The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (18 page)

Ryan looked at Finnegan. “Your man turned out to be better than I thought. My compliments. You should have had him do the tail on me instead of these two jihadists. He may have done a better job and you might not have wound up in the fix you’re in now.”

Ghannam was glaring at Ryan as if he wanted to rip out his heart. “You keel my cousin. Why you no let me fight you, infidel? You, me, without gun. We see how tough you are.”

“Sorry, Osama, but I’m calling the shots here. You and I won’t be fighting. I’m the manager and you’re the fighter, and I’ll decide who you fight,” Ryan replied. He turned his attention back to Finnegan and continued,
“Go over to the bar and bring a couple of bottles of booze out here. Osama looks like he needs a drink. And don’t try anything funny. I’m watching you.”

Finnegan went behind the bar. He silently cursed himself for leaving his own gun in his coat in the back room.

“What’s the holdup, Paddy? Get your ass over here and give Osama his bottle,” Ryan demanded.

Finnegan returned and handed a bottle of scotch to Ghannam. “You want this one?” he offered Ryan.

“No, that’s for you and the Guinea—a little something to calm your nerves. You look like you need to relax a little bit before we resume our little contest. Besides, I never drink when I’m on the job,” Ryan replied.

“What job?” asked Finnegan.

“Killing, Paddy. Killing’s my business.”

“So you’re a hit man then, is that it?”

“Well, I guess you could say that, sort of,” Ryan replied.

“Who the fuck hired you then? You can at least tell me who it is that wants to dig up the past and kill all of us who were in the movement.”

Ryan nodded. “Let’s just say it’s someone who lost some very special folks to your group and wants some delayed justice.”

“But who, man? Who is it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Ryan looked over at Ghannam. “Hey, Osama, open that bottle and drink it. Drink it down in one swallow. I’ll time you. If you can get it all down within a minute, maybe I’ll let you live.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s a quart. It’ll kill him,” blurted Finnegan.

“Well, yeah, it might. But if he doesn’t try, then I’ll kill him anyway. Who knows? If he succeeds and manages to beat the grim reaper, maybe I’ll spare him.”

Ghannam protested. “I no drink this, infidel. It against my religion. You can’t make me…”

“Shut your pie hole, you filthy camel scrotum, and do it—unless, of course, you’d rather have me turn you into a piece of Swiss cheese. And don’t give me any shit about your religious beliefs. I saw you drinking with Paddy and the greaseball, or did you forget about that?”

Ghannam unscrewed the lid, lifted the bottle to his lips, and slowly began to drink.

“I’m timing you, Osama. You’d better chug that shit faster, because if you’re not done in sixty seconds, I’m going to blow you to pieces,” Ryan exclaimed.

Ghannam began to drink in gulps. Taking the bottle away from his lips only once, he resumed and soon drained it.

“Very good, Osama. Fifty-eight seconds. Might be a world record. How you feeling, my man? A little numb I’ll bet.”

The full impact of the booze hadn’t set in, but it would only be a matter of minutes before the Arab would probably go comatose.

Ryan motioned to Finnegan and Vitanza and said, “Osama, I want you to break that bottle over the edge of the pool table now and then go over and shove the jagged edges into the faces of those two shitheads.”

“What da hell? What’s is yous crazy?” yelled Vitanza. Finnegan began to back away.

“You have a knife. Use it” was all Ryan would say.

Ghannam stood and started forward. The liquor was already taking effect and he began to stumble and mumble incoherently in Arabic as he advanced toward Finnegan and Vitanza.

Finnegan grabbed a chair and threw it at the Arab, knocking him back on one knee, but he got up and continued toward them. Vitanza sidestepped him and plunged the switchblade into his belly.

Ghannam began to vomit as Finnegan moved in and, grabbing a cue, thrust the stick into his belly, pulled back, and took three horizontal strikes to his ear, elbow, and knee, putting him on the floor. Not waiting for further prompting, he picked up the chair and smashed it down on the Arab’s head, rendering him unconscious.

Ryan watched as Ghannam lay on the floor regurgitating and choking on his own vomit. In less than a minute, he had joined his cousin Maloof in paradise.

“Very nice teamwork, gentlemen. You should be proud. Christ, I’m having a hard time figuring out which one of you is going to come out of this on top. But if I were a betting man, I’d have to lay odds on the greaseball. Yeah, you eye-ties seem to have a natural ability when it comes to the shiv.” Ryan smiled.

