The parking lot was empty, which could be another indication that there was no one inside. I had to confirm it one way or another. I decided to be slightly drunk, walk up to the main entrance, and take a leak; while I was doing that, I could get a better look inside. If there was anybody in the foyer, he might come out and give me grief, or I might see him watching television in the back somewhere.
I followed the same route all the way back and reached Ball Street. I was quite damp now; the drizzle and wet rusty fences had done their work on my clothes.
I walked on the opposite side of the road toward the target.
As I got nearer, I started to cross at an angle that gave me more time to see the target. Head down, conscious of the camera covering the door, I started to stumble up the steps, and about three-quarters of the way up, as soon as I was able to see into the right-hand window, I turned, opened my fly, and started pissing down onto the bushes.
Almost instantly, a man's voice roared, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" and there was an explosion of movement in the shrubbery. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I took my hand straight off my cock and onto the Sig. I tried to stop pissing but I was in full flow. My jeans took the brunt.
I went for the pistol, then realized that maybe I didn't need to pull it out yet. He might be security. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.
"Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You mothermcker!"
I could hear him but still couldn't see anything. There was rustling and all sorts of shit going on, then more "Fuck you! Fuck you!" and I saw him appearing through the bushes.
"Fucking asshole, piss on me, you fuck. I'll show you!
Look at me! You've pissed on me!"
He was in his mid-twenties, wearing old army boots without laces and dirty, greasy black jeans. He had a hooded, parka-type jacket that was in shit shape, grimed with muck and with the elbows hanging out. When he was about ten yards away I could also see he had a straggly excuse for a beard, a big earring in one ear, and long greasy dreadlocks.
He was soaked.
The moment he saw me, his face lit up. To him I was the accidental tourist, lost at the wrong end of town. I could almost see the cogs turning; he thought he'd cracked it here, he was going to get some easy money out of this greenhorn.
"Fuck you, asshole, you owe me a new sleeping bag! Look at my clothes you've pissed all over me, you fucking animal! Give me some money, man!"
He was certainly going for an Oscar.
"Do you know who I am? Fucking piss on me, man, I'll fucking kick your ass!"
I needed to take advantage of this. I went up to the window and started banging hard. If there was security, he should come investigate. I'd just play the innocent needing protection from this madman.
I banged so hard I thought the glass would break, making sure all the time that I had my back to the camera. It sparked up the homeless guy even more because he thought I was panicking.
He started to come up the stairs. I kept on looking inside the building. There were no used ashtrays in sight, no magazines lying open on chairs, no TV on; the furniture was well arranged, the chair by the reception area was neatly under the desk. There was nothing to show that anyone was around.
Nearly on top of me now, I heard, "Fucking asshole!"
I turned, opened my jacket, and put my hand on the pistol.
He saw it and stopped in his tracks.
"Ah, for fuck's sake!
Fucking hell!" He backed off, started to retreat down the stairs, his eyes fixed on the pistol.
"Fucking cops," he muttered.
I had to try hard not to laugh.
"Fucking cops, piss on me every fucking which way!"
I waited for him to disappear. The guy thought he had problems this was the second time in two days that I'd had piss all over me. I felt sorry for him, though; I thought about the amount of time he'd probably spent finding himself a snug little retreat, well concealed from predators and nicely warmed by the air-conditioning outlets and other machinery tucked underneath. Then some dickhead comes and empties his bladder all over the house.
It took me fifteen minutes to get back to the hotel. I opened the door nice and quiet. Kelly was in kid heaven, not having had to take a bath or clean up her mess, just falling asleep surrounded by candy and cookies.
I got undressed, took a shower and shaved, then stuffed the clothes into the hotel laundry bag. The duffel was getting pretty full now with dirty and bloodstained clothes. I was down to my last change. I got dressed again, tucked the pistol into my waistband, put my coat on, and set the alarm for 5:30. I was half-awake anyway when the alarm went. I'd been tossing and turning all night, and now I couldn't really be bothered to get up. People must feel like this when they go to a job they really hate.
I finally got myself to my feet, went over to the window, and opened the curtains. We were just below eye level with the highway and almost in its shadow. Headlights lumbered silently toward me from out of the gloom; in the other lanes, taillights disappeared back into the darkness like slow-moving tracers. It wasn't time yet.
I let the curtain fall and turned down the heat, got the coffee machine gurgling, and went into the bathroom.
As I took a leak I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a scarecrow with creases on my face where I'd been lying on some crayons. I took my jacket off, turned the collar in on my polo shirt, and splashed my face in the sink.
I went back to the bedroom. The brew wasn't ready yet, and my mouth felt as if a gorilla had dumped in it. He'd certainly been in the room while we were both asleep, throwing soda cans and food everywhere. I picked up an already opened can of Mountain Dew and took a couple of flat, warm sips.
Until first light, there wasn't that much to do. I was used to this; so much of my life had been hurry up and wait. I put the chair by the window and opened the curtains again. Looking at the highway, I couldn't make out whether it was still raining or if it was just vehicle spray in the headlights that made it look that way.
By the end of a quarter hour I could begin to make out the shape of the cars as well as their headlights. It was time.
There was no need to wake Kelly; the more she slept, the easier my life would be. I checked that I had the key card and moved up to the roof.
Rain danced on the metal roof of the elevator housing. I pulled myself up and lay there getting soaked front and back as I pressed the Play button on the camera and tested the flashing light. I checked to see that I still had the correct site picture and that the lens hadn't misted up. It had. I cursed at myself because I should have put on another plastic bag to keep the moisture from getting in overnight. I started to wipe the moisture off with my cuff and suddenly felt as if I were between two worlds. Behind me roared the early morning traffic, yet to my front, toward the river, I could just about hear birds giving their early morning song. I was almost enjoying it. The moment was soon shattered when the first air craft of the day took off and disappeared into low cloud. Lens dry, I rechecked the camera position, made sure it was recording, and closed the trash bags.
It was now nearly 6 a.m. I went back to the room and my chair by the window, coffee in hand. I smiled as I watched a couple come out of the room next door, hand in hand. Some thing about them didn't quite match up. I made a bet with my self that they'd leave in separate cars.
For the hundredth time, my mind drifted to the telephone call I'd had with Kev. Pat had said that if it was PIRA, there could be a connection with drugs, Gibraltar, and the Americans. My hard drive went into free wheel because something about the Gibraltar job had always puzzled me.