First Thrills - Lee Child [34]
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 say’s 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