“ ‘Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
“ ‘From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.’ ”
The a cappella voice was as clear and pure as a mountain brook, and it might have brought tears to my eyes, if I’d been awake.
“ ‘ ’Tis I’ll be there in sunshine or in shadow,
“ ‘Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy, I love you so!’ ”
The problem was: I was awake, and the singing continued.
There was enough moonlight for me to see Fitz sitting on a chair in the corner of the bedroom, cradling a bottle of whiskey in his arms like a wee one, faith ’n’ begorrah, and singing like a doomed angel.
The guy was like a male Susan Boyle, an incredible voice coming from an unexpected source. I waited for him to finish the song before saying, “That was beautiful, Fitz. Not sure about the time or the place, though.”
“I’m sorry, boyo. I didn’t think I could wait for you ta rise on yer own.”
“It was a kinder wake-up than water in my face,” I said, reaching for the light switch.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “The darkness suits my mood.”
I maneuvered my watch into a patch of moonlight. Nearly three a.m. “So, ah, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I … got something to tell ya. But first I want you to tell me somethin’.”
“Name it.”
“Who’s causin’ the trouble, Billy?”
“Al-Qaeda, last I heard.”
“I’m tryin’ to have a serious con … versation, damn it.” He punctuated that with a swing from the bottle. “Tell me who’s my enemy.”
“Could you be a little more specific?” I threw the covers off and rolled out of the bed, toe-searching the rug for my slippers.
“What went on after I walked out on the show? Who was it left the table after me? Gibby? Max?”
I thought back. It was twelve hours ago. “I don’t remember seeing anybody leave but you,” I said.
“Bullshite! Somebody had to make the call. Pass the word I was headin’ for home.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I was runnin’ free till then. Now I got a shadow.”
“C’mon, Fitz. You’re letting your imagination—”
“The hell you say! He’s been ridin’ my arse since I packed up and left the lot. Got himself a gray Mercedes sedan, he does.”
“Fitz, there are more gray Mercedes sedans in L.A. than there are in Stuttgart.”
“But how many of ’em are driven by a man with a milk-eye?”
The moonlight painted his bearded face a bluish white. He took another pull on the bottle.
“ ‘A milk-eye,’ ” I repeated. Next he was going to start talking about the Thirty-nine Steps. “You might want to ease up a little on that sauce.”
“Don’t fuckin’ talk down to me, ya bastard!” He leaned forward, glaring at me. “Now I’m startin’ to wonder if it coulda been you ratted me? That’d be a real kick in th’ bollocks.”
“Why would I have done that, Fitz?”
“Because of yer … Naw. Of course ya wouldn’t have.” He slumped back. “Forget I let the words pass my lips. You’re a good man.” Another slug of whiskey.
“ ‘Oh, Danny boy …’ Des hated th’ feckin’ song. Don’t know why.”
“I gather Des hated a lot of things.”
“What might ya’ be referrin’ to?”
“The transvestite he nearly killed.”
“Ah. And where’d you hear about that? From that fat bastard Max or his milksop Trey, I suppose. Well, yeah, that was a terrible thing Des did. Brutal. And he paid the price, didn’t he?”
“You’re saying that and the bombing were connected?”
“On’y in the vast scheme o’ things. You believe in the Good Book, Billy?”
I assumed he wasn’t referencing one of Benjamin Dover’s novels. “I believe in a lot of the things in it.”
“An eye for an eye?”
“I’m more in the turn-the-other-cheek camp.”
“Eye for an eye,” he said again, and suddenly lurched to his feet. The whiskey bottle hit the carpet with a dull clunk. He didn’t seem to notice. “Gotta get movin’. Places to see, people to do.”
He staggered to the door.
“Hold on, Fitz,” I said. “You said you had something to tell me.”
He seemed puzzled.
“Was it about Des’s murder?”
He winked and tapped the side of his nose. “That’s it. The razzers got it all arse-back’ards.”
“Explain.”
“There are things we do in the name o’ love an’ country.… Des was a pretty serious boyo when we was younger. Believed in the good fight. Damn the Brits!”
He smiled at some vague memory. But the smile didn’t last.
“The thing is, mistakes are made. Terrible mistakes because of things you put in play. Take the night Des nearly did for the he-she … Bet you never imagined it was you put the guilt on Des that made him fall back on his booze and pills.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nothin’ you meant to do, I’m sure. But I knew soon’s you said it, we were gonna be in for a rough night. The bullshite in the Oirish bar did nothin’ to aid the situation … and then Des took all his fear and frustration out on that poor poof.”
“What was it I said?”
Fitz shook his big head. He staggered toward the door again.
“Don’t just walk away.”
“I gotta get movin’, Billy. It was a risk I took comin’ out here. I don’t think Milk-Eye got wind of it, but ya never know. And there’s somethin’ more I got to do.”
“Where are you going?”
“You’re better off not knowin’. You’re safe now, Billy. Be happy. Stay well.”
He headed out.
I hopped from the bed and ran after him. “Just talk to me in plain English,” I shouted.
He replied with a drunken chuckle. “Ah, the plain English,” he said. “Fuck ’em. An’ fuck this nightmare town. I’ll be on the next flight out. Be gone all th’ way to … Slán abhaile. Safe home.”
“Safe? You won’t even make it to the airport in your condition,” I said. “Get some rest. There’s an extra bed here, or you can sleep in the villa. There’ll be flights later in the day.”
“Like Des would say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Billy. Slán.”
And he was gone.