First Thrills: Volume 2 Page 8

  No hesitation, “Thursday’s child.”

  We laughed at that and I don’t think either of us really knew why.

  I asked, “Who is the girl, why haven’t I met her?”

  He looked furtive, hiding something but then, his whole life seemed to be about hiding stuff, he said, “She’s shy, I mean, she knows we’re mates and all, but she wants to know your birth day before she’ll meet you.”

  I said, “Next time I talk to Mom, I’ll ask her, ok?”

  As Mom had been in the ground for at least five years, it wasn’t likely to be any time soon.

  Another round of drinks arrived and we moved on to important issues, like sport. Guy stuff, if ever you reach any sort of intimacy, move to sports, move way past that sucker, that intimacy crap.

  I meant to look up the nursery rhyme but, as far as I got, was discovering I was born on a Wednesday.

  Told Sheridan it was that day and he said, “I’ll tell her.”

  He was distracted when I told him, the speed he took turning him this way and that, like a dead rose in a barren field.

  I’d noticed he was becoming increasingly antsy, speed fiends, what can I tell you? But he was building up to something.

  It finally came.

  We were in Garavan’s, on Shop Street; still has all the old stuff you associate with

  Ireland and even … whisper it, Irish staff.

  And snugs.

  Little portioned off cubicles where you can talk without interruption.

  Sheridan was on Jameson; I stay away from spirits, too lethal. He was more feverish than usual; asked, “You up for the big one?”

  I feigned ignorance; said, “We’re doing ok.”

  He shook his head, looked at me, which is something he rarely did, his eyes usually focused on my forehead, but this was head on; said, “Morgan, We’re alike, we want some serious money and I know how we can get it.”

  I waited.

  He said, “Kidnapping.”

  Without a beat I said, “Fuck off, that is the dumbest crime on the slate.”

  He was electric, actually vibrating; said, “No, listen, this is perfect, we … well me really, snatch a girl, her old man is fooking loaded and you, as the consultant you are and known, as such, you’re the go between; we tell the rich bastard the kidnappers have selected you as the pick up man, you get the cash, we let the girl go and hello, we’re rich.”

  I picked up the remnants of my pint; said, “No. Kidnapping never works. Forget it.”

  He grabbed my arm, said, “Listen, this is the daughter of Jimmy Flaherty; he owns most of Galway; his daughter, Brona, is the light of his life and he has no love of the cops; he’ll pay, thinking he’ll find us later, but we’ll be in the wind and with a Yank as a broker for the deal; he’ll go along, he’s a Bush admirer.”

  I let the Bush bit slide.

  I acted like I was considering it, then said, “No, it’s too … out there.”

  He let his head fall, dejection in neon, and said, “I’ve already got her.”

  It’s hard to surprise me. You live purely on your wits and instincts as I’ve always done; you have envisioned most scenarios. This came out of left field.

  I gasped. “You what?”

  He gave me a defiant look, then, “I thought you might be reluctant and I already made the call to Flaherty, asked for one million and said I’d only use a neutral intermediary, and suggested that Yank consultant.”

  I was almost lost for words.

  Almost.

  Said, “So I’m already fucked; you’ve grabbed the girl and told her father I’m the messenger.”

  He smiled; said, “Morgan, it’s perfect, you’ll see.”

  I was suddenly tired; asked, “Where’s the girl now?”

  His smile got wider; he said, “I can’t tell you, see, see the beauty of it, you really are the innocent party and … here’s the lovely bit, he’ll pay you for your help.”

  Before I could answer this he continued, “You’ll get a call from him asking you to help, to be the bag man.”

  I asked, “What if I tell Mr Flaherty I want no part of this?”

  He gave me that golden tooth smile; said, “Ah Morgan, nobody says no to that man; how he got so rich.”

  I left early, said to Sheridan, “I don’t like this, not one bit.”

  He was still shouting encouragement to me as I left.

  I waited outside, in the doorway of the Chinese café a ways along. Sheridan had never told me where he lived, and I figured it was time to find out.

  It was an hour or so before he emerged and he’d obviously had a few more Jamesons. A slight stagger to his walk and certainly, he wasn’t a hard mark to follow.

