Free Dark Forces by Stephen Leather Page A

forearms – Shepherd could imagine generations of O’Neill men laying tarmac or working down the mines – and while he was a good twenty kilos heavier than Shepherd there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Marty’s hair was an unnatural shade of chestnut, except round his temples, which remained grey. He had a strong jaw, and teeth that Shepherd assumed had been professionally whitened. Marty favoured Armani suits and recognised Shepherd’s tuxedo for what it was. ‘Nice,’ he said, running his hand down the sleeve. ‘Cashmere?’
    ‘Yeah, he does a good suit does Giorgio,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘Not a hundred per cent, though?’ said Marty. ‘Cashmere wool mix, right?’
    ‘Twenty per cent, I think.’
    ‘I met him, once, Armani.’
    ‘You serious?’
    ‘In a club in Piccadilly. Sent him over a bottle of Cristal. Nice guy. Real gentleman.’
    ‘Did you ask him for a discount?’
    Marty chuckled. ‘Fuck me, I didn’t think of that. Look, Tommy and I are going for a quick smoke. Keep us company, yeah?’
    ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and Marty waved at his brother. Tommy got up and the two men walked outside. Tommy was older than Marty by a couple of years but he was shorter and slighter. Unlike Marty, Tommy had allowed his hair to grey while his teeth showed the effects of smoking and red wine. The only jewellery he wore was a simple gold wedding band and he tended to buy his clothes from chain stores. He always seemed slightly the worse for wear: his hair was unruly and there was generally a greyness to his skin as if he was short of a few essential vitamins.
    Character-wise, Tommy and Marty were chalk and cheese. Marty was loud and ebullient, always cracking jokes and teasing people. Tommy was much quieter, and there was always a short pause before he spoke, as if he was running his comments through some internal checking mechanism. Marty had a quick temper but Tommy was always ice cold, almost lizard-like. Shepherd had met the older brother only a few times but he had never seen him anything other than totally calm. But of the two men, it was Tommy who made him the more nervous. Marty could fly off the handle when something upset him, but he was just as quick to calm down. Tommy was much harder to gauge, and Shepherd always felt he was walking on eggshells when he was in his presence.
    Shepherd followed them, wondering if the invitation was connected to the cops taking Owen away. A dozen or so men were already smoking, split into three groups, but Marty and Tommy walked into the car park so they wouldn’t be overheard. Tommy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a leather cigar case. He opened it and offered it to Marty. Marty took a cigar and Tommy held the case out to Shepherd. Shepherd wasn’t a smoker but he took one. Marty had produced a gold cigar cutter and a Dunhill lighter but Tommy had already bitten the end off his and spat it onto the ground.
    ‘Classy,’ said Marty, carefully cutting his.
    ‘Poncy,’ said Tommy, gesturing at the cigar-cutter.
    Marty held it up. ‘This, gentlemen, is an instrument of torture. Put a guy’s pecker in the hole and he’ll sing like a fucking canary.’
    He held it out to Shepherd, who grinned. ‘Mate, I’ve got to be honest, my dick’s way too big to fit in there.’ He gave it back and bit the end off his cigar, then followed Tommy’s example and spat it on the ground.
    Tommy roared with laughter, pulled out a box of matches and handed it to Shepherd. He lit a match but held it out so that Tommy could light his cigar from it. He could see from the man’s smile that he appreciated the gesture of respect. Marty used his lighter to get his cigar going and both men puffed contentedly as Shepherd lit another match and attended to his own.
    ‘Thanks for taking care of that thing for us,’ said Tommy, his voice a low growl.
    ‘Happy to help,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘The bracelet and the video were nice touches.’
    ‘I figure that when there’s