Winter tapped a big finger on the top of his beer can. ‘Wasn’t what I meant, boss.’
‘No?’
‘No. If your mission was to secure those documents, would you bomb the plane?’
Gallen’s left temple bulged with his pulse. ‘No. I’d want the documents, not a bunch of ashes.’
‘Okay,’ said Winter. ‘So whoever wanted the documents didn’t bomb the plane.’
‘And whoever bombed the plane wasn’t after the documents?’
‘Right.’
‘You’re saying there’s two crews, working separate?’
‘I can’t see it any other way.’
Gallen’s burns itched in his right leg. ‘Shit.’
Winter nodded. ‘I think we’re being sandwiched.’
CHAPTER 37
They bought pitchers of beer and made pigs of themselves with the wings special, but it didn’t feel like old times. It felt like a bunch of guys in their mid-thirties in a sea of people in their early twenties.
Barry Teague wouldn’t shut up about his internal postal service politics and Murray Davis, who’d lost as much weight as hair since his senior year of high school, sat looking morose. Tony Eastman tried to get Gallen to support his post-divorce misogyny.
The Muskrats appeared on the tiny corner stage just after eight o’clock and Barry’s shepherd’s whistle sounded wrong in an atmosphere where the youngsters were pretending they didn’t care. Which they probably didn’t, thought Gallen, seeing how many of them were fiddling with their cell phones.
The four-piece looked like the kind of men that Roy used to employ in the old days: lots of moustaches and beards, non-ironic cowboy hats and old Wranglers with a new seat sewed into them. It was the same look Gallen remembered from the prom, except back then the Muskrats had turned up in their tuxedos and played a selection of songs that didn’t stray too far from Lynyrd Skynard, Garth Brooks and Hank junior, perhaps throwing in some Creedence and Chuck Berry to boogie it up.
Ensuring the waitress was happy with her tips, they kept the pitchers coming, and when Gallen turned to signal for another he saw her: Yvonne, dolled up, looking hot in jeans, boots and a down-filled vest. She saw him and waved, smiling. Gallen wondered if he should go to the bar and apologise for not taking her out, or sit and wait for her to come over.
Turning back to his buddies, he caught the smiles.
‘Jesus, look at Yvonne,’ said Barry, raising his eyebrows. ‘Shit, she gets better with age.’
‘She’s out of our league,’ said Tony, sneering.
‘Try telling GG that,’ said Barry.
Gallen smiled in his beer. ‘Cut it out.’
‘Yvonne’s back on the market.’ Barry winked at Tony. ‘She’s divorced. Know that, Tones?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, another chance for the sisterhood to destroy us, right? Steal our balls, hide ‘em in a vice.’
The rest of them laughed and Tony put his beer down, looking betrayed. ‘You won’t be laughing when you wake up one day and they’re runnin’ the joint. Day’s comin’.’
The Muskrats were ending their first set and, leaping to his feet, Gallen decided to cut off the innuendo before Yvonne wandered into the ambush.
‘Thought I’d scared you off,’ she said. She was standing beside the bar with her arms crossed, smelling great.
Gallen smiled. ‘You did.’
‘So?’
‘So I was kind of tricked into this by a bunch of idiots,’ said Gallen, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Nothing like a wings night to get this crew off their asses.’
Behind Yvonne, a man in a sports jacket and chinos ordered chardonnay and was told all they had was white wine.
‘You know Rob — Rob Stansfield, a lawyer in Clearmont?’
‘Sure,’ said Gallen, shaking hands with Wes Carty’s partner in law. ‘How you doin’, Rob?’
‘Good, thanks, Gerry,’ the lawyer said, trying to divert Yvonne to a booth at the rear of the bar.
‘You could join us,’ said Gallen. ‘Were up the front.’
Seeing Rob hesitating, not wanting his date to be hijacked, Gallen pointed to the gents and walked away, heart thumping.
As he stood at the urinal, he felt a buzzing from the pre-paid cell phone he’d bought in a Clearmont convenience store. Only one person knew his new number.
‘Kenny,’ he said, lowering his voice.
‘… news…’ said the Canadian as the noise of an argument drifted through the slat window over the urinal.
‘What’s that?’ said Gallen, zipping and trying to keep the phone to his ear.
As he tried to pick up Kenny Winter’s words, raised voices came from outside the washroom. He heard Yvonne, and she was shrieking.
Pushing through the rear door into the car park, Gallen scoped the ground: Rob the lawyer, doubled over against a dark F-250, a man about to kick him in the stomach. Closer to the door, Yvonne struggled with a tall blond man who had her by the wrists.
‘Piss off, Brandon,’ said Yvonne, trying to kick her former husband. ‘Piss off!’
‘Where’s ya boyfriend now, eh, Evie?’ said Brandon, enjoying himself. ‘What’s he gonna do about it? ‘
Pushing Yvonne away as Gallen approached, Brandon Robinson faced off. Ignoring the former football star, Gallen walked around him to where Rob groaned on the concrete. His assailant saw Gallen and reached into his windbreaker.
Pulling up, Gallen saw a dark Beretta 9mm levelled at his forehead as the man smiled. He was taller than Gallen and younger, with a short haircut and a swarthy complexion that made him look part-Mexican or Hawaiian.
‘This what you lookin’ for, brother?’ said the man, extending the gun at Gallen’s face. ‘Huh?’
‘Looking out for Rob,’ said Gallen, slowly raising his hands as he nodded at the writhing lawyer. ‘Dude’s a lawyer. He’s not in this.’
‘Oh, he’s in this,’ said the man. ‘Touchin’ what ain’t his puts him right in this.’
‘You mean Yvonne?’
‘The fuck you think, Einstein?’
‘Well, lookee here,’ came Brandon Robinson’s voice from over Gallen’s right shoulder. ‘It’s our war hero.’
‘Gotta stop drinking, Brandon,’ said Gallen, still looking at the gun. ‘Brings out the bitch in you.’
‘Stop it, Brandon,’ yelled Yvonne, and Gallen heard the door to the bar swing open.
‘Hear that, hero?’ said Brandon, putting his hand on the back of Gallen’s neck. ‘Evie’s gonna save—’
Gallen swung a reverse punch, opening his hips and straightening his right fist with the forearm as it accelerated into Brandon Robinson’s face. It felt like hitting a watermelon, a few sobs of pain the only indication that he’d just flattened Robinson’s nose.
Keeping his eyes on the shooter as Robinson fell to the ground, Gallen put his hands up again. ‘Put down the gun, eh, sport? What’s your name?’
‘Don’t worry about my name,’ said the thug.
‘Not worried. Just asked you what it was.’
‘Gerry, don’t,’ came Yvonne’s voice, but Gallen was focused on the tough guy with the gun.
‘You want my gun?’ said Gallen as softly as he could and still be heard. Behind him the bubble of voices suggested drinkers spilling into the car park with the promise of a fight.
His eyes darting to Brandon Robinson and back, the shooter gulped again. ‘Sure. Let’s wrap this up.’
‘Let’s,’ said Gallen, pulling his cheap Nokia from his back pocket and throwing it through the night air at the gun man. As the thug’s eyes followed the arc of the phone, Gallen moved forward, sliding his boots across concrete in a boxer’s shuffle. The gunman recovered and brought the Beretta level again as Gallen hit the gun hand sideways with a left block and drove a fast punch into the other man’s mouth. As the shooter lost balance, Gallen grabbed the gun wrist and threw a savage elbow into the thug’s teeth, developing power with a turn of his hips.