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those bloody apartments. Killian tried Sean again. This time Mary put him through.
    “Where were you a minute ago?” he asked.
    “Where were you last night?” Sean asked.
    “I asked you first,” Killian said.
    “Crapper, and you?”
    “A place I know,” Killian said.
    “Like that is it?”
    “Aye.”
    “I rang a few of the hotels.”
    “I knew you would.”
    “Don’t be smart. You bollicksed it ya big eejit. There were a couple of extra clients we could have squeezed in.”
    “No way. Not my scene. This is a one-off for you know who.”
    “You weren’t staying in Jersey were you?”
    “You’re not going to get it out of me, Sean. Quiet little spot right in Manhattan. Nobody knows about it but me.”
    Sean considered pursuing this further, but time was money. “Okay, you’re in Boston right now?”
    “Aye.”
    “You know the Fairmont?”
    “He already told me. Said I got to rent a car.”
    “Get a receipt.”
    “You are such a fucking miser.”
    “A four-wheel drive but nothing fancy.”
    “Jesus, it’s not Maine is it?”
    “No.”
    “Good.”
    “Sure you don’t want a piece? I can give you a few addresses.”
    “Nah, you know me. And those people put you off your breakfast.”
    “What people?”
    “Gun sharks.”
    “Killian, this is a pretty big score, you might have to get epic,” Sean said ominously.
    “How big a score?”
    “Five large.”
    “Jesus. And he wants it all today?”
    “Uh huh, so watch it, when people get backed into a corner like this sometimes it’s not pretty.”
    “I’ll be on my toes.”
    “You watch yourself, okay?”
    “Who do you think you’re talking to, mate?”
    “A burned out, semi-retired, jetlagged old geezer on his first job in over a year.”
    “Forty’s not old,” Killian muttered, hung up, turned off the phone, grabbed his bicycle messenger bag, dodged a W. C. Fields lookalike handing out green balloons and walked into the world.
    A cab came. The Afghan driver was wearing a paper “Kiss Me I’m Irish” adjustable hat.
    Killian thought about the five large. How could anyone come up with a sum like that on short notice?
    They rode the Ted Williams. The tunnel led him nicely into existential crisis mode.
    What the hell was he doing here?
    He’d seen Tony Robbins once at a convention centre in Birmingham. Robbins said you either lived in the past or the future. Course it took him fifty-seven hours to say that.
    The future had classrooms and exams and major life changes. It did not have guns or desperate men.
    If it wasn’t for the bloody apartments …
    Out into daylight.
    Rain.
    A touch of sleet.
    Downtown Boston and the beginnings of the Parade: peelers on horses, spectators in leprechaun get-up, dress-uniformed firefighters, shivering, red-cheeked girls in Irish dancing kit.
    The Fairmont.
    No respite from the Oirishness. The staff were wearing plastic bowler hats and from concealed speakers Celine Dion was singing Mick standards in her dramatic coloratura soprano.
    He found the concierge, who was hatless but apparently channelling Vincent Price: “Ye-es? Can I help you?”
    “Fax for me. The name’s Killian.”
    “Are you staying at the hotel, Mr Killian?”
    “No. The fax is from Erin Realty Investments,” he said to short-circuit the chit-chat. Everybody in the Boston–New York corridor knew what that meant.
    “Of course, sir,” the concierge said.
    Killian retired to a comfy chair and read the fax.
    It was blank but for one line that said: “Andrew Marcetti, 21 Carpenter Street, Hampton Beach, NH – 500K.”
    He memorized the name and address and scrunched the sheet. Some lack of confidence made him call Sean. “I’m all set,” Killian said.
    “What’s that awful racket? Are you torturing someone?”
    “It’s Celine Dion. Listen, I just wanted to, uh…”
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Call you when it’s done.” Killian said goodbye and hung up the phone. He was wondering if the hotel could somehow get him a rental