I’d thought of staying elusive, stalk the neighbourhood, get to Stapleton by stealth. Truth was, I was tired, playing hide and seek wasn’t something I could find the energy for. Come evening, I went, had a few drinks, being cautious without being obvious.
And got a wallop to the side of my head, followed by a kick to the balls, I was down and hurting, bad.
Stapleton.
He hunkered down, grabbed me by my hair, said “Fooking amateur, I could kill you right now, but thing is, I want me money.”
He stood up, in his left hand was a bowie knife, he said, “On your feet, lad, I need to get you focused, see this knife, I bought it downtown, they have a grand selection in this neck of the woods.”
I managed to get up on one knee and get a good look at him, his body was relaxed, the born fighter, the knife loosely held. He’d done this before, a lot, and more, he relished it. The up-close-and-personal gig, that was where he lived. My own time in the British army was going to have to serve me very well now, I tried to get into that zone they had drilled into us but when you’ve had a kick in the balls, it’s a little hard to concentrate, I croaked,
“Where’s my girl?”
He mimicked me exactly:
“My girl, that’s fooking lovely, warms the cockles of me heart.”
Then his hand moved and the knife opened a gash on my right cheek, from my eye to my mouth. He said,
“I could have taken your eye, and what would you do, beside piss and moan.”
Arizona has lots of dust, gets on your shoes, in your hair, but right now I was glad of it, grabbed a handful and threw it in his eyes, he staggered back and I followed, throwing sucker punches to his kidneys, ribs, and two granite ones to his head. He didn’t go down, the bastard was in terrific shape, the slash from the knife to my face kicked in and combined with the agony in my groin, I faltered, lost my advantage, I’m sure if I’d been able to continue my assault, I’d have killed him there and then with my bare hands.
He used the moment to pull a pistol from his waist, said,
“Whoa, back off, tiger, unless you want the Falls Road special, lose one of your kneecaps.”
We were both breathing heavily and he said,
“We got us a Mexican standoff, you think... so here’s the deal, you bring me the money in twenty-four hours, I’ll tell you where to find the girl.”
I managed to gasp,
“And what, I’m supposed to trust you?”
He gave a sour laugh, said,
“Like you have a choice.”
And he was gone.
I got back to my room, poured whiskey onto the wound and howled, managed to apply a series of Band-Aids to it, took a look at my own self in the mirror. I saw a seriously fucked, desperate face.
Next morning, at breakfast, I’d ordered pancakes, coffee. More caffeine than food. My guts were a knife of tension. A group of Canadians at the next table, I was half listening when I heard,
“Yes, murdered right outside, an Irishman.”
I tried not to react, kept still and listened. What I could gather, was, in the early hours of the morning an Irish male had been robbed, knifed to death, he’d been a guest at the motel. I waited but they’d moved on, were planning a trip to Tombstone, see a reenactment of the OK Corral. I went to reception, got directions to the local newspaper office. A girl in her twenties at the desk there, big smile, my accent was holding as she asked,
“You from New York?”
I nodded and she said,
“I want to do a journalism major, I applied to Manhattan, is it like, really exciting?”
I curbed my impatience, said,
“Never sleeps.”
She stared into space, imagining the new life, seeing herself in a loft in Chelsea, bagels and lox for breakfast.
Yeah.
Then she focused, asked,
“Sorry, what was that again?”
I repeated my request for the early morning paper. When she got it, I reached for my wallet, she looked behind her, said,
“No charge.”
I put the stuff under my arm, said,
“See you on Coney Island.”
I read the paper with a sense of shock, relief, agitation, and disappointment. The accounts reported how an Irishman, identified from his wallet as a John A. Stapleton, had been robbed and murdered. Police had been unable to find relatives or family of the deceased. A spokesman for the Tucson cops said they were treating it as mugging gone wrong. Finally, they were pursuing a definite line of inquiry.
Bollocks.
They had nothing.
The next few days I spent in a state of disbelief, couldn’t accept he was dead. Was life so random that he’d run into a mugger and was taken by surprise. ’Course, he would have been less alert than usual, after our encounter. Didn’t think I’d ever have the answer. Frustrated, I rang Mike, who owned the music store I’d worked in. He was amazed to hear me and sounded... cautious? Went,
“Steve, good lord... where are you?”
By rote, I said,
“London.”
Silence and I had to prompt,
“Mike, you still there?”
“Yes, I’m... I don’t know what to say.”
I tried,
“It’s okay, I’m fine.”
“She was a lovely girl, I’m so sorry.”
Oh god, sweet Jesus, I asked,
“What did you say?”
He took a deep breath,
“When she, sorry, Siobhan, when her body washed up on the beach, we were stunned.”
I put the phone against my forehead, needing a moment, cold sweat was popping out in streams, heard Mike go.
“Steve?”
I struggled to keep my voice in check, asked, “Was there an inquest, did it say it was drowning?”
