“How did they get the card?”
“They say they found the wallet in the street. One of the agents from our LA office is seeing them this afternoon, but they stuck to the same story all day yesterday. If they did lift it, we’ll get a description eventually. The other card is still loose.”
Howard nodded. “Okay. Look, I’m going up to see Sheldon at noon. I’d like you there.” She nodded and went back to studying the photographs.
“There’s nothing that warms my heart more than to see a good Catholic boy on his knees,” laughed Shorty.
“Why don’t you join me, and while you’re here you can plant a big wet one on my arse,” replied Joker. He was kneeling in front of the low-level shelves where the bottled beer and soft drinks were stored, restocking and making sure that all the labels were facing outwards, like soldiers on parade.
“I’d love to, but I’ve arranged to meet a young lady over in Queens, and if I’m not there in an hour she’ll as likely start without me.” The small man took off his apron and retrieved his jacket from a hook on the wall. “You’ll be okay minding the shop on your own?”
“Sure, Shorty, no sweat. You enjoy yourself.”
Shorty winked as he walked by the bar, heading for the door and the sunshine. “I surely intend to, Damien.”
“And give her one for me!” Joker shouted after him, standing up and stretching. He carried the empty crates into a storage room, then went back to the bar and began slicing lemons and limes. There were only three customers: two old men in tweed jackets and caps sitting at a round table playing cribbage and a long-haired young man in torn jeans who was nursing a half-pint of Guinness. He was one of the two teenagers who’d been collecting for the IRA when Joker had first visited Filbin’s on St Patrick’s Day, the one who’d held out the bucket. His name was Dominic Maguire, though everyone called him Beaky because of his large nose, and he was a regular visitor to the bar, both as a fund-raiser and as a customer.
“So how’s it going today, Damien?” asked Beaky.
“Slow,” said Joker, scraping the fruit slices into a bowl. He washed the knife in the small sink under the bar. “Where’s John today? John Keenan was Beaky’s friend and the two were practically inseparable.
“Over in the Bronx, seeing a lawyer. He’s hoping for a shot at the next Green Card lottery.”
“Good luck to him,” said Joker. “You want another?”
Beaky shrugged. “I’m a bit short, to be honest, Damien.”
“That’s okay,” said Joker, taking his almost empty glass and refilling it. “You can have this on me.”
Beaky grinned. “Yer a saint, thanks a lot.”
Joker poured himself a double measure of Famous Grouse and added a splash of water. He raised the glass to Beaky. “Cheers,” he said. He savoured the whisky as Beaky returned the salute. “I hope John gets his Green Card,” he added.
“Don’t see it makes any difference,” said Beaky.
“There’s plenty of guys can get you a counterfeit one if yez needs it. Me, I wouldn’t even bother.”
“Why’s that?”
“Once they get their claws into you, they never let go,” said Beaky. “The IRS get onto you, immigration keep checking on you, it’s too much hassle. I get paid in cash, no tax, no fingerprints on file, no nothing. I’ve been here three years with never a problem.”
“But what if you want to leave?”
“No sweat, I can get a fake I-94 and a stamp in my passport, that’s all you need. When you leave, the airline looks at the 1-94 and they take it off you and send it to INS. They don’t know shit. They’re not trying to stop people leaving, they just don’t want to let you in.” He took a mouthful of the dark stout and wiped the foam off his upper lip.
“It’s as easy as that?” asked Joker.
“Depends who you know,” said Beaky. “Why, you want something doing?”
Joker shook his head. “Nah, I’m okay so far. But I’ll let you know.” He finished his whisky and helped himself to another. “Say, a friend of mine was in New York some time ago, said he was trying to get a Green Card, maybe you know him. Matthew Bailey.”
Beaky put his head on one side like a parrot listening to a sound it hadn’t heard before. “Bailey? Yeah, a carrot top, right?”
Joker nodded. “Hair like a fox, that’s him.”
“Where was it I saw him? Yeah, I know, O’Ryan’s Bar. Sometime last year. He was planning to go to Washington, I think.”
At the mention of Washington, Joker’s stomach lurched. That was where Pete Many on’s body had been found.
“Do you know where I can get hold of him?” asked Joker.
“Yeah, he was going to see a guy called Patrick Farrell, a pilot who runs some sort of aircraft leasing company between Washington and Baltimore.”
“You don’t know the name of it, do you?” asked Joker. “I’d really like to get in touch with Matthew if it’s possible.”
“No, but I’ll ask around,” said Beaky.
The last thing Joker wanted was for Beaky to go around asking questions about Bailey, but he knew that to refuse the man’s offer would only raise suspicion. He took Beaky’s glass, refilled it and then turned the subject to a robbery which had taken place just three streets away, leaving a husband and wife and their young daughter dead from knife wounds. As they talked, Joker’s mind was racing. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down a pilot called Patrick Farrell.
Howard looked at his watch. It was five minutes before noon. On his way to the elevator he looked into Kelly’s office. She’d gone and he wasn’t surprised to find her already sitting opposite Sheldon’s desk. “Cole, come in, sit down,” said Sheldon, waving him to the seat next to Kelly. “Kelly’s just been updating me on your progress.”
“That’s decent of her,” said Howard, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“These new photographs are really quite something,” continued Sheldon, as if he hadn’t heard Howard. “I’m quite hopeful that we’ll strike gold with these.”
“They’re certainly a big improvement,” agreed Howard. “Did Kelly tell you about the bank accounts of Lovell and Schoelen?”
“She did, and I’ve already approved the subpoena of the telephone records, our legal boys are doing the paperwork now. Same goes for the phone tap.”
Howard nodded. Sheldon toyed with a pencil thoughtfully. “The Justin Davies credit card turned up in Los Angeles, I gather. What are your feelings on that?”
“I think it’s a set-up,” said Howard quietly. “I think they dumped the card, hoping that it’d be picked up and be used.”
“So where should we be looking for these snipers?”
Howard was about to speak, but Kelly got in first. “I’ve already spoken to the two rifle manufacturers — Barrett and Horstkamp. They’re going through their sales records now. They sell mainly through dealers, so it’ll be a question of approaching them for names and addresses.”
Howard’s mouth dropped. It had been his idea to track down the rifles, but she’d made it sound as if the brainwave was hers. “That’s good,” said Sheldon.
“That and the telephone tap are just about our only leads on the snipers,” said Howard. “Unless the telephone records show up anything. Incidentally, I’d like more manpower, it’s going to take some legwork.”
“How many were you thinking of?” asked Sheldon, tapping his pencil on his blotter.
“Two should be enough at this stage.”
Sheldon nodded. “Consider it done. Let me have a look at the rosters and I’ll give you names this afternoon. Now, how are the computer experts getting on with their sniping program?”