‘Yeah, the cheques Roy’s been sending.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s been a couple.’
‘There’s been twenty-three, Leanne,’ said Gallen, staying calm, just like they taught him in the Marines. Before you can control a situation, you must first control yourself.
‘Now look, Gerry—’
‘The cheque-book stubs say renovations and services and investment,’ said Gallen. ‘I’m a trustee of Sweet Clover. Thought I’d come down, see what we’re getting for our money.’
‘That ain’t none of your concern, young man,’ said the woman, a darkness building behind the makeup and peroxide bangs. ‘That’s private. You don’t come in here—’
‘I’m a trustee of the farm and a signatory to the bank accounts,’ said Gallen. ‘It’s not private.’
‘That’s between Roy and me.’
‘There’s just under eighty thousand of the farm’s cash invested in this place. That’s between you and me.’
‘How dare you,’ she said. Employees looked up from their foils and hair-dryers. ‘You’re as bad as your mother.’
‘Not quite, Leanne,’ said Gallen. ‘I ain’t walked out on Roy just ‘cos he’s a drunken cheat.’
‘That’s it! Get out, you damn redneck.’ Leanne bustled around the counter, hugging her tiger-stripe shirt like armour. ‘I don’t need no Gallen money, never did. Now git.’
Gallen walked into the sun on Water Street, one road back from the bustle of Clearmont’s main street. Leanne Tindall had been toying with Roy Gallen since long before the divorce, keeping her own husband on ice while leeching money out of the lust-struck cattle farmer. Roy’s accountant had tried to intervene and he’d been fired; the solicitor was banned from seeing the cheque book. Now Leanne was divorced too and pulling money out of Roy like he was a walking teller machine.
Sitting in the diner, Gallen ordered coffee and pie and played with his cell phone. Beside him, a man stood and cleared his voice.
‘That Gerry? Roy’s boy?’
Gallen looked up into a fleshy face with dead eyes. Frank Holst, still talking the talk, still wearing his real estate brokerage blazer like it was something to be proud of.
‘Frank,’ said Gallen. ‘How’s business?’
‘Fantastic, Gerry,’ Holst said, flecks of dandruff on his shoulder catching the sun.
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Something might interest you,’ said Holst, his voice switching to the same small-town gossip tone that he’d once used in the barber chair as he accused Roy of drinking away the farm.
‘I see.’
‘Just closed on a farm, up on the forty-two.’
‘Nice for you,’ said Gallen.
‘Maybe nice for you, eh Gerry? A new class of neighbour? ‘
‘I’m sorry…?’
Holst’s eyebrows rose and fell and he licked his lips. ‘Sold the Fenton place to guess who?’
‘Have no idea, Frank.’
‘Yvonne McKenzie. Remember her?’
Gallen’s ears roared. ‘Yvonne?’
‘Yep. Didn’t you hear?’
‘I guess not.’
‘Divorced that football player. She’s coming home.’
‘Shit,’ said Gallen.
‘Oh yeah,’ leered Frank Holst. ‘Y-vonne!’
CHAPTER 6
Gallen moved off the United flight with the foot traffic, towards the arrivals concourse at T3. Fifty feet ahead of him he could see Kenny Winter’s short blond hair moving past the shopping malls and cell phone kiosks of LAX.
‘Move to your four and wait for contact,’ said Gallen into his cell phone earpiece. ‘I just want to know about the cavalry.’
‘Got it, boss.’ Winter’s head moved through the crowds to the right of the milling area. Gallen remained on the upper level, looking down on the concourse as Winter moved into it.
‘See the big bald guy near the doors?’ asked Gallen, hiding behind a flag-like marketing installation for Verizon.
‘Got him,’ said Winter. ‘Sign says “Clearmont”.’
‘On the other side of the entry doors, check the Anglo male reading the magazine. I’ve got him as a spook.’
‘Copy that,’ said Winter, and Gallen watched his employee slip behind a group of Koreans.
‘I think that’s all we have in the concourse,’ said Gallen, scanning the vast hall, his old instincts coming back to him fast. Special forces wasn’t anything like it was in the movies. Ninety-five per cent of the gigs were pure recon missions: get in, mind someone else’s business, and then get out. And do it clean.
‘If we assume they’re fixed, I might look on the apron,’ said Winter.
‘Assume they’re fixed for now,’ said Gallen, getting cover from a businessman on his BlackBerry. ‘Move down to the south entry and have a look for nondescript Crown Vics with UPIs.’
‘That’s a broad description, boss,’ said Winter, his head moving south.
‘You’ll know it if you see it. Like every blank Crown Vic you ever saw in the Army.’
‘Filled with clipboards, you mean?’ Winter was referring to the military managers who usually rode in such cars.
Gallen had bought a ticket for Winter and flown him down on the same flight that Paul Mulligan had booked him on. Gallen wanted to do basic surveillance on Mulligan before trusting him.
‘I’m getting our parcel,’ said Gallen. ‘RV here ten minutes, can do?’
‘Can do, boss,’ said Winter, disappearing behind the Hertz office.
The woman behind the counter didn’t ask too many questions, just wanted his driver’s licence and a signature.
Taking the FedEx box that he’d sent the previous afternoon, Gallen made for the men’s washroom on the ground level of T3, took a booth and slowed his breathing as he waited for noises out of pattern.
After forty seconds of waiting — listening to the consequences of bad food, stress and flying — Gallen ran his thumbnail down the end of the purple and white box, and opened it. Putting his hand inside, he pulled out the Ruger automatic that usually lived under the seat of the Ford, and checked the full spare clip that was held to it by a rubber band. The second weapon was smaller but with bigger firepower: a chromed Colt Defender that shot.45 ACP loads. It looked like a pop-gun but it could put a hole in a man if you knew what you were doing.
Standing, he shoved the guns into his jeans waistband and pulled the hem of the plain black hoodie low over his hips. Whoever had invented the hooded sweatshirt probably never factored in how useful it would be for people like Gerry Gallen.
Pulling his off-white cap down to hide his eyes, Gallen flushed the toilet and walked to the hand basin, keeping his face down to dodge the security camera. He kept his eyes on the ground as he dried off at the paper-towel dispenser, then exited and moved back to the concourse.
Assuming his position on the upper level, he looked down, saw Winter moving back from the south entry.
‘How we looking?’ said Gallen, liking that Bald and Magazine had held their positions.
‘Dark blue Crown Vic, parked in the VIP set-down,’ said Winter. ‘Security asked the driver something — my guess is, driver told him to fuck himself.’
‘Driver?’ said Gallen.
‘Late twenties, Anglo, dark hair. Has a suture plaster over his left eye — no one in back.’
‘Okay,’ said Gallen. ‘Seats at your six. Take the middle one and I’ll leave something for you. Then find a cab, wait for me to get in that Crown Vic, and follow us. Can do?’
‘Can do, boss.’
Gallen seated himself one chair away from Winter and put a motorcycle magazine on the seat between them. Winter’s hand dropped on the magazine and he was gone, now armed with a Ruger .38 and a spare clip.