Page 160 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Just stay lying on the floor, pal. Get yourself really comfortable. I’ve got some questions of my own.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” he said between gritted teeth.

“You think I won’t kill you?”

“I know you won’t killme.”

“Let me tell you about a case that wasn’t in my files,” I said, and explained how I had killed Freddie Scavanni in more or less cold blood.

“But he was a bad guy; we’re on the same side,” Donnolly protested.

“Are we? I’ll need to be convinced about that. And besides, there are other things apart from killing that could be done to you. Have you ever heard of a Belfast six-pack?”

I explained to him what a Belfast six-pack was. Bullets in the ankles, the kneecaps, and the elbows. It wouldn’t kill him, but he’d be a desk jockey for the rest of his days in the CIA. He was sufficiently convinced by the Belfast six-pack that I felt encouraged enough to press record on the Walkman. The blank tape spooled, and the light for the internal mic came on.

“Now, first of all, is Kevin Donnolly your real name?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’ve got your ID right in front of me.”

“Yes,” he grumbled.

“Where are you from, Kevin?”

“New York City.”

“DOB?”

“Seven/seven/sixty-nine.”

“And who do you work for?”

“What does it say there?”

“The CIA.”

“That’s who I work for.”

“What do the neighbors think you do?”

“They think I’m a bureaucrat in charge of fertilizer inspection at the Department of Agriculture.”

“That job is so boring that actually, I’ll bet you they all think you’re in the CIA.”

“Perhaps.”

“What were you doing in Ireland?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

I pressed Pause on the Walkman and shot the floor two inches from his face. When his yells had died down, I pressed record again.

“What were you doing in Ireland?”

“Wet work.”

“And in plain English?”