  He finally made it to a house by the canal and went in and I waited until he’d turned on the lights.

  And I called it a night.

  Next morning, I was the right side of two decent coffees, the Financial Times thrown carelessly on my desk, my laptop feeding me information on Mr Flaherty when the door is pushed open.

  A heavily built man in a very expensive suit, with hard features and two even heavier men behind him, strode in.

  I didn’t need Google search to tell me who this was.

  He took the chair opposite me, sat down, opened his jacket, and looked round.

  The heavies took position on each side of the desk.

  He said, “What a shit hole.”

  I asked, “You have an appointment?”

  He laughed in total merriment, and the two thugs gave tight smiles; said, “You don’t seem overrun with business.”

  I tried. “Most of my business is conducted over the phone, for discretion’s sake.”

  He mimicked, “Discretion … hmm, I like that.”

  Then suddenly he lunged across the desk, grabbed my tie, and pulled me halfway across, with one hand, I might add. He said, “I like Yanks, otherwise, you’d be picking yer teeth off the floor right now.”

  Then he let go.

  I managed to get back into my chair, all dignity out the window, and waited.

  He said, “I’m Jimmy Flaherty and some bollix has snatched me only child; he wants a million in ransom and says you are to be the go-between.”

  He snapped his fingers and one of the thugs dropped a large briefcase on the desk.

  He said, “That’s a million.”

  I took his word for it.

  He took out a large Havana and the other heavy moved to light it; he asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

  He blew an almost perfect smoke ring and we watched it linger over the desk like a bird of ill omen till he said, “This fuckhead will contact you and you’re to give him the money.”

  He reached in his pocket, tossed a mobile phone on the desk, said, “Soon as you can see my daughter is safe, you call that number and give every single detail of what you observe.”

  He stood up; said, “I’m not an unreasonable man, you get my daughter back, and the bastard who took her, I’ll throw one hundred large in your direction.”

  He’d obviously watched far too many episodes of The Sopranos and I was tempted to add, “Caprice.”

  But reined it in.

  I said, “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  He rounded on me, near spat. “I said I liked Yanks, but you screw up, you’re dead meat.”

  When he was gone, I opened my bottom drawer, took out the small stash, did a few lines, and finally mellowed out.

  My mind was in hyper drive.

  I had the score.

  One freaking million and all I had to do was … skedaddle.

  Run like fuck.

  Greed.

  Greed is a bastard.

  I was already thinking how I’d get that extra hundred-thousand and not have Flaherty looking for me.

  That’s the curse of coke, it makes you think you can do anything.

  I locked the briefcase in my safe and moved to the bookshelf near the door.

  It had impressive looking books, all unread, and
moving aside Great Expectations, I pulled out the SIG Sauer.

  Tried and tested and of a certain sentimental value.

  I’d finalized my divorce with it, so it had a warm history.

  I headed for Sheridan’s house on the canal, stopping en route to buy a cheap briefcase, and when the guy offered to remove all the paper padding they put in there, I said, no need.

  I got to the house just after two in the afternoon and the curtains were still down.

  Sheridan sleeping off the Jameson.

  I went round the back and sure enough, the lock was a joke and I had that picked in thirty seconds.

  Moved the SIG to the right-hand pocket of my jacket and ventured in. This was the kitchen. I stood for a moment and wondered if there was a basement, where Sheridan might have put the poor girl.

  Heard hysterical laughter from upstairs and realized Sheridan was not alone.

  “Way to go, lover,” I muttered as I began to climb the stairs.

  Sheridan as late afternoon lover had never entered my mind but what the hell, good for him.

  I got to the bedroom and it sounded like a fine old time was being had by all.

  Hated to interrupt, but business!

  Opened the door and said, “Is this a bad time?”

  Sheridan’s head emerged from the sheets and he guffawed, said, “Fooking Morgan.”

  The woman, I have to admit, a looker, pulled herself upright, her breasts exposed, reached for a cigarette and said, “Is this the famous American?”

