The DeValera Deception

by Michael McMenamin

Sweeney hung up the phone and the blue-eyed man with the once-broken nose waited a full thirty seconds before exiting the booth and heading for the ticket window. Only ten minutes were left until the train departed. “One way to Cleveland, please. Yes, coach will be fine.”

  The man smiled. It wasn‘t a pleasant smile. Wouldn‘t it be grand, he thought, if luck were with him now? He had been waiting for so long. It was time to put things right. He smiled again. It still wasn‘t a pleasant smile

  21.

  She Was Nothing Special

  En Route to Cleveland

  Monday, 12 August 1929

  11:45 a.m.

  McBride poured whiskey from the small silver flask he had produced from inside the jacket of his suit and offered it to Sturm who declined and silently stared past him to the scenery outside their Pullman compartment‘s window.

  “Your plan failed, Irishman,” Sturm said at last

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your Mr. Cockran has taken it on the lam, I believe the Americans would say,” Sturm replied. “He was arrested as you asked but he made bail. We sent someone to silence him but they failed. Now, he‘s skipped town. It seems that our Mr. Cockran is a formidable opponent.”

  “At least he‘ll be out of our hair,” McBride said, annoyed his frame to stick Cockran in jail had failed. Still, his clever little frame of the widow O‘Brien this morning should fare better.

  “Perhaps not. Our paths may cross again. We share the same destination.”

  “You mean Cleveland?” McBride asked.

  “Yes. He took a train to Cleveland last night. We have him under surveillance there.”

  McBride‘s eyes narrowed and a smile creased his face. Sod Blackthorn. He‘d kill Cockran too. Why not? He‘d already done the wife. “I‘ll take care of him. Goddamn American reporter. Never knew when to mind his own business. If he had, his wife might be alive today.”

  “His wife is dead?” Sturm asked.

  “Yes, back in Ireland. She got caught up in a bank robbery,” McBride replied.

  “Unfortunate. Did you know her well?”

  McBride smiled and looked out the window at the passing countryside. A lot better than you might imagine, he thought. “Why? What does it matter?” McBride asked, turning to Sturm.

  “Everything about your adversary matters. His likes. His dislikes. The woman a man chooses often reflects his character. Even his strengths or weaknesses.”

  McBride just shook his head. If Sturm believed that, he was a fool. Men chose women for one thing only as that sexy tease Betsy O‘Brien had discovered a few hours ago. He knew she had wanted it bad ever since she flashed her tits at him the other night. So he had given it to her good. She had struggled at first, kicking and protesting when he folded her over the high arm of the green leather sofa in her husband‘s study but a few hard cuffs on the side of the head soon set her straight.

  Flipping her yellow sun dress up and yanking her lacy knickers down, weak whimpers were the sum of her resistance as a smiling Tommy had promised the squirming young matron he meant her no harm. “Be still, lass. T‘is only fair we pay your husband back for his two-timing ways,” the IRA man had said right before he breached Betsy from behind with the faithless husband looking on, a bound and gagged witness to the shagging of his spouse.

  Tommy had laughed in triumph as those damn whimpers gave way to groans when Betsy‘s body betrayed her. Women were like that, he knew, once their knickers were off. After all, he reasoned, was it still really rape once a lass helplessly began to enjoy what she couldn‘t avoid? Tommy thought not. “Your woman fancies me, Jamie. Sopping wet inside, she is. Do you fancy a wager I bring her off? Say ten quid? Does she ever sound this way when you‘re in the saddle?”

  The sorry cuckold had turned his face away at the sight but he would have had to be deaf not to hear his wife‘s sharp cries echoing in his ears until Tommy had reduced her to just another receptacle where the warm remains of his lust were left to linger. A cruel reminder she was nothing special. No woman was.

  When he withdrew at last, she had stayed limply bent over the sofa, gasping for breath. As she began to weep, Tommy had noticed a swelling on Betsy‘s face where his big fist hit her and he lightly stroked her bruised, tear-stained cheek, causing her to wince. “We better put some ice on that,” he‘d said. “Wouldn‘t want the neighbors thinking Jamie was beating you now would we?”

