The bespoke hitman, p.4
The Bespoke Hitman, page 4
‘What’re you getting at?’
‘Whoever the hell he was, he didn’t want the cops or the public knowing about the money, or being assaulted. Why would he keep quiet about half a million being stolen from him?’
‘Must be drug money, or some other sort of illegal shit. Right? That’s why he didn’t declare it. Probably got out of there as quickly as we did, in case the cops wanted a few words with him.’
Jim nodded. ‘Possibly, plus the bank must’ve known who he was, what they were dealing with. Otherwise they’d have told the cops and the press about our little nest-egg on the table. The bank must be laundering drug money. Cert.’
‘Fucking drug dealers. I hate the bastards as much as I hate thieving bankers and lying politicians,’ Brain said, filled with righteous anger.
Charlie grinned. ‘I’m gonna enjoy spending this money even more now.’
‘We have to be careful about spending any of this – at least for now.’ Jim looked directly at Charlie. ‘The guy Brian smacked looked like he had Irish Alzheimer’s.’
‘Huh?’
‘Forgets everything except grudges.’
‘I’m not stupid. I’m not gonna go out and buy a new car to replace the rust-bucket I’m driving, or hand my Rosie the keys to a new house. I can be subtle when it’s needed.’
‘Subtle? You?’ Brian laughed out loud. ‘As subtle as Kathy Bates with a sledgehammer in Misery.’
‘It’s no laughing matter, Brian.’ Jim began rubbing the side of his mouth again. ‘This drug dealer, whoever the hell he was, is probably part of a gang. They’ll not be too happy about us taking their money. They’re not the cops. They won’t just throw us behind bars, if they catch us.’
‘How’re they ever gonna catch us?’ Charlie cut in.
‘I’m just saying we have to be extra careful about how we spend the money.’
‘You better tell him that.’ Charlie pointed at Brian. ‘The first thing he’ll do is buy more of those comics and toys he likes to collect.’
‘I’ve told you before, Charlie, they’re not toys,’ Brian responded. ‘Those are investments as well as enjoyment. Better than your collection of beaten dockets from the bookies. One thing’s for certain, though: I sure as hell won’t be putting my share in any bank. Too many thieving bastards about.’
Charlie laughed, but Jim remained deadly serious.
‘Will you promise me, Charlie? Promise you’ll keep a tight rein on it.’
For a few seconds, Charlie studied the seriousness on Jim’s face, knowing now that it wasn’t a request.
‘Okay. I heard you twice the first time. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
Chapter Four
‘Well, it’s a fine soft night, so I think I’ll go and join
me comrades and talk a little treason.’
Michaleen Oge Flynn, The Quiet Man
In a spacious private room above a well-known city-centre restaurant, a third group of concerned citizens – Conor O’Neill, George Magee, Barney Dennison and Seamus Nolan – had been gathering, just as Harry and his crew were making their way speedily down the Antrim Road in an unmarked police car.
Just like Harry and Jim’s gang – perhaps more so – this cadre were keenly interested in the events of the previous two hours. However, unlike Harry’s squad, filled with on-the-edge adrenalin, or Jim’s crew, filled with the joy of newly acquired and unexpected riches, this group looked rather gloomy and battered.
The leader of the group, Conor O’Neill, stood smoking a Caminetto pipe, despite the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the door.
O’Neill had a charismatic air about him, and was renowned for his sharp intellect and keen sense of justice. An unassuming and soft-spoken man, he was feared and respected by friend and foe alike. When situations dictated, he could be as ruthless and unforgiving as a hungry lion; at other times magnanimous.
A founding member of the Brotherhood for Irish Freedom, he never missed morning Mass. Even in the bad old days of war, when he found himself on the run from the British Army and cops, he managed to receive the sacred body of Christ upon his eager tongue, disguising himself convincingly enough to fool even some of his closest friends. Widowed in his mid-thirties when wife Bridget was shot dead by terrorists, friends nicknamed him De Gaulle because of the many unsuccessful assassination attempts on his own life over the years.
