he mused as Sally came to mind, yet not overly pretty. Normally Hanlon didn’t appreciate fair-skinned light-blondes—finding them either frighteningly beautiful or coarse. Sandra Thorn was neither. Jock had dubbed her ‘Sally’ and the name suited her. Sally had Hanlon imagining a bubbly little creature with laughing blue eyes and a turned up nose; Sandra Thorn fitted that picture.
His memory slid back to the prior month.
~~~
He had brought the old man home from a ten day hospital stint where he’d decided he couldn’t be left alone anymore. He had hired the young woman over the loud protest of the patient.
Hanlon had gone out for a few hours and on returning he heard Sandra Thorn softly singing in the kitchen. The tone left something to be desired yet it was pleasant and the singing confirmed nothing too drastic had taken place in his absence.
She welcomed his entrance with a smile and the knowledge. “I’m just finishing up the supper. Your pa’s resting.” The smile widened as she added, “Mind, didn’t he take my Paddy to lie down with him and aren’t they both asleep.” She had yet to turn on the electric light and the late afternoon sunlight gave the room a relaxing effect; a slight breeze from the open windows added freshness to the air.
“Can I fetch you some tea?” She offered.
But Hanlon, not quite convinced by her tale, shrugged off the offer and went to check on Jock. He found the old man lying in a contented snore. Curled at his side, a small arm lying on Jock’s chest was attached to a miniature body. Fighting an urge to laugh out loud, Hanlon returned to the kitchen and assured the woman. “Mrs. Thorn, I believe you are going to do just fine. I’ll be after having that tea.” She rewarded him with dark sweet tea and in gratitude he inquired, “Did you find your room suitable?”
“Mrs. Hennessey a luv. Only the lad and myself, it will do us fine.” She set thickly powdered soda bread and a pot of whipped butter before him. “Would you be after eating a bit of stew or wait ‘til your pa wakes?”
Though the aroma coming from the direction of the stove had his mouth watering, he motioned haphazardly. “Might as well eat. Jock’s been spoilt with hospital—likes his supper on a tray. I’ll tend to him later.”
Placing a heaping bowl in front of the grateful male, Sandra repeated an earlier apology. “Shouldn’t be bringing the child with me; but I’ve found no one to tend him.”
Hanlon only shrugged as if the problem wasn’t a problem as he worked greedily at the thick stew.
“Your pa was a luv,” Sandra went on. “Took to my Paddy like he was his own grandbaby. Told me I’m not to be leavin’ the boy behind.”
~~~
Old phony, Hanlon thought now, remembering the stink Jock raised when he heard the woman was bringing her child. Hanlon stretched his naked body out on the comfortable new mattress he’d had delivered while Jock was laid up in hospital. The breeze from the fan caused goose bumps to pucker his flesh. The rough skin of old scars stood out prominently. Tracing their ropy surface, he soon settled for playing with the top of one that ran from his hip to the edge of his calf.
Throw away a clean deal, he worried anew, Devlin will bust my balls. A free reign I’ve had so far. Devlin finds out how really stupid I am and things will change. I’ll be finished! Because of my pride. Because of an old fart. Lad, you’re an ass, he chastised himself. The old bloke is just a bought and paid for flunky—cover for Rory Hanlon. The woman, a glorified maid; toss her a few extra bob she’d roll on her back in a hurry. His hand moved up where a scar now throbbed below his right nipple. He fingered it down his chest to his belly. A swelling in his groin rose up to slap against his leg. His tongue darted in and out of a mouth gone suddenly dry. He remembered how Sally’s breasts barely made a wrinkle in her blouse; wondered if it was only the fullness of the material. He didn’t like to look at heavy breasted women; they embarrassed him because they made him think of his ma.
He formed a picture in his mind of Sally’s small bottom as she bent to retrieve an item she dropped. The flesh of his own lean buttocks pulled tight against the bones while his groin continued to heat and swell. Suddenly he rolled on his belly rubbing briskly into his fine new mattress. In fantasy, Sandra Thorn wiggled beneath him; the sharp points of her small breasts stabbed into his chest; the scent of her hair tickled his nostrils; her soft thighs encased his hips. “not Sandra,” he groaned, “Sally,” and experienced fingers brought about the only release he’d ever known…
Then over the hum of the fan Hanlon could just barely hear that sound of shallow breathing. Someone was in his room. Wasting no energy on speculation, he remained on his belly, pretending sleep as he listened.
A shuffle! Indistinct movement!
His hand crawled slowly beneath his pillow. His fingers curled around the grip of the gun. Quickly drawing his legs into his belly, Hanlon twisted off the mattress to land on his knees on the opposite side of the bed, away from the door, and stared up at the danger. He shoved the gun back under the pillow.
Yellowed by the morning sun peeking through the window, a round timid face sported unblinking blue eyes that stared back at the man. A middle finger was stuck in the villain’s mouth while its mates rested on either side of a pug nose.
Swearing under his breath, Hanlon growled, “Take your finger out of your mouth and yourself out that door.”
“Papa?”
“Papa, hell, go find your ma.”
Suddenly realizing the mother was likely to come hunting her youngster, Hanlon became aware of his naked state. He yanked a sheet from the bed to wrap around his waist. “Go find your ma,” he ordered again while attempting to struggle into his britches beneath the draped sheet.
“Papa?”