  After his men had taken their turn with her, McBride had brought ice for Betsy‘s face and coldly dispatched her husband with the same pistol used to eliminate his mistress. No witnesses. Well, no believable witnesses. McBride didn‘t think himself a beast. Once he learned she knew nothing of the wire transfers, a dazed and re-clothed Betsy had been placed in a nearby chair, exhausted by her ordeal and staring with blank eyes but obeying and closing her fingers when Tommy placed the empty weapon in her hand--a faithless husband and his mistress killed by a jealous wife. The lads had laughed when he said the police might not be entirely persuaded by her protests of innocence.

  The train passed through a tunnel, throwing the compartment into darkness as McBride pondered Sturm‘s question, his smile even wider at all the sweet memories it stirred. Had he known Cockran‘s wife well? Aye, that he had.

  McBride believed that any good leader, intent on maintaining morale, should always selflessly share the spoils of war with those serving under him. Under wartime conditions, women were fair game. It had been true for Tommy during the Irish war for freedom from the British where shamefaced young Anglo-Irish women were stripped and shagged by McBride and his men in full view of horrified relatives as their spacious country houses burned in the night, flames illuminating the fused spectacle of passion and reprisal. After the truce with the British in ‘21, such easy opportunities vanished only to return in the Irish Civil War in ‘22 where even well-to-do Free State women were not spared the lusty pleasures of a slap and tickle courtesy of the IRA. Planning made it possible. Stalking their chosen prey. Blackthorn had taught him that.

  More than maintaining his men‘s morale, Blackthorn had told him, violation of the fair sex was a key tactic for demoralizing the enemy. “Target their women, Thomas. Turn them into trollops. Return them as damaged goods. God approves. The Book of Deuteronomy. The women of your enemies are the spoil of war delivered by the Lord which He commands you to enjoy. All is still fair in love and war. Supply the lasses with a generous sample of both and boast about it in the pubs. Make their menfolk hang their heads in shame as they face the proof their precious Free State can‘t even keep the honor of their wives and daughters unstained.”

  Encouraged by Blackthorn and the Bible, Tommy and his lads were happy to force favors of the flesh from Free State women—the spoil of their new enemies—just as they had from the Anglo-Irish. Praise the Lord and pass the list. Yes, Blackthorn had given him a list--a long list--and told him to start at the top. “Don‘t save the best for last. The first two lasses come from well-known Free State families. I once knew one of them myself.” he had said with a cold smile. “Their spouses may have loosened them up a little but I daresay they‘ll still supply you and the boys a rewarding romp.”

  Real lookers the two women were and, predictably, Tommy felt his disdain and desire for both growing in equal measure as he followed them around town and learned their patterns—one in Donegal, the other in Galway—while they ran errands, shopped and lunched with friends, their noses always looking down on common Irish lads like him just as if they were as good as the Anglo-Irish themselves. Free State bitches both. He vowed they‘d soon see, once all their charms were indecently on display, that they weren‘t so high and mighty as they thought.

  The two wives had been taken hostage during IRA bank robberies, one in Galway, the other two weeks later in Donegal. His men had worn masks and blindfolded their victims on the way to a safe house by a stream in the Connemara Mountains where the women proved to be neither high nor mighty. Naked and on their knees, pretty faces forced flat on
the floor, helpless backsides hoisted up in the air, their noses had been in no position to look down on anyone.

  Thanks to Blackthorn, Cockran‘s wife was the first. He betrayed the Republic but his mate paid the price. Taming that wild lass from the west of Ireland was a challenge but the outcome inescapable. Held tight by Sean and Timothy, Tommy had mounted her married bum and made it all his own. Afterwards, her new riding master had leaned forward to wipe the tears from her face and, with a laugh, whisper in her ear “T‘was a fine shag, my sweet, and a fine fit you were. But let‘s keep this our little secret. And wouldn‘t you be agreeing with me that a husband won‘t be happy to hear that his wife‘s next wee one might not be his? Men are like that, don‘t you know?”