Conor removed the pipe, and finally addressed the room. ‘We’ve had some unmitigated disasters in our time, but I have no words to describe this charade.’
‘At least Seamus was able to get out of there before the media and cops arrived,’ George Magee put in uneasily.
Magee, a Beethoven lookalike, had been the Finance Officer for the Brotherhood in Belfast. With the onset of the peace process, this militaristic title had, of course, become unpalatable to unionists. And so, hey presto, he was now recycled to Fund Raiser in Residence.
Magee had earned the nickname Ghoulish George because of his penchant for attending funerals – even of people he didn’t know or have a modicum of fondness for – as well as his bizarre behaviour of hanging around graveyards, pilfering the dead’s dead flowers. These he would press into books, of which he had by now accumulated many volumes.
‘I should take comfort in that, George?’ Conor said. ‘A bit like a doctor diagnosing a person with cancer, saying it’s only devouring half the body?’
‘Just saying, Conor.’
‘Don’t just say. Explain – explain how we just had a half a million stolen from under our noses by amateurs who couldn’t even rob a bank without tripping over themselves.’
‘I’ve already explained that they were armed to the teeth.’ Nolan’s bald head was turning crimson. ‘I could’ve been shot, killed.’
‘But you weren’t, were you? You got a slap on the head, instead of a bullet in it. That was the limit of the damage done to you – unlike this mess you’ve created.’
‘I didn’t create the mess.’ Nolan bristled.
‘Seamus, calm down,’ Dennison said.
Dennison was Public Relations Officer for the organisation. Structurally, he was a diminutive character, with an uncanny resemblance to – though without the wit, wonder or wisdom of – Truman Capote. He was nicknamed the Poison Pen Dwarf, for his notorious backstabbing of opponents, while hiding behind a nom de plume, in a weekly column he wrote for a local rag. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this, before sending a report down to Dublin. They’re not too happy about what’s happened.’
‘And I fucking am!’ Nolan snapped back.
‘You were supposed to be in the bank two hours prior to when you finally arrived,’ Conor cut in. ‘Had you not deviated from what you were instructed to do, the money would’ve been safely taken away by Brinks, instead of by the Three Stooges.’
‘I’ve already told you, I believed I was being followed, and had to do a few detours to cover my tracks.’
‘Believed? I wish I could say I was a believer in your story.’
Nolan’s eyes tightened. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean? Calling me a liar?’
Conor walked slowly over to where Nolan stood, eyeballing him like an experienced knife fighter weighing up his opponent’s expertise with a blade. For ten tense seconds, the men competed in a Belfast standoff, until Magee finally shoehorned himself between the two.
‘Seamus, have you gone mad or what? Conor could have you up on a court of inquiry, before being court-marshalled for insubordination. Is that what you’re looking?’
Nolan’s chest was heaving. Teeth extended over lower lip. Features morphing into something animalistic.
‘Did you hear a word I just said, Seamus?’ Magee’s voice began rising.
Nolan’s blinked a few times, as if emerging from a trance. He looked about the room, before focusing his attention on Magee.
‘Yes … I heard you …’
‘Apologise to Conor, right now.’
Nolan sucked his breath in, then exhaled slowly. ‘I’m sorry for my outburst. I got carried away with myself.’
Conor sucked on the pipe. Exhaled the smoke, then, calmly but with a hint of menace: ‘Make sure that’s the last time you get carried away with yourself, otherwise you will be carried away. Clear?’
A couple of tense seconds faded before Nolan answered. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Here’s what we do,’ Conor said to the room, as if nothing had happened. ‘I’ll contact an outside agency to deal with this mess, and then we –’
‘An outside agency?’ Nolan looked like he’d just had his head battered again. ‘You’re joking?’
‘Do you see me laughing?’
‘Some cowardly scumbag sticks a gun to my face, before whacking me across the head, and you want to bring in someone from outside to deal with it? I’m the one to put manners on them, not someone from outside.’
