The Bloomsday Dead by Adrian McKinty Page A

at me and compared it with a mental picture.
    “I think it is you,” he said rhetorically. “The foot too, bit of a give-away.”
    “You want to tell me what this is all about?” I asked.
    “No, I want you to put these on,” he said and threw me a pair of handcuffs. I let them drop on the floor.
    “And if I don’t?”
    “Just put on the cuffs,” he said.
    “Bridget sent you?”
    He didn’t offer any information, but perhaps that was a tell in a very slight shake of the head.
    “I won’t put the cuffs on unless you tell me what’s going to happen after I do.”
    “You’ll be going on a journey, see some old pals. Now put the cuffs on. You’ll be fucking sorry if you don’t, it’s all the same to me.”
    “Did the madam tell you I was here?”
    “Yeah, she did, now get those things on,” he yelled.
    “At least let me get dressed first.”
    He thought about it for a second.
    “Ok. No funny stuff or I’ll top ya.”
    I put on my clothes, taxing his patience with my Stanley boots. I picked up the handcuffs. Standard cop jobs. I placed one over my wrist and casually tilted my arm so he couldn’t see exactly what I was doing, and closed the cuff about halfway. I tugged the metal between my finger and thumb to show him that it was locked. The man seemed satisfied. Of course it wasn’t locked at all. I put the second loop over my other wrist and closed it, this time all the way. I held my hands in front of me with the big gap on the right side, underneath my wrist where he couldn’t see it. If he had any brains he’d kick me in the balls, kneel on me, put the gun in my face, and make sure the handcuffs were really bloody tight.
    But he was a trusting son of a bitch and either not very good at this or was under orders to go softy softly with me.
    “You walk ahead of me, we’ll wait downstairs, there’ll be a car along in a couple of minutes.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “Doesn’t concern you.”
    “The Garda is looking for me. You can’t just take me away, they’ll spot you in a second.”
    “Aye, heard about that. How long have you been in the city? About four hours? And they already have a photofit of you up on the telly for attempted murder. Nice work. But don’t you worry about the Garda, mate, we know all the ins and outs of this town, believe me.”
    “Where we going?” I tried again.
    “North,” he said ominously.
    So it was Bridget.
    I walked along the oak-paneled corridor and into the foyer. It had been cleared of girls, clients in pig noses, and Albanian cleaning ladies.
    He was behind me. I looked at our reflections in the polished oak. He was following me about four feet back.
    I wriggled out of the right handcuff. A tiny clinking sound, but he couldn’t see what I was doing.
    I wouldn’t have long to make my move. A car was coming. Presumably with more men inside.
    Three steps led down from the hallway into the foyer.
    It would have to be now.
    I tripped and fell down the steps, keeping my hands in front and landing on what looked like my unprotected face.
    “Jesus,” the man said and ran over to help. He transferred the revolver from his right to his left hand and pulled me up by the hair. I let him lift me six inches off the ground then I made a grab for the gun. My left hand found his wrist, I stuck my knuckle into the pressure point an inch below his life line.
    He screamed, his grip loosened, and I grabbed the pistol. He threw a punch at me with his right, missed, smacked his fist into the hardwood floor. I kicked his legs and he fell on top of me. He landed with a two-hundred-pound crash on my back, crushing the air out of my lungs and nearly opening my stitches.
    Painfully I rolled to the side just as he was drawing back a big fist to smash into my face, but there wasn’t going to be a fight. I wriggled my arm free, held the gun out horizontally, and pulled the trigger. A bullet caught him in the armpit. He screamed and writhed, and I pushed him off. And as he made