small room, facing the door, a bottle of Irish whiskey and three shot glasses in front of him. Court noticed that the man had changed shirts. He now wore a blue on black rugby jersey, open loose at the collar and straining tight around his thick midsection. Perhaps his favorite team?
Slattery looked up at him for a long time. He took one of the shot glasses and turned it upside down. He had been expecting two guests, no doubt the two left lying in the street. Dougal recovered, lifted a second glass slowly. “Care for a drink, lad?” He was nervous, clearly; his low voice cracked.
Court scanned the room quickly. His weapon remained pointed at his target’s forehead as he did so. He spoke softly but with calm conviction. “Hands where I can see them.”
Slattery complied. “Did ya kill ’em?”
“The rugby boys? No, they’ll be okay.” He added, “Eventually.”
Slattery nodded. Shrugged. “Like a knife through butter, was it?”
“Not much trouble, no.”
“They’d have been no match if they weren’t pissed. Have a seat first, will ya? I have some grand whiskey here.”
Court continued searching the room for threats, all senses alert. His target seemed oddly resigned to what was going on, but that could have been some sort of deception.
“No.”
The big man shrugged again. “Then maybe you’ll let me have a drink first.” He didn’t wait. He poured Old Bushmills into a shot glass, tossed it back into his open throat, placed the glass back in front of him, and refilled it.
Court moved to the window. He flipped the overhead off on the way. Shrouded in darkness now, he looked down into the street.
Slattery said, “There’s no one coming. Just the two you met already. Even if they can still walk, they won’t be walkin’ this way, I promise ya that.”
Court checked the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. They were alone. The Irishman just sat at the table, facing the doorway. He shot another whiskey. Refilled the glass again.
Waiting patiently.
When Gentry stepped back in front of him, Slattery put his hand around the bottle, tipped it towards his guest. He said, “Sure ya won’t have a wee drop? I always found it helpful back when I was on the job.” Court shook his head. Focused fully on his target, his Makarov rose. Dougal Slattery spoke quickly. “Look, pal. I know ya gotta do it. No argument from me. I was on the job once, and I know the score. There’s just one thing. A little favor. I got a kid. Not a kid, he’s ’bout thirty now, I guess. He’s in Galway.”
“Do I look like I give a shit?”
“He’s got the Down syndrome. Good boy, but he can’t look after himself. No ma—she was an aul whore in Belfast, OD’d twenty some-odd years back. I’ve got him in private care. I’m all the boy has.”
“I could not possibly care less.”
“I’m just sayin’. I send money, enough to keep him out of state care.”
Court pulled the Mak’s hammer back with his thumb.
Dougal kept talking, faster. “Without the money he’ll go to state care. It’s a fecking mess, believe me. Me boy is my punishment for me life. You can have me fecking life, mate, but don’t make him pay for it.”
It occurred to Court that he should have just put a bullet through the man’s head when he walked through the door.
“Everyone leaves someone behind. I can’t help you.”
“No, you can’t help me. But you can help him. I’m askin’ for twenty-four hours. One bleeding day, and I’ll knock over a bank or a currency exchange or something. There’s an armored car that makes stops up and down Dawson Street in the afternoons. A lot of options for a quick job. If I just had time for a score, I could get some money to the home so he’ll be set. If I had any idea you were coming for me, I’d have done it already, but this is a bit of a surprise. I’ve been off the job for a long time. I thought I was out of it. Look. I won’t run. I’ll send the home in Galway one hundred percent by wire tomorrow afternoon and then I’ll come back here and you can drop me dead. I swear on me ma’s grave. You’ll get your payday for me scalp, I’ll get me boy the money he needs so he can be looked after when I’m gone. I’m sitting here now showing you respect. Showing you that I’m not a