‘This is more important than your injured pride or head. We need a proxy to sort this mess out. We have to send a clear message, but without the finger of blame being pointed directly at us.’
‘Fuck that. You think I’m going to let some clown boast of what he did to me? No one humiliates me and gets away with it.’
Conor looked at Nolan for a few seconds, before turning his attention to Magee and Dennison.
‘George? Barney? I need a word in private with Seamus.’
Both men nodded, and walked to the door, accompanied by Conor. At the door, Conor said to Magee:
‘I need a wee word with Barney, George. See you tonight, after seven.’
‘Okay, Conor.’
When Magee had left, Conor whispered to Dennison: ‘Contact Doc Holliday. Find out what he’s discovered about the robbery. Get back to me, ASAP.’
Dennison nodded and left, and Conor turned his attention back to Nolan.
‘You know I despise you; always have. I’m sure you believe you’re quite cunning, but to me you’re an open book, and not a very intellectual one at that.’
‘Now that we’re alone, it’s good to see we can talk frankly without your little altar boys listening. You don’t like me and I don’t like you. What’s new, eh?’
‘I watched you growing up as a little thug, a sadistic bully. The only thing to change over the years is your size. Now you’re a bigger thug and sadistic bully. I detest what you do; you and your nutting squad, and the fact you get away with it because of your uncle’s position in the movement.’
‘You really think I give a flying fuck about your preaching? You detest the fact that I hunt out informers and execute them. I do the dirty jobs, so that people like you can hold your pious noses high in the air. People like me are the backbone of the movement.’
‘Backbone? You’re a psychopath, plain and simple, a rabid dog, and one that should have been put down a long time ago.’
‘If I didn’t know better, I could misinterpret that as a threat.’
‘Interpret it as you wish.’
‘Know what really sickens me? All that sanctimonious holier-than-thou shit. It’s all a bit rich coming from you, with the people you killed when you were one of the most feared snipers in the North. You’d no qualms about that, I bet?’
‘I killed out of necessity and the circumstances of the time. All of those killed were military personnel. Never civilians.’
‘Want to know an uncomfortable truth? We’re the same, you and me. We just go about our business in different ways. Now you pray, but I still slay.’
A look of disdain crawled over Conor’s face. ‘You and I are cut from entirely different pieces of cloth. I know all about your gallant stories, how you tell those about to be executed not to worry, that they’ll be going home soon, back to their loved ones, their wives, husbands, children.’
‘Always keep them calm, until you no longer need their calmness. That’s my motto. I treat them charitably, even handing out cigs and bars of chocolates to some.’
‘How do you sleep at night?’
‘As soundly as you. Unlike your long-distance shooting, I have to look into the eyes of those about to be killed. How easy it must be to look down the scope of a rifle, never to see the faces of those you kill. They’re only silhouettes, and then you judge others who have to get up close and personal.’
‘But you never do look into their eyes, do you?’
‘What the hell would you know about it?’
‘Oh, I know alright. I know you only shoot people in the back.’
Nolan looked as if he had just been sucker-punched in the gut. He moved closer, within an inch of Conor’s face.
‘You really need to be careful of what you say about me, old man. You really do.’
‘Get out of my sight. Maybe this time, even your uncle’s influence won’t save you.’
Nolan turned, sauntered to the door. Opened it, then turned to look directly over at Conor. ‘Just remember what I said: no one humiliates me, and gets away with it. No one.’
He exited, slamming the door behind him so hard, dishes rattled on a nearby table.
Chapter Five
There’s a man goin’ ’round takin’ names. An’ he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won’t be treated all the same … When the man comes around.
Johnny Cash, ‘When the Man Comes Around’
The Brighton Building in Belfast’s Alfred Street is a prestigious, five-storey affair, comprising forty high-quality, much-sought-after apartments, which rarely ever appear on the market. The BB, as it’s known locally, is located right smack in the city centre, within easy walking distance of City Hall, and other landmark buildings sought out by tourists from all over the world.
Residents of the building include two best-selling authors, two professors from Queen’s University and five well-known local celebrities from television and radio.
