When the Sacred Ginmill Closes

"I don't know. He told you to have a car and I presume he told you to have the money ready-"

"Yeah, strangely enough he happened to mention it."

"- but he didn't give any indication of where he's going to want you to drive."

"None."

I thought about it. "What concerns me-"

"Is walking into something."

"That's right."

"I got the same concern. It's like walking point, you're out there and they can just bang away at you. It's bad enough paying ransom, but who knows if we're even gonna get what we pay for? It could wind up being a hijack, and they could waste us while they're at it."

"Why would they do that?"

"I don't know. 'Dead men tell no tales.' Isn't that what they say?"

"Maybe they do, but murder brings heat." I was trying to concentrate, and I wasn't thinking as clearly as I wanted to. I asked if I could have a beer.

"Oh, Jesus, where's my manners? What do you want, bourbon, cup of coffee?"

"I think just a beer."

Skip went to get it. While he was gone his partner said, "This is crazy. It's unreal, you know what I mean? Stolen books, extortion, voices over the phone. It has no reality."

"I guess."

"The money has no reality. I can't relate to it. The number-"

Skip brought me a bottle of Carlsberg and a bell-shaped glass. I sipped a little beer and frowned in what was supposed to be thought. Skip lit a cigarette, offered the pack to me, then said, "No, of course you don't want one, you don't smoke," and put the pack in his pocket.

I said, "It shouldn't be a hijack. But there's one way it could be."

"How's that?"

"If they haven't got the books."

"Of course they got the books. The books are gone and there's this voice on the phone."

"Suppose someone hasn't got the books, but knows that they're missing. If he doesn't have to prove possession of them, he's got a chance to take a few dollars off you."

"A few dollars," John Kasabian said.

Skip said, "Then who's got the books? The Feds? You mean they could have them all along and be preparing a case and in the meantime we're paying ransom to somebody who hasn't got shit." He stood up, walked around the desk. "I fuckin' love it," he said. "I love it so much I want to marry it, I want to have babies with it. Jesus."

"It's just a possibility, but I think we have to guard against it."

"How? Everything's set for tomorrow."

"When he calls, you have him read a page from the books."

He stared at me. "You just thought of that? Just now? Nobody move." Kasabian asked him where he was going. "To get two more of those Carlsbergs," he said. "The fucking beer stimulates thought. They should use it in their advertising."

* * *

HE brought back two bottles. He sat on the edge of the desk with his feet swinging, sipping his beer straight from the brown bottle. Kasabian stayed in his chair and peeled the label from his bottle. He was in no hurry to drink it. We had our war council, making what plans we could. John and Skip were both coming along, and so of course was I.

"And I was thinking Bobby'd come," Skip said.

"Ruslander?"

"He's my best friend, he knows what's happening. I don't know if he could do much if the shit hit the fan, but who could? I'm gonna be armed, but if it's a trap I suppose they'll shoot first, so a lot of fucking good a gun's gonna do me. You got anybody you want to bring in on this?"

Kasabian shook his head. "I thought of my brother," he said. "First person I thought of, but what does Zeke need with this shit, you know?"

"What does anybody need with it? Matt, you got anybody you want to bring?"

"No."

"I was thinking maybe Billie Keegan," Skip said. "What do you think?"

"He's good company."

"Yeah, right. When you think about it, who the hell needs good company? What we need is heavy artillery and air support. Set up the meet and lay down a mortar barrage on their position. John, tell him about the spades with the mortar."

"Oh," Kasabian said.

"Tell him."

"It was just something I saw."

"Something he saw. Listen to this."

"It was whenever it was, a month or so ago. I was at my girl's house, she's on West End in the Eighties, I'm supposed to walk her dog, and I come out of the building and diagonally across the street there are these three black guys."

"So he turns around and goes back in the building," Skip offered.

"No, they didn't even look in my direction," Kasabian said. "They're wearing fatigue jackets, like, and one's got a cap. They look like soldiers."

"Tell him what they did."

"Well, it's hard to believe I really saw this," he said. He took off his glasses, massaged the bridge of his nose. "They took a look around, and if they saw me they decided I was nothing to worry about-"

"Shrewd judges of character," Skip put in.

"- and they set up this mortar, like they've done this drill a thousand times before, and one of them drops a shell in, and they lob a round into the Hudson, nice easy shot, they're on the corner and they can see clear to the river, and we all like check it out, and they still don't pay any attention to me, and they nod to each other and strip the mortar down and pack it up and walk off together."

"Jesus," I said.

"It happened so fast," he said, "and with so little fanfare, I wondered if I imagined it. But it happened."

"Did the round make a lot of noise?"

