The Getaway - By Tom Barber Page 0,37

even bigger than he had the night before. He was an intimidating figure. Archer suddenly wished he hadn’t left his dad’s 9mm Sig upstairs in the apartment.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Archer asked.

Farrell raised his hands.

‘Relax. I come in peace.’

‘Like you did last night? I don’t give a shit. How did you know I was staying here?’

‘I had Regan follow you home after the fight,’ Farrell replied, honestly.

Silence. Both men stood there, either side of the small gate, staring at each other, testily. There seemed to be a mutual respect in the air, but no secure trust had yet been earned on either side.

‘So what do you want?’ Archer asked.

‘To go for a drive,’ Farrell said.

Farrell’s car was a silver Ford, a nice model, sleek and fast. Archer knew very little about cars, but it seemed to handle well and his seat was comfortable. They were headed for the Queensborough Bridge, taking the kind of intricate route through Astoria that only a local who had lived here his whole life would know. The Ford had been parked on the kerb outside Jim Archer’s apartment, and the only reason Archer had got in the car with the guy was to further their contact and to try and build some kind of bond. Archer was under no illusions. Much as Gerry wanted his help, he was doing this for himself. The man in the driver’s seat could very well have murdered his father or if not knew who had, and Archer wanted to find out everything Farrell knew about it.

‘You know, I had Regan follow you again today. He said he lost you at Times Square,’ Farrell said, turning right and headed towards the Queensborough.

‘Really?’

‘Where’d you go?’

‘Shopping.’

‘Where are the bags?’

‘Why’d you have him follow me?’ Archer asked, deflecting the question. ‘You’re not doing yourself a lot of favours here.’

Pause.

Farrell didn’t respond.

‘I saw what you did last night,’ he said. ‘I was impressed. That guy’s a real asshole, but he’s a big asshole. I’m a boxing trainer, you see. My girl, Carmen, fights out in East Rutherford every few weeks. Mixed martial arts. I corner her. We’d fight in the city, but it’s still illegal.’

Like that would stop you, Archer thought.

‘You ever fight?’ he asked him.

‘Used to. Boxing though, not MMA. Did some time inside and couldn’t do it anymore when I got out the joint. Lost my cardio, my footwork, everything. Started holding the pads instead of hitting them. Couldn’t throw a good punch anymore.’

‘Looked like you could last night.’

Pause. They started to move over the Queensborough Bridge, Manhattan rolling into view up ahead. Archer looked out of the window at the skyline, trying to stay cool. He was sat next to the man who had quite possibly killed his father. But here they were, having a casual conversation, like two civil strangers. He swallowed, taking a deep breath.

Stay cool.

Stay in control.

Think of the big picture.

‘So England, huh?’ Farrell said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Irish, you know. That should make us enemies.’

‘You making a point?’ Archer said.

Farrell smiled. ‘Just busting your balls. You’re tense, man. Relax. I ain’t gonna bite.’

Pause.

‘So what do you do for a job?’ Farrell asked.

‘Currently unemployed.’

‘You ever serve time?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Keep it that way, trust me,’ Farrell said, as they approached the end of the Bridge. Farrell turned right on 1 and headed uptown, through the Upper East Side and towards Harlem. Archer stayed silent.

‘How well do you know the city?’ he asked.

‘Been here a few times.’

‘Can you drive?’

Gerrard’s voice flashed into Archer’s mind.

They’ll be looking for a new driver.

‘Of course.’

They moved on, through the East 60 Streets and the 70’s. The Upper East Side.

‘Manhattan streets ain’t like the U.K, you know,’ Farrell said.’ It’s a chessboard out here. There’s no alleyways, no hiding places, and you’re on an island. It’s a grid, and there are cops everywhere. You get jammed up, you’d better make sure you know what the hell you’re doing.’

‘I came here a lot growing up. I know the streets.’

A couple of minutes later, Farrell turned left on 110 and drove down to Lexington Avenue, then turned left again and pulled the car to a halt on the kerb, right next to the upper right edge of Central Park, facing south. He applied the handbrake, but kept the engine running.

They sat there in silence, the car facing the long stretch of road heading all the way downtown, the engine humming.

‘So what now?’ Archer asked.

Farrell didn’t reply, and pushed open his door instead.

‘I’ll show you. Step out.’

Archer opened his