One resident, Rasharkin, apartment 4F, has been an avid art collector for many years, avidly hunting down anything to do with original pages from American comic books, but predominantly those of Harmenszoon, mononymous god-like visionary creator of numerous superheroes, villains and deities for the comics’ cosmic universes. To date, Rasharkin’s collection has grown to almost four thousand pages, one of the world’s largest private compilations.
To pay for this ever-accumulating and expensive collection, he works beyond the normal curriculum boundaries of nine to five, rarely taking a weekend off or having paid holidays. Being self-employed has other disadvantages also, such as being on standby twenty-four-seven, every day of the year, including Christmas and New Year’s Eve.
Clients can be quite inconsiderate with their demands upon him, even if they do pay extremely well. Still, he can’t really complain. This is the lifestyle he has elected to pursue. No one put a gun to his head to do it. Truth be told, he’s the one putting guns to heads, killing for a living.
Post workout in his private gym, Rasharkin was stripped to the waist, drying the beads of sweat from his skin. His body was built like a god’s angry fist: lean and intimidating, powerfully gnarled, and scarred with hashtags – the afterburners of knife-marks and long-healed bullet wounds. A man’s man. The sort of man you wanted by your side if you had a body to bury secretly and quickly; the sort of man you hoped would never put you on his to-do list.
Finished drying, he adorned himself in a bathrobe, then walked to the living room window, glancing out at the darkening streets below.
Streetlamps were pouring their golden light on lonely commuters heading home from work. The evening rain diluted their shadows, transforming them into inky stick figures from a Lowry scene.
The rain. Lovely rain. A pluviophile, he could watch it for hours, if given the luxury of time.
He glanced at his watch just as the UPS van came into view at the top of the street, making its way towards the side of the building.
Despite the calmness on his face, his stomach was giving little kicks of anticipation. It always did when the famous brown van came visiting. To Rasharkin, the van was Santa, coming down the chimney on Christmas Eve, though he had to acknowledge that in all probability he would only ever make it on to Santa’s extremely naughty list.
Leaving the window, he picked up ten quid from an assortment of paper money on top of a side table and walked to the front door. Opening it, he looked down the corridor at the lights of the lift, ascending painstakingly slowly. The lift door finally opened with a soft ping!, and the van’s driver stepped out.
‘A package from New York, Mister Rasharkin,’ Tony the driver said cheerfully, as he walked down the corridor. ‘I stopped here first, so as to get it to you as quickly as possible.’
‘Thank you, Tony. Very much appreciated.’ He handed Tony the tenner with one hand while the other scribbled a signature into a hand-held postal tracking device.
‘Thank you, Mister Rasharkin.’ Tony smiled, handing the package over. Slipping the ten into his pocket, he headed down the corridor towards the lift.
Back in the apartment, Rasharkin went straight to his climate-controlled art room, turning on the lights while closing the door. The room was a shrine to Harmenszoon.
An old art desk, once belonging to the legendary artist, took centre stage in the room. Numerous props decorated the top of the desk, all from the master: a pipe, faded erasers, pens and pencils. There were some wood shavings from one of Harmenszoon’s pencils, kept in a tiny plastic bag. The desk itself had ineligible scrawls embedded in its skin, alongside faded names and places, as if it had been used as a wooden notepad.
Placing the package on the desk, Rasharkin removed a pair of nitrile surgical gloves from a drawer. Slid them on like a surgeon about to perform major surgery.
Satisfied with their snugness, from another drawer he retrieved a Fällkniven NL1 Thor hunting knife. He rarely ever used the deadly piece of metal any more in a professional capacity, preferring to keep it for more mundane domestic duties.
Still, there were occasions when the blade unfortunately needed to be reintroduced. Silent and deadly, the hunting knife’s legendary blade was capable of slicing through muscle and bone like other knives cutting string. He had always loved this knife, of course because of its perfect balance, but more importantly because it had no moving parts capable of slipping at the most delicate moment, when trying to prise a pearl of information from the oyster shell of an unwilling tongue.
