Perhaps he has the money in an envelope, I thought, tucked into a pocket of his long black overcoat. Sixty grand, however, is a lot of dough to tuck away in your coat pocket.
‘Did you notice he wasn’t carrying anything?’ said Darren.
‘I did. I was thinking maybe the money’s in his coat pocket, in an envelope.’
‘That’s a lot of bread to keep in your pocket.’
‘I agree.’
‘Or maybe the money’s already at the restaurant.’
‘Sound thinking, Darren.’
I aimed the binoculars at the wharf, looking at the benches by the pier, looking for Michael O’Meara, but I didn’t see a soul. I pointed them toward the park and thought I saw a homeless man staggering in the distance.
‘No sign of Adamson,’ said Darren.
‘No sign of Adamson.’
‘Maybe he’s at the restaurant.’
‘Could be. Or possibly he’s sitting this one out.’
‘I highly doubt that.’
‘Me too.’
‘Look,’ said Darren, looking through the viewfinder of his camera, pointing it toward a bench on the wharf, extending the lens, zooming in on it, and applying pressure to the shutter release. On foot, O’Meara approached the bench — he looked to be alone.
‘It’s definitely O’Meara,’ I said, pointing my binoculars in the same direction. ‘Do you spot backup anywhere?’
‘I don’t,’ said Darren, looking around.
‘I think I saw a homeless guy way in the distance staggering around but I doubt he’s backup.’
‘So you think O’Meara’s solo?’
‘Hard to tell,’ I said, looking around.
O’Meara sat down on the bench near the pier and lit a cigarette. Looking out on the waterway, he had his back to the restaurant. He wasn’t checking his phone or making sure his gun was loaded; rather, he simply smoked his cigarette and stared out at the placid harbour water.
Despite the flower smell in the car, the area smelled of horse shit, I thought, from the tours they give of the port in horse-drawn carriages, the horses with their double bridles and blinders, and tourists in their carriages. Although I didn’t see any horses or hear the clopping of their hooves on the cobblestone streets, I did smell their shit, I thought, despite the lingering smell of flowers.
There appeared to be movement. Bouvert was exiting the restaurant and I shot my binoculars over to O’Meara as his head swung around, as if he could hear Bouvert exiting the restaurant, despite the distance between them. I shot the binoculars back to Bouvert, who stood in the open doorway, which glowed softly red behind him. His frame was large, though, and blocked and absorbed most of the light.
‘It’s happening,’ said Darren.
‘Yes. Be on the lookout for any surprises.’
‘I’m getting prepared right now,’ said Darren, securing the nail gun beside him.
‘He’s got something in his hands,’ I said, focusing in on Bouvert.
‘What?’
‘A small gym bag, it looks like … ’
‘So he’s got the money, it’s going down.’
‘Looks like it.’
Bouvert crossed the street and the small park and continued toward the wharf. He was alone, I thought, by the looks of it.
‘It’s too bad we won’t be able to hear them,’ I said.
‘I know. I was just thinking that, too. What can we do?’
‘Not much. They’ll spot us if we try and get any closer. This is a good vantage point. We just don’t have any sound.’
Bouvert crossed the park and was large and probably doesn’t walk much, I thought. O’Meara spotted him right away and made his way over to him. They talked. Darren took photos. They seemed to be getting along amicably, I thought, and it looked like O’Meara had made Bouvert laugh, the hearty laugh of a corpulent man. But it was hard to tell. O’Meara took the small gym bag and they shook hands. They talked a little more and then Bouvert turned toward the restaurant and O’Meara turned back toward the wharf.
‘That went smoothly,’ said Darren.
‘Yeah. Something’s up.’
‘Clearly,’ said Darren.
We watched Bouvert make his way back into the restaurant and O’Meara walk eastward along the wharf, away from us. O’Meara walked and strung the gym bag around his chest and seemed carefree, from where I was sitting, with Darren in the delivery car, watching through binoculars. Everything seemed wrong, I thought. I felt a sense of anticipatory dread and its attendant nausea. Bouvert and O’Meara were too friendly and it all seemed too easy, I thought. I could tell Darren was thinking the same things. I saw movement in the bushes ahead of O’Meara. A thin man in a long black overcoat came out of the copse.
‘What’s going on?’ said Darren.
‘Someone’s coming out of the park.’
Someone who looked like Adamson emerged from the park and walked toward O’Meara. They were talking, at a distance. The person I thought was Adamson slowly and calmly produced a handgun from his overcoat pocket — a 9mm semi-automatic, I thought, but it was impossible to tell from the distance — drawing a bead on O’Meara.
‘Holy shit,’ I said.
‘Let’s go!’ said Darren, grabbing his nail gun and stuffing his camera into his coat pocket.
‘You stay here. Give me the gun. Take photos,’ I said.
‘But, Bob — ’
‘Don’t argue. There’s no time.’
I took the nail gun from Darren and got out of the hatchback and started running toward O’Meara and who I thought was Adamson. I was yelling. Darren was honking his car horn, holding down on it. They were too far away. O’Meara drew his gun, but by the time he had it out he had three bullets in him. I kept running, nail gun in hand, but the person I thought was Adamson ran off. In vain, I fired off a few nails in his direction. But I had to see if O’Meara was all right, if he was alive.
O’Meara lay bleeding on the ground with his hands covered in blood resting on his bleeding chest and stomach and the small gym bag strapped across his torso. I got down beside him, propping up his head.
‘Where’s your phone? I’ll call an ambulance.’
He didn’t say a word so I searched his coat pockets and dug it out myself. ‘What the fuck just happened?’ I said, dialing 911. O’Meara raised his hand and smacked the phone out of mine. ‘What? You want to die?’
O’Meara gave me a look and its meaning was clear. He attempted to prop himself up and began to take off the small gym bag but needed help.
‘You want that off?’ I said and helped him out of it. It was clear he was going to die, as he bled in my arms. His breathing was strained because he had holes in his chest and he was gut-shot. He looked me in the eye, then at the small gym bag, then looked me in the eye again, motioning with his forehead.
‘You want me to take the money,’ I said.
He nodded.
‘Were you working for them? Were you working for the lawyers?’
He nodded.
‘Doing what?’
He just looked at me, unconcerned, moribund. He motioned at the money and then his eyes went out. I shook him, repeating his name, but nothing: O’Meara was dead. I looked around and grabbed the nail gun and grabbed the gym bag and left O’Meara’s Glock and wiped my fingerprints off his cell and ran toward the hatchback. When I got close enough, I motioned for Darren to stop honking the damn horn. He did. I ran up to the car and got in.
‘That’s amazing,’ I said. ‘No one seems to have heard a thing, looks like … ’
‘There’s no one around, except for in the restaurant, and no way they could hear gunshots from there.’
‘O’Meara’s dead, as I’m sure you could tell. He gave me the money, though.’ I held up the gym bag, unzipping it. ‘He couldn’t speak but he motioned for me to take it.’
‘Probably didn’t want to be found dead with sixty grand.’