Idly, Mick opened a carved wooden box on the table beside him and arched his brows at the French cigarettes inside. They were vicious in price, and the use of them banned nearly everywhere a body could go.
"Mind?"
"Help yourself."
For friendship, Mick took only one rather than palming a half dozen as he would have otherwise. "Now where was I?" he said as he lit it with a slim gold perma-match out of his pocket. "Ah, yes. Well then, I had half the take in my pocket, and was to meet my… client for the rest of it. Something went wrong. Port Authority garda got wind, raided the warehouse. They were looking for me, as was the client who got it into his head I'd weaseled on the deal."
At Roarke's suspicious frown, Mick laughed and shook his head. "No indeed, I did not. I'd only half my take, so why would I? In any case, I ducked into the pub to think it through and see if I could arrange for some quick and quiet transpo. Getting out was the main thing, what with the cops and the thugs out for my blood. And wouldn't you know it, while I'm sitting there stewing about losing my fee, about going on the run, a fight breaks out."
"A fight in a waterfront pub in Liverpool," Roarke said mildly as he slid two pints of dark, foamy Guinness from the AutoChef. "Who'd believe it?"
"A hell of a one it was, too." Mick took the beer, pausing in his story to raise his glass to Roarke. "To old friends then. Slainte."
"Slainte." Roarke took a seat, tasted the first thick sip.
"Well, I tell you, Roarke, fists and words were flying, and there I was just wanting to keep what you'd call a low profile for the time being. The barman, well, he's got himself a bat and he's banging it on the bar and the patrons are starting to whistle and take up sides. Then the two who started it – and I never heard what set them off – draw knives. I'd've slipped out at that point, but there was no getting past them without risking losing a slice of something off me person, which I wasn't willing to do. It seemed wiser to blend with the crowd, which was taking bets and circling. And some of the onlookers got into the spirit and began to punch each other for the fun of it."
It was easy to picture, and easy to remember how many times they'd started such an evening's entertainment themselves. "How many pockets did you pick during the show?"
"I lost count," Mick said with a grin, "but I made up a small portion of my lost fee. Chairs began to fly, and bodies with them. I couldn't help but get caught up in the thing. And damned if the two who'd started it didn't end up sticking each other. Mortal, too. I could see that right off by the blackness of the blood. And the smell of it. You know how that whiff of death hits the nose."
"Yes, I do."
"Well, most of the crowd backed off then quick enough, and began to disburse like rats leaving a ship. And the barman, he goes to call the cops. So it comes to me, like a flash of light, this one dead man here's my coloring and close to my build as well. So, it's fate, isn't it? Mick Connelly needs to vanish, and how better than to be dead on the floor of a Liverpool pub? I switched IDs with him and ran.
"So Michael Joseph Connelly died bleeding there, as his mother had predicted, and Bobby Pike took the next transpo for London. And that's my story." He drank deep, let out a breath of pleasure. "Christ, it's good to look at that face of yours. We had some times, didn't we? You and me and Brian and the rest."
"We did, yes."
"I heard about what happened to Jenny, and to Tommy and Shawn. It broke my heart knowing they died as they did. There's only you and me and Bri left from the old Dublin gang."
"Brian's in Dublin still. He owns The Penny Pig, and mans the bar himself half the time."
"I've heard it. I'll wind myself back to Dublin town again, and see for myself one day. Do you go back much?"
"No."
Mick nodded. "Not all the memories are good ones, after all. Still, you got well out, didn't you? Always said you would." He rose then, carrying his half-empty pint as he strolled to the glass doors. "Think of it. You own this whole bloody place, and Christ knows what besides. Last years, I've been over the world and off it, and nowhere I've been could I say I haven't heard the name of my old boyhood mate bandied about. Like a damn religion." He turned back and grinned. "Fuck me, Roarke, if I'm not proud of you."
It struck Roarke, oddly, that no one who had known the boy had ever said those words to the man. "What are you doing with yourself, Mick?"
"Oh, bits of business. Always bits of business. And when some of it brought me to New York City, I said to myself, 'Mick, you're going to get yourself a room in that fancy hotel of Roarke's and you're going to look him up.' I'm traveling under my own name again. Time enough's passed since Liverpool. And too much time's passed I'm after thinking since I had a pint with old friends."
"So you've looked me up, and we're having our pint. Now, why don't you tell me what's behind it all?"
Mick leaned back against the door, lifted the pint to his lips, and studied Roarke with those dancing eyes. "There never was any getting over on you. A natural radar you've always had for bullshit. But the fact is what I've told you is true as gold. It just so happens that it occurred to me that you might be interested in some of the business I'm here to conduct. It's a matter of stones. Pretty colorful stones just wasting away in some dark box."
"I don't do that sort of thing anymore."
Mick grinned, let out a short laugh, then blinked as Roarke merely sat watching him. "Oh come now, this is Mick. You're never going to tell me you've retired those magic hands of yours."
"Let's just say I've put them to different uses. Legal ones. I haven't needed to pick pockets or lift locks in some time."
"Need, who said anything about need?" Mick said with a bluster. "You've a God-given talent. And not just your hands, but your brain. Never in my life have I met anyone with a slick and cagey a brain as yours. And for larceny it was created." Smiling again, he walked back to sit. "Now you're not going to expect me to believe you run all of this fucking empire of yours on the up and up."
"I do." Now. "And that's a challenge in itself."
"My heart." Dramatically, Mick clutched his chest. "I'm not as young as once I was. I can't take this kind of shock to the system."
"You'll live through it, and you'll have to find another setting for your stones."
"A pity. A shame. A sin, really, but what is, is." Mick sighed. "Straight and narrow, is it? Well, I've got something straight as I like to mix things up to keep myself fresh. I've a little enterprise I've started with a couple of fellows. Small chickens compared to a big rooster like you. Scents. Perfumes and the like, with the idea of packaging the product with an old-fashioned spin. Romance, you know. Would you be interested in an investment?"
"I might."
"Then we'll talk about it sometime while I'm in town." Mick got to his feet. "For now I best see what sort of accommodations I've copped here, and let you get back to whatever it is you do with yourself."
"You're not welcome at The Palace," Roarke said, rising. "But you are in my home."
"That's kind of you, but I'm not looking to put you out."
"I thought you were dead. Jenny and the others, save Brian, are. I never had them in my home. I'll have your luggage seen to."
There were already psychiatric, personality, and pattern profiles generated on Yost through various law enforcement agencies around the globe. Still, Eve considered sending them, and her notes on him, to Dr. Mira, the NYPSD's top profiler, for a nutshell analysis.
But a professional killer was, in essence, only a tool. However much she wanted him, she wanted his employer more.
"The FBI estimates Yost's fee for a single hit to be in the neighborhood of two million, USD. This doesn't include expenses and escalates according to the target, and the difficulty of the job."