  When, after a last caress, Tommy had finally tugged free from the snug embrace of his first Free State spoil, who knew the daft woman would show so little gratitude? She had ripped off her blindfold and come at them with a nearby fish-scaling knife leaving Timothy bleeding from a slash on his jaw. They hadn‘t wanted to kill her but after the mad bitch sliced up Sean as well, she left them no choice. Naked with a knife had proved no match for a man with a gun. Sean and Timothy had begged him to wait until they could take their turn with her but, cut and bleeding like stuck pigs, he knew they were in no shape for tupping. It was quick and Tommy made sure she didn‘t suffer. He wasn‘t a beast but what else could he have done? She had seen their faces.

  Their second Free State spoil, Mary Sullivan Flaherty, had furnished almost as fine a ride as the first but she had displayed more sense. After they all finished, she had left her blindfold on. This had spared her the fate of the unfortunate Mrs. Cockran and afforded her safe return to her cringing bank clerk of a husband. He had stood there quivering during the robbery, his cowardice permitting the pillaging first of his father-in-law‘s bank, then his new bride‘s body and, finally, her reputation for virtue, ruined by the gossip slyly spread in the pubs that she had given as good as she got.

  McBride turned his head back from the window and, in reply to Sturm‘s initial question, shook his head again and said, “Two of the boys and I once spent a little time with Cockran‘s wife.You might say I got to know her a lot more than most. I‘ve met many like her. They put on airs but aren‘t they all alike on the inside? Just a girl from Galway. She was nothing special.”

  Part II

  Cleveland and Chicago, 1929

  Cleveland was known as a haven for racketeers, most of whom had used the profits of bootlegging and gambling during Prohibition to purchase political power.... [T]he city was honeycombed with brothels and gambling dens, and its power.... [T]he city was honeycombed with brothels and gambling dens, and its police department was widely acknowledged to be corrupt and ineffectual, its equipment obsolete.

  If there was one moment in Al Capone’ s racketeering career where he appeared absolutely invulnerable, it was [during] 1929....The Capone bootlegging network reached from New York’ s Long Island to Lake Michigan, and he controlled the flow of alcohol from Europe, Canada and the Caribbean.... Political circumstances continued to favor him: the mayor was afraid of him, he had bribed the Chicago Police Department into a state of compliance, and Prohibition, the chief cause of his good fortune, was entering its tenth year, turning millions of otherwise law-abiding Americans into lawbreakers.

  Laurence Bergreen Capone, The Man and the Era

  22.

  My Old Friend!

  Cleveland

  Monday, 12 August 1929

  8:00 a.m.

  Cockran walked up the familiar ramp of Cleveland‘ s Union Terminal, a sprawling complex of buildings on Public Square which had been under construction since 1925, billed as the world‘s most massive construction project since the pyramids in Egypt. Already, its Terminal Tower was the tallest building in the country outside New York. On the horizon of Lake Erie, he saw the swiftly moving black clouds of a summer storm moving in. He handed his suitcase to the cabby, settled in and stretched out his long legs in front of him.

  “Where to, mister?”

  “The Alcazar. It‘ s right off Cedar...” Cockran said before the cabby interrupted him.

  “Fancy hotel. Owned by Arabs. The only place in town a fellow can‘ t get a drink.”

  Cockran smiled. The Arab owner had a taste for Irish whiskey he learned from Cockran.

  The rain had started to fall by the time the taxi pulled up under the Alcazar‘ s canvas awning. Cockran tipped the doorman who opened the door and secured his bags.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Cockran. Good to see you again.”

  “Likewise, Safir.” Cockran said to the tall uniformed man wearing a fez straight out of a comic opera. All that was missing was the curved steel of a scimitar through his belt.

  Cockran walked into the hotel lobby and was instantly transported into a room right out of the Arabian Nights, one in which a Moroccan chieftain would have felt at home. Opened in 1923, the hotel was modeled after the Alcazar Hotel in Seville, Spain and the Ponce de Leon Hotel in St. Augustine, Florida. It was a five-story, irregular pentagon of eclectic Spanish Moorish design featuring a lush botanical courtyard with a fountain at its center.

  Cockran stopped at the front desk and was pleased that, unlike the doorman, he was not recognized by either the desk clerk or the bellhop. He registered under a false name and asked, “Is Hasim in this morning?” referring to the patriarch who owned the hotel. “I‘m an old friend.”

