Joker took out his wallet. Behind the bar, Shorty polished a glass and watched.
“A dollar buys a bullet for the boys,” said the second youth.
Joker put a five-dollar bill into the bucket.
“Thanks, mister,” said the boy holding the bucket.
“Don’t mention it,” said Joker, smiling.
The two teenagers swaggered off and waved the bucket in front of the construction workers. Joker had seen such IRA fund-raising in Belfast drinking holes but had been surprised to see it so openly in the United States. He wondered if the Americans who poured cash into the IRA’s coffers knew where their money went. Irish-Americans had a romantic view of the IRA: freewheeling freedom-fighters battling an oppressive army which had no reason to be in their country. Joker knew what the flipside was. To him the IRA meant cowardly ambushes, bombs in crowded shopping centres and teenage soldiers shot in the back. Ceasefire or no ceasefire. He drained his glass and went to the bar for a refill. Shorty poured him another double Grouse and gave him a fresh jug of water. “I see you’re contributing to the cause,” he said conversationally.
“Will the money actually get there?” Joker asked.
“Oh, sure enough,” said Shorty, an evil grin on his face. “If they tried ripping off the boys in here, they’d lose their kneecaps before you could say Gerry Adams.” He chortled and put the clean glass back on the gantry. “I’ve been trying to place your accent. Where in Belfast are you from?”
“I moved to Scotland when I was a bairn, and I’ve been in London for a few years,” said Joker.
“Aye, I could tell that, right enough,” said the barman. “What brings you to the Big Apple?”
“Spot of bother with the taxman,” said Joker. “I thought I’d see if I can get work here for a while, until things have cooled down.”
“Yeah? What do you do?”
Joker shrugged. “Bit of everything. I’ve been a brickie, I’ve done some bar work, I pretty much take what I can get.”
“You got a Green Card?”
Joker laughed and raised his glass in salute. “Oh aye, and a return ticket on Concorde.” He leant against the bar and chatted with Shorty, all the while keeping one ear tuned to the Irish construction workers.
“How do I look?” Cole Howard asked, adjusting his tie in the dressing mirror.
“Are you going to wear that tie, honey?” said his wife, standing behind him. Howard sighed. Obviously that had been his intention, but equally obviously Lisa didn’t approve. She went over to his wardrobe and pulled out a blue silk tie she’d bought for him several Christmasses ago. “Try this,” she said, handing it to him. Howard had to admit that she was right. It looked much better with the dark blue suit he was wearing.
Lisa didn’t say anything but she stood next to the dressing table and waited for him to comment on her dress. It was a new one, pale green silk, low over the shoulder and cut to just below her knees. She’d fastened her long blonde hair back in a pony tail, a look which he knew her father preferred. Daddy’s little girl. Around her neck was a thin gold and diamond necklace, a present from Theodore Clayton. “Fabulous,” he said.
“Are you sure?” she said.
Howard could never understand why Lisa was so insecure. She was beautiful, well-educated, a terrific mother to their two children, and the daughter of one of the richest men in the state, yet she constantly sought approval. “Really,” he said, stepping forward and taking her in his arms.
She laughed and pushed him away. “You’ll mess my make-up,” she said.
“You don’t need it,” he said, trying to kiss her again.
She slipped out of his arms. “Later,” she said. “I’ll check on Eddy and Katherine.”
Howard gave himself a final check in the mirror and then went downstairs where their babysitter, the teenage daughter of one of their neighbours, was watching Star Trek. “Hiya, Pauline,” he said.
“Hello, Mr Howard,” she said, her eyes still on the screen. She was a pretty girl, but still at the gawky stage, knowing that men were looking at her in a different way but not sure how she should handle it. It would be another ten years or so before his own daughter reached that stage, but he was already dreading it.
“What’s Captain Kirk up to?” Howard asked.
Pauline looked at him, raised her eyebrows and sighed. “That’s Star Trek, Mr Howard. This is the Next Generation.” She shook her head sadly and turned back to the television, her skirt halfway up her thighs. The girl was fifteen years old and she dressed like a hooker, though Howard knew she was getting straight A’s at High School. Howard wondered how he’d handle Katherine when she began wearing make-up and high heels and wandered around the house without a bra. And the boys, standing on the doorstep with sweating palms, queuing up like dogs around a bitch on heat. So far Howard reckoned he’d done a pretty good job bringing up his two children, but they were still at the stage where they thought he was the bravest, smartest and kindest human being on the planet. Apart from their mother, of course.
Lisa came down the stairs, one of her many fur coats slung over her shoulders. “They’re asleep,” she said to Howard. She gave Pauline the rundown on where they’d be, where the food was and what to do if there was an emergency, then went out to the Jaguar. The green XJS was Lisa’s, another gift from her father, but Howard drove. Theodore Clayton lived a half-hour’s drive away from their house, on an estate in Paradise Valley, to the north of Phoenix. Howard handled the car well, though he drove it only when Lisa was with him. She would have been quite happy for him to use it every day, but he never quite felt comfortable at the wheel. It felt too much like Clayton’s car, and he didn’t like being beholden to his father-in-law. As he drove he was aware of his wife looking at him. He smiled. “What?” he said.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Go on, say it. You were going to say something.”
“Always the FBI agent,” she said.
“But I’m right, right?”
They sat in silence for a while, both watching as the Jaguar swallowed up the miles of road. “Daddy will probably ask again, you know?”
“He does every time we go around,” agreed Howard. “He won’t take no for an answer.”
“He’s used to getting what he wants,” said Lisa. She flipped the sun visor down and checked her make-up in the vanity mirror.
Howard knew she was nervous, as she always was when she was visiting her father. Howard had learnt from experience that it was the worst possible time to start an argument with her. Eventually she broke the strained silence, and her voice was softer. “And if he does ask again?”
Howard shook his head slowly. “The answer’s going to be the same, Lisa. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. I like doing what I’m doing. I like being with the Bureau. I wouldn’t get the same satisfaction as your father’s head of security.”
“You’d get a lot more money, though,” his wife said. It was a discussion they’d had many times, and they’d both expressed their views so often that they talked about it almost on auto-pilot, as if the words no longer had meaning.
“I know, I know,” said Howard. “Maybe in the future; we’ll see. .”
“That’s what you always say,” said Lisa.
“But at least I’m not saying never,” said Howard. “I’m just saying not right now.” Howard’s stomach tightened as he drove off the highway and onto the single track road which led to the Clayton estate. White fences seemed to stretch for miles, enclosing paddocks where sleek Arabian horses stood proudly, their heads turning to follow the Jaguar. The first time he had seen the Clayton house he’d stopped his car and checked the directions Lisa had given him. He’d been going out with her for three months and while it was clear she had money she’d never given him any hint of the magnitude of Theodore Clayton’s wealth. They were both students — he was studying law and she was an English major — and most of their time was spent either in bed or hitting the books, and there had been little time for discussing their families. Howard had never forgotten how nervous he’d been the first time he’d driven his clapped-out Ford Mustang up to the front of the house, and how dry his mouth had been as he’d rung the doorbell. The wait for the door to open had been one of the longest in his life and it had taken all his self-control not to run back to the car and drive off. Even now, more than a decade later, he had the feeling that he didn’t belong and that the door would be slammed in his face.