Epilogue
I walked into his house. There was no need to knock. I’d sent his wife out shopping earlier. The house was clean but it felt lived in. I rummaged through his music collection for a CD I could bear to listen to.
When Amos walked in, Django’s guitar work was nodding my head. I smiled at Amos’s expression but my fingers gripped the glass of his bourbon more firmly.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Bryan Murphy.”
“Let me guess. New York City Deputy Chief of Police?”
I shook my head.
“An IRA enforcer?”
I forced a laugh.
“No, Amos. I’m your author.”
“Oh, I see. Getting heavy, now, are we?”
“Not at all. Just tell me, please, why you’re not cooperating.”
“Like I told those chaps, I’ve retired.”
“That’s what you told them. But me? Why aren’t you cooperating with me?”
“Look, I’ve become an ageing family man who likes nothing better than pottering about on boats. That’s just the way I like things.”
“Amos, really? I can give you a posher house, a bigger boat, a younger wife. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve always looked after you, haven’t I?”
“Bloody hell, you’ve put me through some rough times.”
“But I’ve got you out of every scrape, haven’t I?”
“In your own twisted way, I suppose you have.”
Amos limped to the sideboard and poured himself a tumbler of Bushmills. No ice.
“I don’t have to do that, Amos. I can always have you flayed alive, roasted, or forced to watch while your grandchildren – ”
“But you wouldn’t, would you?”
“I probably would not. However, I certainly could. Your life is in my hands.”
“In your head, not your hands. And since I’m no longer cooperating, it’s going to stay there. Suits me.”
We stared at each other, neither of us blinking.
[end]