  Cockran watched as the clerk walked over to a door marked “Private”, knocked softly and entered. Cockran followed, placing himself in front of the door at a discreet distance of twenty feet. The door opened and the great bulk of his friend filled the door frame, bald head glistening, the tips of his waxed black mustache curved upward. His greeting died in his throat as Cockran put his finger in front of his lips then beside his nose.

  “My old friend,” said Hasim. “Good to see you again. Let‘ s talk in my office,” gesturing expansively with his hand. Once inside the office, Hasim embraced him in a bear hug. “Bourke, old fellow! How have you been? How‘ s your son? What‘ s all this about? Why the incognito?”

  Cockran laughed. “One at a time, my friend, one at a time. Where‘ s that famous Arab hospitality? Do I have to beg you for a thimble full of that thick black syrup you pass off as coffee? Do I make you beg for Irish whiskey in my home?”

  Now it was Hasim who put his finger to his lips. “Not so loud, my friend. Only Allah knows that. My wife does not. Besides, it would have been a grave breach of diplomatic etiquette to decline a sip of whiskey in an Irishman‘ s home. And, above all, I am a diplomat.”

  Hasim walked over to the corner of the large office and pulled the wooden blinds shut on the window which overlooked the hotel‘ s courtyard. He returned, holding two small, handleless cups, each half-filled with a thick, sweet-smelling brew. “Here, my friend,” handing Cockran a cup. “What brings you back to Cleveland? Fall semester must be at least six weeks away.”

  He paused, arched a thick, black eyebrow and said, “Could it possibly be that you are checking up on me to see if I am giving proper care to that formidable green Auburn speedster you so graciously left in my care for the summer? The attendants in my garage below treat her as if she were my own. And I have taken her out every Sunday for long drives in the country.”

  Cockran laughed. “Nothing like that, Hasim. I‘m sure the Auburn is well-cared for. I‘m here on business. I‘m meeting an old friend and, alas, she has an exceptionally jealous husband who may have private detectives following her. I don‘ t want to embarrass her and it would be indiscreet if we were to meet at my apartment. You will not recognize the name under which I registered and I would appreciate if you would ask Safir to exercise the same discretion as you.”

  Hasim smiled broadly. “You devil, Bourke. A married woman? You may rely on me.”

  In fact, there was an attractive married woman from Shaker Heights with whom Cockran had been sleeping during the previous semester but he was
not going to see her this visit as she was on holiday in Italy with her husband who had promised to stop his philandering ways. He and Susan had spent many a rainy afternoon in his apartment on Derbyshire while Patrick was in school and her wayward husband was at his law offices in the Union Commerce Building.

  After another coffee in his room, Cockran went for a walk. It was still overcast, but the rain had stopped. He headed east, past the left-hand side of the Alcazar and paused at an intersection two blocks later. He turned right onto Derbyshire where his apartment was located and then he stopped in mid-stride. A black, four-door Buick was parked up the street, facing away from him, barely a hundred yards away. Two men, both smoking, sat in the front seat. A stake-out. Cockran paused and looked up at the apartment building in front of him. Nodding to himself, as if he had found the right place, he walked toward the front door.

  Upon reaching the door, he was out of the line of sight of the men in the car. Cockran quickly moved off to the right and down the adjacent alley. It had begun raining again and Cockran pulled the collar of his trench coat higher. He reached the intersecting alley at the rear of the building and turned left, keeping his eyes peeled for either of the men in the Buick. In a few moments, he had reached the rear of his own apartment building. Using his key to the service entrance, he sprinted up the three flights of stairs to the fourth floor. He cautiously opened the fire door and looked in. The hallway was empty. He silently closed the door and walked back over the fourth floor landing to the rear entrance to his apartment. The door appeared to be undisturbed. He let himself into a kitchen looking the same as he had left it.

  The living room, however, was a shambles. His bedroom and the adjacent bedroom of his son were relatively Spartan affairs and not much damage was done. But the third bedroom, which doubled as his library and study, was unrecognizable. Much worse than his homes in New York. Papers were strewn all over the floor, drawers and their contents upside down, books ripped from their shelves, spines broken. The IRA boys were obviously frustrated.