Dead I Well May Be (Michael Forsythe Series #1)

ISBN-13: 9781451613254

Media Type: Paperback

Publisher: Scribner

Publication Date: 07-25-2010

Pages: 320

Product Dimensions: 6.00(w) x 8.90(h) x 0.80(d)

Adrian McKinty is an Irish writer of crime and mystery novels and young adult fiction, best known for his 2020 award-winning thriller, The Chain, and the Sean Duffy novels set in Northern Ireland during The Troubles. He is also the author of the Michael Forsythe trilogy and the Lighthouse trilogy. He is a winner of multiple awards including the Edgar Award, the Macavity Award, and the International Thriller Writers Award.

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Chapter One: White Boy in Harlem

I open my eyes. The train tracks. The river. A wall of heat. Unbearable white sunlight smacking off the railings, the street and the god-awfulness of the buildings. Steam from the permanent Con Ed hole at the corner. Gum and graffiti tags on the sidewalk. People on the platform — Jesus Christ, are they really in sweaters and wool hats? Garbage everywhere: newspaper, bits of food, clothes, soda cans, beer cans. The traffic slow and angry. Diesel fumes from tubercular bus engines. Heat and poison from the exhausts on massive, bruised gypsy cabs.

I'm smoking. I'm standing here on the elevated subway platform looking down at all this enormous nightmare and I'm smoking. My skin can barely breathe. I'm panting. The back of my T-shirt is thick with sweat. 100 degrees, 90 percent relative humidity. I'm complaining about the pollution you can see in the sky above New Jersey and I'm smoking Camels. What an idiot.

Details. Dominican guys on the west side of Broadway. Black guys on the east. The Dominicans are in long cotton pants, sneakers, string T-shirts, gold chains. The black guys are in neat blue or yellow or red T-shirts with baggy denim shorts and better sneakers. The black guys are more comfortable, it's their turf for now, the Dominicans are newcomers. It's like West Side bloody Story.

In the deep pocket of my baggy shorts I start playing absently with the safety on my pistol. A very stupid thing to do. I stop myself. Besides, these guys aren't the enemy. No, the enemy, like the Lord, is subtle, and in our own image.

Some kids playing basketball without a hoop. Women shopping; heavy bags weighing them down, the older women pushing carts, the younger wearing hardly anything at all. Beautiful girls with long dark legs and dreamy voices that are here the only sounds of heaven.

Harlem has changed, of course. I mean, I'm not talking about the 125th Street of today or even of five years ago. There's a Starbucks there now. Multiplexes. HMV. An ex-president. This is before Giuliani saved the city. Twice. This is 1992. There are well over two thousand murders a year in New York. Gang wars. Crack killings. The New York Times publishes a murder map of Manhattan with a dot for every violent death. Once you get above Central Park the dots get thicker and east and north of Columbia University it becomes one big smudge. A killing took place yesterday at this very corner. A boy on a bicycle shot a woman in the chest when she didn't give up her pocketbook. Those guys down there are packing heat. Shit, we're all packing heat. The cops don't care. Besides, what cops? Who ever sees a peeler around here except in Floridita? Anyway, it's 1992. Bush the First is president, Dinkins is mayor, Major is PM, John Paul is the pope. According to the New York Daily News, it was 55 degrees yesterday and raining in Belfast. Which is par for the course in the summer there.

With a handkerchief I wipe away the sweat from the little Buddha fat gathering on my belly. The train is never coming. Never. I wipe under my arms, too. I stamp out the fag and resist the temptation to light another. Are people giving me looks? I'm the only white person at the station and I'm going north up to Washington Heights, which, when you think about it, is just plain silly.

The guys wearing the wool hats are West Africans. I've seen them before. They sit there serene and composed, chittering about this and that and sometimes scratching out a game of dominoes. They're going downtown. On that side there's no shade, it's boiling on them and they're as mellow as you please. They sell watches from suitcases to marks on Fifth Avenue and Herald Square. I know their crew chief. He's only been in North America four months and he has a twelve-man unit. I like him. He's suave and he's an operator and he never flies off the handle. I'd work for him but he only employs other boys from the Gambia. If you've ever checked, it's a funny-looking country and I mentioned that to him one time and he told me all about the Brits, colonialism, structural exploitation, the Frankfurt School, and all that shite and we got on fine and laughed and he took a Camel but still wouldn't give me a job selling knockoff watches from a briefcase. And it's not like they're kin to him either, it's just a question of trust. He won't even hire Ghanaians. I can understand it. Do the same myself, more than likely. Today no dominoes, they're just talking. English, actually, but you can't follow it. No.