“Why don’t yous let us go, man? We’s not gonna say nothin’. Just let us go. We’s took care a da Arabs. Dey was da one’s dat was gonna kill yous and dey’s out a da way. So why not gives us a break, man?” pleaded Vitanza.

“Take a drink, greaseball. You, too, Paddy. Relax,” Ryan replied.

Vitanza reached for the remaining bottle, took a swig, and handed it to Finnegan, who pushed it away.

Ryan reached into his coat and took out the snub-nosed revolver he’d taken from Ghannam in the alley. He opened the cylinder and emptied the bullets onto the bar.

“Tell you what I’m going to do, Paddy. I’m going to give you this gun to protect yourself from the wop. Can’t have you fighting off a knife attack with your bare hands. Here, catch,” Ryan said as he tossed the empty gun over to Finnegan.

Finnegan caught the gun as Vitanza looked on with alarm. “How the hell am I supposed to protect myself with this thing?” he asked. “It’s empty,”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll see that you have a bullet, if you need one.” Ryan held up one of the bullets. “Any time you’re ready to start is fine with me, dirtball,” he told Vitanza. “But go ahead and finish your drink first, if you want.”

Vitanza gulped down the drink and looked pleadingly at Ryan. “Come on, man. What’s da point in killin’ me? We’s killed da Arabs an yous beef isn’t wid me. It’s wid him.” He pointed at Finnegan.

“That’s where you’re wrong, greaseball. You made it about you when you decided to hire on with this left-wing bastard and see to my demise. Now you’re going to have to see this little ordeal you’ve gotten yourself into to its conclusion. But enough of this. I think it’s time to get things over with and I’ve decided to throw in a bonus. Whichever one of you is left standing gets to live. That way I know you’ll both do your best. Now, get on with it.” Ryan leveled the magnum and started moving it back and forth, first pointing it at Finnegan and then at Vitanza. “I’m not going to tell you again. Get on with it.”

Vitanza moved slowly toward Finnegan as the barkeep leveled the gun at him.

“Hey, Paddy, what about this?” Ryan yelled as he threw a bullet to him.

Vitanza lurched forward with the knife as Finnegan went to the floor to retrieve the bullet that had landed a few feet away. Unable to grasp it, he rolled away as the Italian came down with a thrust, just missing him with the knife.

Finnegan sprang to his feet and kicked Vitanza in the face as Ryan yelled, “Here, Paddy. Here’s another one.” He tossed another bullet to Finnegan, who was able to catch it but before he could get it into the cylinder of the gun Vitanza, who was bleeding profusely from his face, was up from the floor and charging him again with the knife.

Swinging wildly, Vitanza missed as Finnegan stepped to the side and then backed up, finally getting the bullet into the cylinder. Vitanza rushed him and, after two pulls of the trigger fell on empty chambers, the gun finally fired. Vitanza dropped the knife and fell to the floor, a bullet in his chest.

“Looks like he’s still alive. You still alive, greaseball?” Ryan yelled.

Vitanza mouthed something that looked like, “Please.”

Ryan took another bullet from his pocket and threw it to Finnegan. “Finish him, Paddy. Finish him off and this thing will be over.”

“That’s murder. I can’t,” Finnegan cried.

“You will,” Ryan instructed as he pointed the magnum at the bartender. “Put one in his head and you walk free. Don’t, and your ass is mine.”

Finnegan stood over Vitanza, who stared up at him helplessly, and said, “Sorry, Louie. I really am.” He fired the bullet into the Italian’s head and then leaned against the pool table and started to weep.

Ryan walked across the room and retrieved Vitanza’s knife. Looking at Finnegan he stated, “There’s just one more thing, Paddy.”

“What’s that?” Finnegan asked in a voice so subdued it was barely audible.

“Since there’s no one else left to do it, I’m going to have to kill you myself.”

“But…uh…you…said…You, you said…” Finnegan couldn’t get the words out.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I said the last man standing could live. I lied,” Ryan replied. “I mean, you can’t expect me to leave a witness, now, can you?”

“I…” Finnegan began as Ryan plunged the knife through his throat, cutting him off before he could complete his thought. An expression of pain and horror came across his face as he dropped the gun, grabbed for his throat, and staggered forward, finally falling in a heap on the floor next to Vitanza.

