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 f.u.c.king 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 h.e.l.l 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 cla.s.srooms and exams and major life changes. It did not have guns or desperate men.

If it wasn't for the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 car when a shadow appeared in front of him.

He looked up. A big fella standing there looking awkward. A pinched, lanky character, twenty-two or twenty-three, blond, dressed in a hasty shirt and tie.

"Aye?" Killian asked.

"Are you Mr Killian?" the kid asked in a flat, monotonal Southie.

"Who wants to know?"

"Mr Forsythe thought you might need a driver."

Decent of him. Killian liked to work alone, but it was better than the bus or trying to negotiate holiday traffic.

"What's your name?" Killian asked.

"Luke."

"You know mine, where the car?"

"Outside in the-"

"Let's go."

A black Chrysler 3000 up Route 1.

Killian didn't know this part of America so he looked out the window. Clam shacks, cranberry bogs, ice-cream stands, forests, old wooden houses.

The rain stayed off and the sun came out as they caught the bridge over the Merrimac River.

It looked cute.

The kid wasn't a yapper which was something. They crossed the border into New Hampshire and within a few clicks they were at Hampton Beach. It was a typical New England resort town: a big strand, amus.e.m.e.nt arcades, junk-food stalls, sporting goods shops, and, significantly for Killian, a medium-sized casino.

"Pull in," he said.

The kid parked. Killian got out.

"Wait here," he said. He ducked into a Dunkin Donuts, ordered a coffee and called Sean again.

"What's he do for a living, this client of ours?" Killian asked.

"You know what time it is here?" Sean asked. "I was sitting down to me tea."

"This boy that they've flown me three thousand miles to see, what does he do for a living?"

"I don't know, why?"

"I don't want to get involved in a war. This is strictly per diem for me. I don't need any markers, bad blood."

"What are you talking about?" Sean asked.

'"This is a company town."

"Rackets?"

"Legit. A casino. Could be a power play. Wouldn't be the first time my best mate M.F. f.u.c.ked me up would it? Check it, will you?"

He drank the coffee, watched kids in wetsuits walk across the two-lane with their long boards. Killian was wearing a sports coat jacket, white shirt, dockers, plain blue tie - not exactly dinner with the in-laws but he still felt overdressed for Hampton Beach on an early spring day.

Sean called back. "M.F. says that he doesn't work in the casino business. He's a banker. Married old money. This is his third marker. Hometown, Atlantic City and Foxwoods. Everyone has been very patient. There are no cross tabs, he is not connected in any way."

"Law enforcement?"

"No family links."

"You buy that?"

"Why not?"

"I don't know, if I had a gambling problem, I don't think I'd live in a town with a f.u.c.king casino on the boardwalk."

Sean sighed. "Should I call it off?"

Killian rubbed his chin. "Nah. I'll check it and I'll call you when it's done. You should also know this...he sent someone."

"Babysitter?"

"I don't know."

"You just be careful, big man," Sean said in the camp West Belfast tones of BBC TV announcer Julian Simmons.

"You know it," Killian said.

He tossed the coffee, went back to Luke.

They found Carpenter Street four blocks back from the beach.

American dream. Picket fences, sprinklers, kids, cul de sac.

Number 21: big New England Tidewater style, made to look two centuries old but in fact vintage 2002. The irony hit: guy with a gambling problem lives in number 21.

Five- or six-bedroom house with a triple garage. A boy with a wiffle bat trying to play baseball with himself. About thirteen, brown hair, green eyes, Watchmen T-shirt. The 3000 wouldn't attract attention in this neighborhood but someone waiting inside would.

"You come with me," Killian said.

"What are you going to do in there?" Luke asked warily.

"What do you do for Mr Forsythe exactly?" Killian wondered.

"I work for Express Cars, I'm a driver."

"What do you think I do, Luke?"

"I really don't know," Luke said but his eyes were telling a different story. He knew, or suspected...