I put the hanky away and try and breathe for a while. Look around, breathe. The cars. The city. The river again: vulgar, stinking, vast, and in this haze, it and Harlem dissolving and despairing together. There are no swimmers, of course. Even the foolish aren't that foolish.

I look away from the water. In this direction you wouldn't believe how many empty lots there are, how many buildings are shells, how many roofs are burnt away, and it gets worse as you go east towards the Apollo. You can see it all since there's a fine view from up here where the IRT becomes elevated for a while. 126th Street, for example, is behind the state's massive Adam Clayton Powell Jr. building, where I got my driver's license and you get social security cards and stuff and you'd think that that would be prime real estate. But it isn't. Nearly every building is derelict for about three whole blocks. And 123rd, where I live, well, we'll get to that.

Yawn. Stand on tiptoes. Roll my head. Lazy stretch.

Aye.

Sooner or later — minutes, hours — the train is going to come and it's going to take me to 173rd Street and I'm going to meet Scotchy coming down from the Bronx and Scotchy is going to be late and he'll spin me lies about some girl he has going and then Scotchy and I will impose our collective will on a barkeep up there and after that just maybe the tight wee bastard will spring for a cab to get us down to the other bar on 163rd where we have a bit more serious work to do with a young man called Dermot Finoukin. Because walking those ten blocks would just about kill me on a day like this. He won't though, he'll make us walk. Nice wee dander for you, Bruce, he'll slabber. Yeah, that will be the way of it. Crap from Scotchy. Crap from Dermot. Down by myself. Dinner at KFC and a six-pack of beer from C-Town Supermarket for four dollars. Shit.

A black girl is talking to the Dominican boys outside the bodega and it's more Leonard Bernstein than ever as the hackles rise between the blacks and the Dominicans on this side of the street. Jesus, gunplay is all I need. Just make the train come and when it comes make the aircon work. But it doesn't and I look away from the boys in case afterwards I'm asked to be a witness by the peels.

Lights appear in the tunnel at the City College stop. The downtown train comes and the Gambians and the other passengers get on and it's just me now and a few wee muckers at the far end spitting down the sixty feet to Broadway beneath us.

A homeless man comes up the steps having leapt the barrier. He's filthy and he smells and he's going to ask me for a quarter. He's coughing and then he says:

Sir, spa-carter.

His hands are swollen to twice what they should be and he could have anything from untreated winter frostbite to fucking leprosy.

Here, I say, and I don't want to touch him, so I put the quarter on the ground and then immediately repent of this. How unbelievably humiliating to make a sixty-year-old man bend down and pick up a quarter. He does bend down, picks it up, thanks me, and wanders off.

The pay phone rings. Who knew the phone even worked? It rings and rings. The kids, spitting, look over at me, and eventually I go and pick it up.

Yes? I say.

Michael? a voice says.

Yes, I say, trying not to sound amazed.

It's Sunshine, he says.

Sunshine. Sunshine, how in the name of bloody Jehovah do you know this pay-phone number? I ask, giving up any attempt to play it cool.

I'm paid to know these things, he says mysteriously.

Yeah but —

Listen, Michael, it's all off for today. Darkey's going to see the Boss and he's taking myself and Big Bob with him. The rest of you have the day off. Scotchy'll call you tomorrow.

All right, I say, and I'm going to ask him about money but he rings off. The prick. Sunshine is Darkey's right-hand man, and if ever there was a more weaselly-looking man-behind-the-man type of character, it's Sunshine. Thin, thinner than Scotchy even, with one of those skinny mustaches, and a bald head with a ridiculous comb-over that makes him look a bit like Hitler. I had him pegged for a child molester the minute I saw him but apparently that's not the case. Scotchy says not and Scotchy hates him. I don't. After you meet him a bit he's ok. Actually, I think he's a nice bloke, on the whole.

I hang up the phone and look foolishly at it for a second and one of the kids comes up and asks if it was for me. He's about ten, braver than the others, or more bored. Big hands that are restless behind him. Neat clothes, newish shoes.

I nod.

And who the fuck are you? he asks, squinting up at me and into the sunlight.

I-I'm the bogeyman, I say, and grin.