  There was a half-empty bottle of Jameson on the table beside Sheridan and he reached for it, took a lethal slug, gagged; said, “Buddy, meet Brona.”

  She laughed as my jaw literally dropped.

  She said, in not too bad an American pastiche, “He’s joining the dots.”

  I put the briefcase on the floor and Sheridan roared. “Is that it, fook, is that the million?”

  He didn’t enjoy it too long; Brona shot him in the forehead; said, “You come too quick.”

  Turned the gun on me and was a little surprised to see my SIG leveled on her belly.

  Nicely toned stomach, I’ll admit.

  She smiled, said, “Mexican standoff?”

  In Galway.

  I said, “You put yours on the bed, slowly, and I’ll put mine on the floor, we have to be in harmony on this.”

  We were.

  And did.

  I asked, “Mind If I have a drink?”

  She said, “I’ll join you.”

  I got the bottle of Jameson and as she pushed a glass forward, I cracked her skull with it; said, “I think you came too quick.”

  I checked her pulse and as I’d hoped, she wasn’t dead. But mainly, she wouldn’t be talking for a while.

  I did the requisite cleaning up and now for the really tricky part.

  Rang Flaherty.

  First the good news

  I’d got his daughter back and alive.

  Managed to kill one of the kidnappers.

  Got shot myself in the cluster fuck.

  The other kidnapper had gotten away.

  And … with the money.

  He and his crew were there in jig time.

  The shot in my shoulder hurt like a bastard and I hated to part with the SIG, but what can you do.

  Wrapped it in Sheridan’s fingers.

  I don’t know how long we were there; Flaherty’s men got Brona out of there right away and I had to tell my story to Flaherty about a dozen times.

  I think two things saved my ass

  1. … his beloved daughter was safe.

  2. … One bad guy was dead.

  And I could see him thinking, if I was involved?

  Why was I shot?

  Why hadn’t I taken off?

  I even provided a name for the other kidnapper, a shithead who’d dissed me way back.

  He produced a fat envelope; said, “You earned it.”

  And was gone

  Four days later, I was, as Sheridan said, “In the wind.”

  Gone.

  * * *

  A few months later, tanned, with a nice unostentatious villa in the South of Spain, a rather fetching beard coming in, as the Brits would say, and a nice senorita who seemed interested in the quiet English writer I’d now become; a sort of middle list cozy author persona. I was as close to happy as it gets.

  One evening, with a bag full of fresh-baked baguettes, some fine wine, and all the food for a masterful paella, I got back to the villa a little later than usual; I might even have been humming something from Man of La Mancha.

  Opened the door and saw a woman in the corner, the late evening shadows washing over her; I asked, “Bonita?”

  No.

  Brona, with a sawn off in her lap.

  I dropped the bags.

  She asked, “What day were you born on?”

  I said, “Wednesday.”

  She laughed; said, “Complete the rhyme…”

  Jesus, what was it?

  I acted like I was thinking seriously about that, but mainly I was thinking, how I’d get to the Walther PPK, in the press beside her.

  Then she threw the said gun on the floor beside my wilted paella feast, smiled, said, “Here’s a hint, Tuesday’s child is full of Grace … so…”

  Now she leveled the sawn off, cocked the hammer; said, “You get one guess.”

  * * *

  KEN BRUEN was a finalist for the Edgar, Barry, and Macavity Awards, and the Private Eye Writers of America presented him with the Shamus Award for the Best Novel of 2003 for The Guards, the book that introduced Jack Taylor. He lives in Galway, Ireland. To learn more about Ken and his novels go to www.kenbruen.com

  Copyright Acknowledgments

  “Savage Planet” copyright © 2010 by Stephen Coonts

  “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” copyright © 2010 by Heather Graham

  “My Father’s Eyes” copyright © 2010 by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Children’s Day” copyright © 2010 by Kelli Stanley

  “Underbelly” copyright © 2010 by Grant McKenzie

  “Wednesday’s Child” copyright © 2010 by Ken Bruen

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  SAVAGE PLANET

  WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME

  MY FATHER’S EYES

  CHILDREN’S DAY

  UNDERBELLY

  WEDNESDAY’S CHILD

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS