The Devil

Серия: Jack Taylor, книга 8

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I should be in America.

Tried.

Jaysus wept. Did I ever?

Went to the airport.

Bought my duty-free.

Doing good, right?

Had my one suit on, the black job that had seen too many funerals.

White shirt, muted tie.

I like that…muted.

Seems almost like a Brit.

Dark one I bought in the charity shop.

I was Xanaxed to the hilt, so mellow I certainly was.

Headed for Homeland Security.

American Immigration.

Seemed to be doing OK, did the eyeballing job, stared into that security camera, then did the index-finger job.

‘Now sir, your left hand.’

And you’re trying not to sweat like a bastard.

That icy politeness puts me on alert.

Not even 10 mg of Xanax can stop that.

Then the hesitation.

And the dreaded words, ‘Could you step to the side, sir?’

You’re fucked.

Seems my past was up there, a brief stay in jail when I put a child-beating bollix through a glass window.

I don’t regret that, didn’t then, don’t now.

I was sorry it was on record.