"No, not a whole lot. There was the sort of whump! sound a mortar makes on firing, and if there was an explosion when the round hit the water I didn't hear it."

"Probably a blank," Skip said. "They were probably, you know, testing the firing mechanism, checking out the trajectory."

"Yeah, but for what?"

"Well, shit," he said. "You never know when you're gonna need a mortar in this town." He tipped up his beer bottle, drank deeply, and drummed his heels against the side of the desk. "I don't know," he said, "I'm drinking this stuff but I'm not thinking any better than before. Matt, let's talk about money."

I thought he was referring to the ransom. But he meant money for me, and I was at a loss. I didn't know how to set a price, said something about being a friend.

He said, "So? This is what you do for a living, right? Do favors for friends?"

"Sure, but-"

"You're doing us a favor. Kasabian and I don't know what the hell we're doing. Am I right, John?"

"Absolutely."

"I'm not gonna give Bobby anything for coming, he wouldn't take it, and if Keegan comes along it won't be for the money. But you're a professional and a professional gets paid. Tillary's paying you, isn't he?"

"There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"You're a friend of mine."

"And he isn't?"

"Not in the same way. In fact I like him less and less. He's-"

"He's an asshole," Skip said. "No argument. Makes no difference." He opened a drawer in the desk, counted money, folded the bills, handed them to me. "Here," he said. "That's twenty-five there. Tell me if it's not enough."

"I don't know," I said slowly. "Twenty-five dollars doesn't seem like much, but-"

"It's twenty-five hundred, you dumb fuck." We all started laughing. " 'Twenty-five dollars doesn't seem like much.' Johnny, why did we have to hire a comedian? Seriously, Matt, is it okay?"

"Seriously, it seems a little high."

"You know what the ransom comes to?"

I shook my head. "Everybody's been careful not to mention it."

"Well, you don't mention rope in the house of the hanged, do you? We're paying those cocksuckers fifty grand."

"Jesus Christ," I said.

"His name came up already," Kasabian said. "He a friend of yours, by any chance? Bring him along tomorrow, he's got nothing else on for the evening."

Chapter 14

I tried to make it an early night. I went home and went to bed, and somewhere around four I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep. There was enough bourbon on hand to knock myself out, but I didn't want that, either. I didn't want to be hung over when we dealt with the blackmailers.

I got up and tried sitting around, but I couldn't sit still and there was nothing on television I was willing to watch. I got dressed and went out for a walk, and I was halfway there before I realized my feet were taking me to Morrissey's.

One of the brothers was on the downstairs door. He gave me a bright smile and let me in. Upstairs, another brother sat on a stool opposite the door. His right hand was concealed beneath his white butcher's apron, and I had been given to understand that there was a gun in it. I hadn't been to Morrissey's since Tim Pat had told me of the reward he and his brothers were offering, but I'd heard that the brothers took turns at guard duty, and that anyone who walked in the door was facing a loaded weapon. Opinions differed on the sort of weapon; I'd had various reports, ranging from revolver to automatic pistol to sawed-off shotgun. My thought was that you'd have to be crazy to plan on using a shotgun, sawed-off or otherwise, in a roomful of your own customers, but no one had ever established the Morrisseys' sanity.

I walked in and looked around the room, and Tim Pat saw me and motioned to me, and I took a step toward him when Skip Devoe called my name from a table in the front near the blacked-out window. He was sitting with Bobby Ruslander. I held up a hand, indicating I'd be with them in a minute, and Bobby put his hand to his mouth and a police whistle pierced the room, cutting off all conversation as cleanly as a gunshot. Skip and Bobby laughed, and the other drinkers realized the noise had been a joke, not an official raid, and, after a few people had assured Bobby he was an asshole, conversation resumed. I followed Tim Pat toward the rear of the room, where we stood on opposite sides of an empty table.

"We've not seen you here since we spoke," he said. "Do you bring me news?"

I told him I didn't have any news to bring him. "I just came in for a drink," I said.

"And you've heard nothing?"

"Not a thing. I went around, I talked to some people. If there were anything in the air I would have had word back by now. I think it must be some kind of Irish thing, Tim Pat."

"An Irish thing."

"Political," I said.

"Then we should have heard tell of it. Some braggart would have let a word slip." His fingertips caressed his beard. "They knew right where to go for the money," he mused. "And they even took the few dollars from the Norad jar."

"That's why I thought-"

"If it was Proddies we should have heard tell. Or if it was a faction of our own." He smiled without humor. "We have our factional disagreements, don't you know. The Cause has more than one voice speakin' for it."

"So I've heard."

"If it were an 'Irish thing,' " he said, pronouncing the phrase deliberately, "there would be other incidents. But there's been only the one."