You ain't no boogy man, he says, his American pronunciation half accusing, half scared. After all, I can look intimidating on occasion.

You always do what your mother tells you? I ask.

Sometimes, he says, thrown by the question.

Well, listen. Next time you don't, don't be surprised if I'm under your bed or in your cupboard or out there on your fire escape. Waiting.

He turns and wanders off slowly, trying to appear unimpressed. Perhaps he is. Not easy alarming little kids around here. Christ, most of their goddamn grandmas scare the hell out of me.

Ok, home. No point lingering. I suppose it's impossible to get my token back since I didn't ride the train. I scope the clerk and she's a tough big lassie whose fucking shadow could kick my ass. She gives me the evil eye while I'm considering the options, so in the end I don't even bother. And then it's step, step, step down the broken escalator, which since I've been here has been unrepaired. Slime on the bottom step.

I turn and walk along 125th past the live chicken store and the discount liquor and the horrible doughnut shop and the thinly disguised All-Things-Catholic, but really All-Things-Santería store. Cross the street. A man in a makeshift stall is selling bananas, oranges, and some green fruit I don't know the name of. It's all well presented but with all this pollution and crap around here you wouldn't eat anything he's vending, you'd have to be fucking crazy. People are, of course, and there's a queue.

At the junction you stop and you take a long look. You have to. For it's all there. The traffic. The pedestrians. Bairns and dogs and men with limps outside under the overhang. The slick off the Jackie Robinson. Public Enemy blaring from the speakers, Chuck D and Flavor Flav outsnapping each other. The hotness and the sizzle and the crack and the craic. Dealers and buyers and everyone in between. It's rich and it's overwhelming but really, in Harlem, all is sweetness. No one bothers me. They take me in. It's a scene. It's like the beach. The moisture, the temperature, the people on the dunes of sidewalk and the great hulking seething city is, in this analogy, the dirty gray Atlantic Ocean.

Up the hill. It's only two blocks but by some freak of geography it's really the equivalent of about five.

I reach in my shorts for my keys and turn on 123rd. Vinny the Vet is ahead of me going in the building, having a full, angry conversation with no one at all. His shopping bag clinks. Danny the Drunk is on the corner in the sun propping himself up. That purple face is leaning down over his walking stick, dry retching. And me as the third representative of the Caucasian race on the street, what am I like?

Aye, what indeed.

Keys, pistol. Pistol, keys.

Nerves are bad.

Keys. But the lock is screwed up and I have to jiggle it. Must tell Ratko, not that he'll fix anything. But guilt-ridden by his laziness, he will invite me down for some foul Polish vodka and Serbian delicacies prepared last year or so by the missus. But at least in my warped brain it'll be home cooking.

Sounds like a plan.

It's 1992 and Serbs are beginning to get a bit of a bad reputation. But it's not so terrible yet. Ratko'll pour me a full tumbler of something clear and awful and we'll toast Gavrilo Princip or Tito or the memory of the bloody Knights of Kosovo and I'll have a cold sausage-and-lard sandwich and another glass and when the drink is sweating me close to a bloody heart attack I'll slink away and stumble up the three floors to the apartment.

Second thought, no.

Inside, Freddie's there doing the mail.

Freddie, I say, and we talk for a minute about sports. Freddie can see I'm beat, though, and lets me go. Nice chap, Freddie.

Go up the stairs. The door. Keys again. Inside. Hotter here than the street. I put on the telly for company. Free cable somehow. I look for something familiar and settle on Phil Spector and John Lennon and some irritated long-haired session musicians being lectured by Yoko Ono on chord progression.

Run the bath. Water comes out brown. Sit on the tub edge and have a brief premonition of the phone ringing and me picking it up and it's Sunshine, come over all ominous, saying that Darkey wants to see me.

I shiver, get up, and take the phone off the hook. Disrobe, climb into the bath. Light a fag. Convince myself that this phone call will never happen. Get out of the bath and actually disconnect the phone from the wall, think for a moment, lock the door, get my gun, check the mechanism, leave it where I can grab it. Climb into the bath again. Sink into nothingness. Sink.

*  *  *

Murmurs, hymnals, and in the vestry quiet whole colonies of insects give me kisses and I'm too buggered to do anything about it. Vodka spills from my mouth. I'm sleeping and on the shores of some immense creature's back, a giant bovine eye and blue nerves and a labyrinth of tentacles. Jesus. I get up out of the water, which is by now cold, and grab a towel.

