37

‘Bonjou, Gerry,’ Pyè said.

Fegan put his half-eaten slice of toast back on the plate. Pyè slid into the booth beside him. The Doyles’ driver took a stool at the counter. It was early; only two others ate in the diner. A waitress dozed at a table.

‘You a bad man.’ Pyè wagged a finger at Fegan. ‘Real bad man. Ou moun fou, a crazy motherfucker. Doyles, they tell me all evil shit you do. You malad, in head.’ Pyè tapped his temple with his forefinger.

Fegan wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘So what now?’

You come with mwen,’ Pyè said. ‘Go see Doyles. They waiting in machin la.’ He jerked his thumb at the car idling outside, its windows darkened.

Pyè slid out of the booth and put his hand on Fegan’s shoulder. ‘Come, Gerry.’

Fegan put the napkin on his plate and pushed it away. ‘I’ll kill you all if I have to,’ he said.

Pyè smiled. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not. Come.’

Fegan followed him out to the car, the driver coming behind. Pyè stopped and put a hand on Fegan’s chest. He slipped his hands around Fegan’s torso, feeling under his arms and behind his back.

‘I’m not armed,’ Fegan said. He’d left the gun he’d seized in the alleyway back at the motel.

‘Mwen look anyways,’ Pyè said.

He crouched and ran his hands up and down Fegan’s legs before dipping into his pockets. He found a wallet first, and then the mobile phone.

‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.

‘Don’t what?’

‘My phone,’ Fegan said. ‘I need it.’

Pyè laughed. ‘You need anyen, Gerry.’

‘What?’

‘You need nothing.’ Pyè dropped the phone to the ground. It bounced and rattled. Its screen fractured.

‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.

Pyè raised his foot, ready to bring it down on the phone. Fegan formed his knuckles into a sharp line and stabbed at his Adam’s apple. Pyè fell against the car and crumpled to the ground, coughing, his eyes wide.

‘I said don’t.’

Pyè blinked and gasped as he tried to get his feet under him. A thick-fingered hand grabbed Fegan’s shoulder, tried to turn him around. Fegan grabbed the wrist with his left hand, turned inside the big man’s reach, felt the nose crunch against his elbow, a warm spatter on his face as the blood came. Two more blows and the driver went down, cracked the back of his head on the ground.

Fegan turned back to Pyè. The Haitian gasped as his trachea swelled from the blow, his feet scrambling for purchase.

‘Stay down,’ Fegan said.

Pyè reached behind his back, grasping for something. He got one foot under him, began to rise. Fegan’s foot connected with his jaw, and Pyè sprawled in the gutter between the car and the pavement, a pistol clattering at his side.

Fegan picked up his phone, turned it in his hands, looked at the cracked screen, put it in his pocket along with his wallet. He reached for the gun, a semi-automatic. He aimed at the darkened rear window. ‘Open it,’ he said.

Nothing.

Fegan stepped closer and tapped the glass with the pistol’s muzzle. ‘Open it,’ he said.

The vague forms of two men sat still inside.

Fegan struck the glass with the butt of the gun. It held. Two more blows and it shattered, fragments peppering the two men inside.

Frankie and Packie Doyle stared back at Fegan, their hands raised.

‘Leave me alone,’ Fegan said. ‘If you come after me again, I’ll kill you both. Do you understand?’

The Doyles sat frozen.

Fegan pressed the muzzle against Packie Doyle’s cheek. ‘Do you understand?’

Packie nodded. Frankie said, ‘Yes.’

‘Get Pyè to a hospital,’ Fegan said. ‘He might die. Do you understand?’

Frankie nodded. Packie said, ‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ Fegan said. He tucked the pistol into his pocket alongside the phone as he walked away.