The Bloomsday Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

Coeds, redheads, blondes, business-women, stewardesses, cops, women soldiers, and on the far side of the bar two skanks straight out of a Snoop Dogg video trying to tease a Hasidic man by kissing in front of him. The man, me, and about fifty-two hundred other people trying not to look. Blond hair, long legs, white stilettos, pretty faces. Russian. Touching each other on the ass and toying with each other’s hair. You didn’t get that in Lima either.
    “New York City,” I said with appreciation.
    Next to the Hasid a goofy-looking character seemed to spot me. He gave a half wave, walked over quickly, and plonked himself down in the seat directly in front of me. It panicked me for a second. Sort of thing I’d do. Have a couple of hookers do a big distraction and send the guy in while my dick was doing the thinking for me.
    He didn’t have a scary vibe at all, though, and I relaxed a little as I looked him up and down. He was wearing a grin a decibel or two quieter than his ensemble of Hawaiian shirt, shorts, purple sandals, fanny pack, and bicycle messenger bag. Twenty-five or twenty-six, blond hair, goatee. Reasonably good-looking. He wasn’t carrying a piece and he wasn’t interested in the hussies, which meant he was either a homosexual, or part of their team, or he really wanted to talk to me.
    “Hey, you’re in my view,” I said.
    “Mr. Forsythe?” he asked in a serious FBI way.
    “No.”
    “Mr. Forsythe, am I glad to see you. You look a little bit different from the photograph. A little bit older.”
    “Aye, well, you’re no picnic yourself. You ever hear the expression sartorially challenged?”
    His eyes glazed over.
    “What are you talking about?” he asked.
    “What am I talking about? What are you talking about? Aren’t you supposed to ask me about the Yankees? Don’t they teach you anything?”
    Before he could answer, a cold feeling went down my spine. This wasn’t Dan’s man. I pushed my chair back from the table and looked him in the eyes.
    “You’re not with the feds,” I said.
    “No, no, not at all,” he said with a little laugh. “What gave you that idea?”
    “Who are you? Are you Bridget’s?”
    “Yes. I work for Ms. Callaghan. I was told to meet you off your flight. I was instructed to ask you if you are going to continue on to Dublin.”
    “You must be joking. Continue on to Dublin? So Bridget can torture me, with, what was it, arc-welding gear? You must be out of your mind. Nah, I’m just going to sit tight here, wait till my good buddies in the FBI show up, go off with them. Easy. And if you want to try anything here and now with a couple of hundred witnesses around, dozens of plainclothes cops, you go ahead. See how far you bloody get.”
    “No. You don’t understand. I am not muscle, Mr. Forsythe, I am an attorney, I work for Ms. Callaghan. Please excuse the way I look, I was on my way to Puerto Rico, actually. But I was told to wait here to talk to you.”
    “You’re an attorney? Pull the other one, pal, it has bells on. Keep away from me,” I said.
    “I am an attorney, Mr. Forsythe, and I do work for Ms. Callaghan. I have a message to convey to you,” he said.
    Still keeping my distance from him and watching his hands, I set down my coffee cup and snapped my fingers.
    “Let me see some goddamn ID,” I demanded.
    “Certainly.”
    He reached in the pocket of his shorts and removed a wallet. He showed me a bar association card, a Columbia law library card, a driver’s license, and a membership in the Princeton Club.
    “Ok, sonny, first of all, what exactly did they tell you about me and how did you know what flight I was on?” I demanded.
    “They told me that since I was going to JFK, could I meet flight 223 from Lima, Peru, and find a Michael Forsythe. They faxed me your picture. Unfortunately, I had to go the bathroom briefly, and typically that was the moment that you, well . . . of course that was the precise moment when you came through. I had a sign