Later. The phone, the TV. The heat. Fag after fag until the ashtray is full. The fridge works and brings me vodka with ice. Small mercies but mercies nonetheless. I lean back on the sofa and contemplate my surroundings.

And let me describe the beautiful haven Scotchy and Darkey have picked out for me. Not that I'm ungrateful. Took me in, gave me a place. But it's not as if I haven't earned my keep. Only one with two brain cells to rub together. Anyway. They, of course, live in the nice part of the Bronx at the end of the 1 line. But it was full up there, see? Scotchy's claim, anyway. More fool me to believe him. This place apparently is five hundred a month, which comes out of my pay. As did the furniture, which Scotchy admitted later he got all for sweet FA in the street. It's a one bedroom. A toilet whose stink greets you when you come in. Next to it, a bath on little feet and under the bath there are more flora and fauna than David Attenborough could handle with the entire resources of the BBC behind him.

Corridor and kitchen. Forget about swinging a cat, a cat couldn't swing a mouse in here. Gas stove whose pilot light is perpetually going out. Years, perhaps decades, of grease everywhere. Holes in the walls and skirting.

Living room: TV, free cable, a big wooly yellow disgusting sofa.

Bedroom: futon on the floor, cupboard, table, chair.

There is no natural light anywhere. The living room's gray windows overlook a tiny courtyard, the bedroom peers onto the backs of the buildings on 122nd. If you go out onto the fire escape (which I often do) and you set up a chair and look up, now and again, through the skunk trees, you can see a plane or a bit of sky. The fire escape is rusted and rickety and will kill us all when the fire comes, but even so it's the nicest place in the apartment.

The roaches are the big problem. I've been here since last December and I've been fighting a guerrilla war with them ever since. I haven't grown used to their existence. I haven't reached Zenlike tranquillity that allows me and them to share the same territorial and metaphysical space. In Ireland there are no roaches. No creatures of any kind like this. Occasionally, a field mouse would come in the house. Or perhaps a bee or some benign beetle or ladybug. No, nothing like these things.

I respect them now, though. I hate them, but I respect them. I have beheaded them, poisoned them, scalded them, burned them, poisoned them again and somehow they seem to survive. I dropped a liter bottle of Coke once on one big water bug and it lived. I poured a half pound of boric acid on another and put a pot on it that I covered with a brick. I left it there for a week while we all went to Florida for a wake and a funeral for Mr. Duffy's brother. Got back, removed the brick, bastard cleans its antennae and crawls off into the wall. This was about kill two hundred and I had to go and scratch out the table and make it one kill less. The lesson was chastening. Like the RAF pilots in the Battle of Britain, you only report your kill when you see the plane hit the ground.

Anyway, they're everywhere. They crawl on you at night. You hear them in walls. You feed them in the traps. Occasionally they fly. You tell Ratko and he laughs and he shows you his place in the basement. Which if anything is worse.

Still...
rd

The fire escape.

Another fag. Sirens. Dogs barking. People yelling. Smoke, sit there and draw it in and hold it. Hold it. Let it go. Let it all go.

I live on 123rd and Amsterdam. A block away is the edge of the Columbia University security zone and there they call the neighborhood Morningside Heights so that concerned parents don't freak out, which they would if they had to send mail to bloody Harlem. But this is Harlem. There are projects one block to the north, not particularly bad projects but projects nonetheless, and to the east it's the real nightmare. The buildings are derelict and most of them seem to be inhabited by crack cocaine addicts. Morningside Park is pretty hairy after dark and all the way up to 125th Street is no picnic. I stick out, too. I have learned some Spanish and have told myself that thus equipped I can pass as a Dominican. However, my paper white Mick skin is not entirely convincing.

I have no air-conditioning and the fan only moves hot air around the room.

I toss the fag and climb back in through the window. I go to the kitchen and get a beer. Milwaukee Great Gold. It's the worst beer I've ever had — they brew it with corn, if you can believe it. But it's cheap, and if you put the fridge up enough and it gets freezing cold you don't really taste it anyway.

I go back out on the fire escape and watch a few squirrels and way up in the blue the odd ascending vapor trail. The beer goes down and it's almost nice now. The day seems to be getting a little cooler.

The phone rings.

I hardly remember reconnecting it but I must have. Duty, responsibility, that's me.