As an afterthought, Ryan went to the display that chronicled Finnegan’s activities as a Lenin’s Legion terrorist. He ripped the article depicting the confrontation with the paralyzed police officer from the wall, returned to the barkeep’s lifeless body, and stuffed it in his mouth. Admiring his work, he thought how fitting it was that this worthless piece of excrement had met his demise with a shank in his throat. “Mission accomplished,” he thought.

Scooping the three thousand dollars from the pool table, he moved quickly toward the door and peered
outside. Seeing no one on the street, he exited the bar and walked the two blocks to his car. Within minutes, he was heading out of Manhattan and would soon be on I-95. One more commie bastard, a greaseball, and two camel jockeys out of the gene pool. Not bad for a night’s work.

B
y midmorning, Finnegan’s pub was crawling with detectives, crime lab technicians, photographers, and brass. The street was jammed with press and spectators. A command post and perimeter had been set up to control the crowd. Extra cops were brought in from surrounding boroughs to keep the throngs away from the bar and on the other side of the street in order to prevent contamination of the crime scene.

At first glance, the carnage appeared to be the result of a fight or maybe a robbery gone awry. But then Detective Dirk Mueller pulled the yellowed newspaper from Finnegan’s mouth. He knew immediately that
there was more to this massacre than first met the eye. “Hey, Harry, come over here and take a look at this.”

Detective Harry Hanratty examined the forty-year-old newspaper headline. He looked down at Finnegan and then viewed the picture under the caption and said, “This asshole is that son of a bitch I’ve been hearing about all these years. You know the one? He’s the one who crippled that Chicago cop back in the sixties and beat the rap. Something about a witness losing his memory. He’s been somewhat of a cult celebrity with leftist degenerates ever since.”

“Yeah, I know about him. Who doesn’t? He’s a publicity hound. Likes to get his name in the paper from time to time by bragging about his past as if he’s some kind of national hero. He’s even been on a couple of quiz shows and won a few bucks. Real piece of shit. But then he has a following of other pieces of shit that keeps his ego inflated enough that he just keeps reemerging,” replied Mueller.

“Past tense, Dirk. Past tense. He
was
a publicity hound, not is. This here is going to be his last little shot at notoriety before he becomes maggot food.” Hanratty laughed.

“Good riddance,” Mueller replied as he motioned for one of the forensic guys to come over and bag the newspaper. He was sure that between it, the gun, the knife, the broken bottle, and the pool cues, they’d be able to come up with something—either prints or DNA—to lead them to a suspect or suspects. That is, if there were, in fact, any others in addition to the ones lying dead on the floor with Finnegan. First, though,
there was the business of identifying the others and trying to come up with some plausible explanation for this carnage. If it was about Finnegan’s past, how did these other corpses fit into the picture?

S
iobhán Finnegan was inconsolable. She screamed into the phone, trying to get the operator at the NYPD to connect her to the homicide detectives handling the quadruple murder that, by late morning, was on every network and news outlet in the country.

“JUST GET ME A COP!” she demanded between sobs. “MY HUSBAND WAS MURDERED IN THAT BAR IN MANHATTAN! HE KNEW IT WAS COMING AND I NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE, NOW!

Hazel Larkin could do nothing to calm her newly widowed daughter. Siobhán pushed her away as she continued to shout into the phone at the police operator, who was asking her questions in such a manner that
anyone listening would have thought that she was taking a barking-dog complaint.

“What is your name, ma’am? Please spell it, ma’am. What’s your phone number, ma’am? Where are you at now, ma’am? What is your connection to the case? No, ma’am, you may not speak to a detective until you answer my questions.”

“I TOLD YOU, GODDAMN IT, THAT MY HUSBAND WAS KILLED IN THAT MANHATTAN BAR. NOW GET SOME DETECTIVES ON THE PHONE!” Siobhán screeched.

“You’ll have to give me your name and where you can be reached, ma’am. Until you do that, I won’t be able to help you,” replied the dispatcher, who seemed more interested in sticking to procedure and putting another female in her place than just connecting her to the detectives.

“I’M SIOBHÁN FINNEGAN, YOU CONDESCENDING, PETULANT BITCH! MY HUSBAND IS PATRICK! HE WAS MURDERED IN A BAR WITH THOSE OTHER PEOPLE. I’M IN OHIO, WHERE HE SENT ME FOR MY OWN PROTECTION! NOW, GET ME A DETECTIVE, GODDAMN YOU!”

“I’m connecting you now,” the operator replied in a tone that sounded as if she were about to fall asleep.