Page 104 of Hang on St. Christopher

There certainly were no jobs over here.

“Look, I’m really sorry about this. It’s bloody bad luck to get yourself on the front page of theBelfast Telegraphand have your benefit officer read it, and that benefit officer be a total bastard. Do you have any prospects at all?” I asked.

“I have a friend in America. In New York. He says he can get me a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Bar work.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ve money saved, but I need another hundred and fifty quid for my tourist visa and ticket.”

“You’re going to work on a tourist visa? Isn’t that?—”

“It’s what everybody does.”

“Oh, okay... A hundred and fifty quid, you said?”

He nodded. I opened my wallet and peeled off five twenties and a fifty.

“For real?”

“For real. But please don’t make a fool out of me. I don’t want to see you next week in the Dobbins having a big piss up with your mates.”

“I won’t. I’ll go to America. I’ll work for Darkey White. Will you do me a favor, though? Will you look in on my nan from time to time?”

“Sure.”

And after that, I forgot all about Michael Forsythe until this morning. A promise is a promise. I dressed, drove to Rathcoole, and called in on his nan. She was a sprightly old lady who went to church, kept flowerpots, and baked. I asked her how she was doing, and she said that she was doing well.

“How’s your grandson in America?”

“He’s doing very well, so he is. He has his own flat and everything.”

“That’s good.”

“He sent this for you in case you should come by. His friend Tommy brought it over yesterday. Do you know big Tommy?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

She lifted an envelope off the mantel, addressed to “Sean Duffy of the RUC.” The envelope contained three fifty-pound notes and a note that, presumably, Tommy had printed out, which said, “Your name has come up in some strange circles, Duffy. I was asked if I knew you and I said no. If you ever come back to America, I’d be careful if I were you.”

I looked at the note in amazement.

“Where can I find this Tommy? I need to know about this,” I asked the nan, but the Belfast omertà had kicked in. Now she wasn’t sure if it was Tommy or Tony.

“Do you have a contact number for Michael?”

Nope, she didn’t have that either.

I gave her my number and asked her to ask him to give me a call anytime, day or night. As I was leaving, I shoved the fifties into her money box when she wasn’t looking, and made my goodbyes.

I drove to Carrick station, absolutely baffled by this little interaction, and wondered if it could possibly tie into my case.

America?

And what the hell was that Michael kid up to over there?

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