I let it bleat. It goes on and on and it wears me down. I finish the last of my drink and hurl the can off the side of the rail trying to hit Ratko's pit bull, but I don't and the dog looks up at me and starts barking. I climb in through the fire-escape window and tramp across the bedroom and into the hall. I turn off Nevermind on the cassette player. I pick up the phone.

It's Scotchy. I can tell by that nasally intake of breath before he speaks. He's excited.

Hey, Bruce, something's come up.

Name's not Bruce, I say wearily. Scotchy's perpetual little joke.

Bruce, gotta get uptown. Andy got a hiding. You know Darkey's away, right?

I don't answer him.

Bruce, are you there?

Must have the wrong number mate, no Bruce here. No Bruce, no spider, no cave, no salvation for Bonnie Scotland.

Stop fucking around, Bruce, you dickless wonder, this is serious.

I choose again the path of silent resistance. There is a good fifteen seconds of dead air on the phone. Scotchy starts mumbling and then in a bit of an exponential panic he says:

Hello, hello, hello, oh Jesus, Mike, are you still there?

I'm here, I say with just enough lassitude to irritate the hell out of him.

Well, what the fuck? Christ. Jesus man, I'm holding the fucking ship, you know. Look, Andy got a hiding and Sunshine and Darkey are out of the picture, so I'm the boss, right?

You're the boss? I say, hoping to convey as skeptical a tone as if he's just told me that he is, in fact, Anastasia, lost daughter of Tsar Nicholas the Second.

Aye, he says, my clever intonation going over his head.

Is that how the chain of command goes? I ask in a more neutral voice.

Aye, it does.

Fergal's been with Darkey a wee bit longer than you, hasn't he? I ask mischievously.

Fergal's an idiot, Scotchy says.

Pot calling the kettle black? I suggest.

Bruce, I swear to God, I'll fucking come down there, he says, right on the verge.

Line of succession bumps you up is what you're claiming, I say.

Yes. De factso, I'm in charge, he says, a bit hesitant with the Latin.

De facto, surely, Scotchy, I say condescendingly, to really take the piss.

He's angry now.

Look, I'm in charge and I'm giving the fucking orders, so get the fuck up here, you bastard, he says.

Keep going, Scotchy. I have to admit you've almost convinced me with your earthy machismo.

Jesus Christ, were you put on this planet to fucking give me a stroke? Fuck me. Will you stop acting the fucking eejit, stop wanking off down there and get up here, Scotchy barks out in frustration.

Is he all right, is he in the hospital? I ask with belated concern about our Andy.

No, he isn't, he's over here. Bridget's looking after him. We're maybe taking him to the hospital. He'll be ok, though. Shovel, you know. That lamebrain Fergal thought it was the fucking Mopes but it was fucking Shovel. I know it. I mean big Andy. Shovel must have been half tore. Andy was unconscious, in the street, in the street, Bruce, hasn't come round yet, I mean he...

I'm not listening because I don't care. I don't care what Shovel has done or what has happened to Andy or what Scotchy is going to do about it. I don't giving a flying fuck but of course he tells me everything anyway. The boss has gone and he, Scotchy, is going to take the initiative. Lesser men than me could foresee trouble in the tea leaves. Scotchy's always been an ill-starred unlucky lout and chances are we'll go over to Shovel's house, me and him, and then Shovel or Shovel's girlfriend will end up throwing hot fat on us or shooting us or calling the bloody peelers or sticking our fingers in the toaster or something worse. That would be typical of Scotchy. 'Course, whatever happened he would live and in the incident I'd be blinded in one eye or lamed or scarred for life. That would just be the way of it.

Suddenly a thought occurs to me.

If he hasn't spoken, how do you know it was Shovel? I ask.

Stands to reason, doesn't it? He was over at Shovel's asking for cash; Shovel had already told me he wasn't paying nothing. Bastard must have got Andy in the street, from behind.

Oh yeah, stands to reason, Sherlock. Clearly that's the only fucking explanation, I mutter sarcastically.

Fucksake, Bruce, you fucker. Fucking fucker. Listen to me, you insubordinate wanker, just get the fuck up here, Scotchy yells furiously.

Oh Scotchy, keep your hair on. Look, I'm on my way, ok? I say with just a hint of deference now.

Scotchy hangs up. I take the phone and kill a water bug on the wall with it. I hang up and go back into the bedroom and close the window.