“Shit!” He nipped himself with the zipper in his haste.
“Nasty boy!” Sandra Thorn hurried in to grab up the child from behind.
“You’re not to be bothering Mr. Quinn. I’m sorry he woke you.”
“Papa,” was sniffled.
“Shush!” She blushed a bright pink. “Sorry. He’s of a mind to call any man he sees that.”
Sandra scooped up the small carcass whose legs angrily beat the air while it howled, “DOWN! WANT DOWN!” He was able to make himself quite clear around the chewed finger.
Watching the struggle brought easy laughter. “Determined little bugger. Let him be. He’s not bothering me.” Then Hanlon added, “But if you please. Well, I’d like to finish dressing.”
Her flush deepened and releasing her son, Sandra fled while the man shook his head in surprise. “Ain’t like I was standing here naked,” he complained to boy as he pulled on his shirt. Then he glanced down just as the near infant was about to inspect the spinning blades of the fan. Grabbing him, he plopped the small body on the bed with a warning. “You about to lose the rest of them fingers.” He yanked the one being chewed out of the child’s mouth.
Wiggling his rump on to his chubby hands the boy giggled, “Papa?”
“Homely little beast you are. Sure, I’d not be wanting to claim you.” Hanlon sat down next to the boy rumpling the tawny hair. The child squirmed closer as he watched the man don his socks and shoes.
“What do they call you?”
“Paddy ‘ats my ‘ame,”
“Sure, and a fine name it is,” Hanlon said. “My own daddy’s name.” And he thought I’ve a damn brother with that name. Standing, he offered, “You want a pony ride?”
Paddy’s head bobbed up and down.
He lifted the small creature and settling him on his shoulders and warned, “Keep your head down.” Still, he bent low to clear the doorframe. While he bounced Paddy Thorn, he decided, I’ll give Tom an early call. Tell him the deals set. Damn ‘em if they don’t come back I’ll lay the blame on them—claim the Arabs chickened out. Tom Devlin’s not one to be calling Rory Hanlon a liar.
He chuckled with pleasure as his young parasite squealed in his ear, “‘aster! ‘aster!”
Chapter 48
Southern Ireland, 1983
The restless waters that separated the two islands had never been more than an uncomfortable, sometimes dangerous, boat ride. With the onset of aviation it became only a quick hop by plane.
That same morning, the auto that spun into a parking lot in Dublin splattered gravel as it came to a sudden halt. David Martin spotted it and broke into a run.
Seamus O’Donnell was already out of the car before Martin could reach it, necessitating the yelled. “Seamus! Hold up!”
O’Donnell slowed but kept moving towards his intended destination. Forty-eight hours, he cursed to himself, I’ve done what they said. We’ll find the lad, Jacky Walsh promised, then nothing.
“No need to go in there.” Martin reached him and was indicating towards the station house.
“You found him?”
“Sure, more like he found me. Now ease off, go back to the car. I don’t care for the way those lads are eyeballing us.”
Several policemen had stepped from the rear of the station and were watching the duo. As the officers started their advance, Martin growled under his breath, “Shit, get back to the car.”
Casting a glance at the converging constables, O’Donnell waved and said loud enough for them to hear. “Davy? Sorry I’m late. You been waiting long? Take my car,” brought a halt to the advancing Gardaí. Already circling the car as O’Donnell slid behind the wheel, Martin kept his head intentionally turned, allowing the police only a tilted side view of his features.
O’Donnell’s, “How did you know to be here?”
It drew a chilly response from Martin. “Damn! Haven’t we covered every conceivable place this side of the border when we couldn’t ring you. You cost us some worry, man. What set you off this time? The lad’s hurting.”
“My business! Hurting—How bad?”
“My guess it’s more inside then out but you marked him up some.”
“Where is he?”
“Just hold on, Seamus, lad told me he’s near eighteen—time he was on his own.”
“Barely sixteen,” Seamus corrected, “and I’ll give him his own!”
“Didn’t tell me it was you gave him the hammerin’. Claimed he was in a scrap. Ashamed, I’d guess. Why not let the lad cool down? I’ll keep him safe and well fed.” Martin’s clipped off laugh had a nasty ring. “He wants I should get him a job.”
“Job?” O’Donnell snorted. “Lucky he can wipe his own ass.”
“Seamus, what can it hurt? I’ll see he works his tail off. Week, two, he’ll have had enough. You’ll have him home and he’ll be some the wiser.”
“No! I’ll not have him in Ulster!”
“Come on. Things are quiet right now. And it’s me who will be seein’ to him. Besides, you haven’t a choice.”
O’Donnell slammed on the brakes. He turned in the seat, his face flushing with anger. “What in hell do you mean?”
“Gave my word I’d not be telling where he’s at.”
“Oh—You’ll tell, lad.”
Martin answered. “If I break my word to him, you force him home, he’ll only run again. He won’t be safe with me and others could find use for Seamus O’Donnell’s nephew.”
The truth of those words, made O’Donnell slump back against the seat while Martin went on. “Work—Sean? He’s the lazy one. I’ll see he doesn’t sit on his duff. Let him be the one to decide to come home—he will.”
“You may have something there. A bit of reality might do the lad good? Long as you see he stays out of trouble.”
“Sure, it’s a promise.”
“Davy, he’s not hurting all that bad? I laid into him.”
“He’s fine. Little bruised up—be gone in a week.”
