Bloodland: A Novel by Alan Glynn Read Free Book Online

in your box now and shut the fuck up .
    Jimmy releases his grip on the railing. Behind him is kinesis, light and noise, the streets. Ahead, through the bars, is stillness, a dark blanket of shadows, the Green at night.
    ‘Yeah,’ Sweeney says, ‘Freddie Walker, he’s a client, lovely guy, you’d really like him, and of course –’
    ‘No,’ Jimmy says. ‘Stop it, right? I’m not listening to any more of this.’ He turns around and walks towards the head of the taxi rank. ‘Good night, Phil. I’m sorry, I can’t help you out.’
    He snaps the phone shut and puts it away.
    Steps around the arguing couple.
    ‘Hey –’
    And opens the back door of the waiting taxi –
    ‘That’s our –’
    – anticipating a musty whiff, the residue of long hours, long years , of sweat, smoke and overheated opinion.
    ‘Take that one,’ Jimmy says, pointing at the next car along, and gets in the back of the Nissan.
    Maria will talk to him, he’s pretty sure of that, and it’ll add a whole new dimension to the story.
    ‘Sandymount,’ he says to the driver, ‘Strand Road.’
    So Phil Sweeney can just …
    ‘That’s not a bad one.’
    ‘No,’ Jimmy says, as they cruise past the spot where he left Maria a few minutes earlier, ‘no, not a bad one at all.’
    *   *   *
    On his way down in the elevator of the BRX Building in Manhattan, Clark Rundle is about to flick through the latest issue of Vanity Fair to look for the article when he gets a call from Don Ribcoff.
    ‘Yeah, Don,’ he says, putting the magazine under his arm, ‘what’s up?’
    ‘Clark, I need five minutes. Are you around?’
    Rundle looks at his watch. ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock, Don. I’m leaving the building. It’s been a long day.’ He’s also had this copy of Vanity Fair in his possession since lunchtime, and has managed to hold off opening it until now. He resents the intrusion.
    ‘Can’t it wait?’
    ‘Not really, Clark, no. Where are you headed? Let me meet you there.’
    ‘I’m going to the Orpheus Room. I’m meeting Jimmy Vaughan for a drink.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘Look, why don’t you join us?’
    ‘Twenty minutes?’
    ‘Fine.’
    Rundle closes the phone. The elevator door hums open and he steps out into the lobby area.
    Seems he’s not the only one leaving the building.
    As he walks through the crowds, Rundle keeps the Vanity Fair under his arm, with the cover concealed. It’s absurd, but he feels a little self-conscious. He’s been interviewed before, many times, but usually under controlled conditions and not until multiple confidentiality clauses have been agreed to and signed.
    None of which applied with Vanity Fair , of course.
    Rundle didn’t mind, though. He was doing it for J.J., for this campaign he might be running. Plus, he finds there’s a certain cachet to being profiled in VF that even he isn’t immune to.
    He’ll read the article in the car.
    Out on Fifth it is warm. The air is still heavy and the evening sun is struggling to break through the haze.
    He crosses the sidewalk. His driver holds open the door of the waiting limo and he gets in. As far as Rundle is concerned, the interior of a car like this, with its tinted windows and chilled hum, is a refuge, one of the modern world’s few remaining private spaces. Advances in telecommunications haven’t helped much in this regard, but he still tries his best. Phone-time is kept to a minimum, and e-mails are ignored.
    Settling in now, he places the magazine in his lap and looks at the cover. It shows an actress he doesn’t recognise. She is pale and blonde, with icy blue eyes. She’s got blood-red lipstick on and is wearing a mantilla.
    Pastiche forties.
    A Veronica Lake wannabe. A Veronica Lake-alike. She’s pretty cute, though.
    Her name, apparently, is Brandi Klugmann and she’s in some new blockbuster franchise.
    He scans the rest of the cover for article titles. He finds what he’s looking for at the bottom.
    The Rundle