I'm going to have to take the train after all. This also is typical and it'll cost me another token. I sigh and splash water on my face. I get my jacket, and in case it's going to be an all-nighter I put cigs, reading material, matches, and cash in the pockets. I pull on my Doc Martens, brush my hair, shove in extra ammo, the wee .22, and go out.

*  *  *

I know at least five Scotchys. Scotchy Dunlow, who beat the shit out of me every Friday night at Boy's Brigade for seven years. Scotchy McGurk, who was a player and whom I personally saw drop half a cinder block on some guy's chest for a tremendously minor reason and who got shot in a typically botched robbery on a bookie's. Scotchy McMaw, who lost a hand in a train-dodge accident in Carrickfergus and who was quite the weird one after that but who ended up saving a boy's life when they were out fishing in a boat, swimming to shore with one arm and later getting some bravery award from Princess Diana. Scotchy Colhoun, who also was a bad lad and got himself nicked for racketeering and murder and went in the Kesh (though he must be out by now because of the Peace Process). Finally, of course, is our Scotchy, Scotchy Finn. None of them needless to say has or ever had any connection whatsoever with Scotland. How they all became Scotchy is a matter of mystery to me and probably them as well.

Scotchy Finn himself does not know. He grew up in Crossmaglen and then Dundalk, which, if you know Ireland at all, could only mean one thing. And sure enough, it turns out his da, ma, three brothers, two uncles, and an aunt were all at one point in the Lads. They started Scotchy early and he did time at some kind of juvenile prison for something. He says it grew too hot for him across the sheugh, which is why he ended up first in Boston and then the Bronx. To be honest, I'm a bit skeptical about all his stories of "ops" and "encounters" with the Brits, the Proddies, the Intelligence Corps, the SAS, and the cops. He says it was the Irish peelers, the Garda Síochána, that gave him his limp for petrol smuggling (a limp that only ever appears when he wants sympathy for something), but I heard from Sunshine he fell off the roof of a parked car after he'd had eleven pints at Revere Beach. This was before he started working for Darkey, and you can't really imagine Scotchy at the beach because his skin is as thin and pale as fag paper and he looks like yon boy that gets beat up at the beginning of the Charles Atlas ads. Red hair, white skin, bad teeth, bad smell disguised by bad musk and that's our Scotchy. I don't know how long he's been here. Ten years, fifteen? He still has a Mick accent (funny one too, touch of the jassboys Crasssmaglayn) but he has Yank clothes and Yank sensibility to money and girls. He doesn't whine on about the Old Country like some wanks ya run into, which I suppose at least singles him out from your average Paddy bastard. That's not to say that he's likable. Not at all. Sleekiter wee shite you'd be hard pressed to meet, but he's ok if you don't mind that kind of thing, which personally I sort of do. He's a bloody thief, too, and he robs me blind behind my back, and if I wasn't the new boy on the block I'd say something but I am and I'm not going to.

Our man, our fearless leader for one night only, thank God. Typical that it would be this night Scotchy was running the show. For, of course, I wasn't to know, but tonight was going to be a night that helped set off a whole wonderful series of violent and unpleasant events. Indeed, the only caveat you'll get is right now when I say that if someone grows up in the civil war of Belfast in the seventies and eighties, perhaps violence is his only form of meaningful expression. Perhaps.

The train ride was uneventful. I brought a book with me about a Russian who never gets out of bed. Everyone was upset with him, but you could see his point of view. I got off at the end of the line and walked up the steps. It was this walk every day that was the only thing at all keeping me in shape. These steps that separated Riverdale from the rest of the Bronx. Hundreds of the buggers. When the Bronx rises up to kill us, at least we'll have the high ground, Darkey says.

I was nearly up, hyperventilating, almost at the Four P., when one of the old stagers grabbed me. It was dark and he scared the shite out of me. Mr. Berenson was in his seventies, very frail, and was hard pressed to frighten anyone, but I suppose I was feeling jumpy. I didn't really know Mr. Berenson and only found out his name later. Much later, when it had all started to go pear-shaped and I felt bad and he was topped and I did some research and discovered he wasn't really called Berenson at all, but was actually some East German geezer who'd changed his name because probably he worked for Himmler in Poland or something. Anyway, he's not at all important in the big picture, so I'll just say that he was stooped, with one of those vague East European accents that you think only exist in the movies. His fingers were stained with nicotine; he was waving them in my face and he was in a mood.

You wor for Scoshy? he said.

No, I work with