“I don’t really color like this often, you know,” Brian told his aunt gravely. “Uncle Dan asked me to keep an eye on the girls, so I’m watching them.”
“And a fine job you’re doing,” Moira said, and winced. There she went, sounding like her mother or Granny Jon again.
“We had ice cream for lunch,” Shannon told her.
“Brrr,” Moira said. “Great coloring. You’re being little angels. Patrick doesn’t deserve you.”
Brian frowned at her seeming criticism of his beloved father.
Moira quickly hugged him. “Your daddy is my brother, you know. I love him with all my heart, but you know how you tease the girls sometimes? I like to tease Patrick that way.”
Brian smiled, happy again.
“I’ll be back,” Moira promised.
She walked to the bar, ready to bite the bullet and thank Danny for helping her dad out while they’d been filming. But when she reached the bar, Chrissie was at the taps. Thirty and attractive, Chrissie was also efficient, with a no-nonsense manner.
“Where’s Danny?”
“He just walked over to see to the kids,” Chrissie said.
When Moira turned around, she saw that not only had Danny gone to sit at the table with the kids, but Michael had come down, as well. They were both there, each with a pint of beer.
“We’re going to include your dad in this thing, too, Moira,” Michael told her, rising. “He’s going to tell us about the Irish beers he has on tap and the Irish whiskies he carries.”
“Great idea,” she said. “We’ll stay entirely away from the political.”
“What are you so afraid of, Moira?” Danny inquired, watching her.
There was something about his voice. She should have walked away quickly.
“I’m not afraid of anything, Danny.”
“Then why are you so determined to be ‘politically correct’?”
“Because I do a friendly little travel show, that’s why,” she said angrily.
“And we’re making sure all the Irish look good,” Michael added lightly.
“All the Irish. Well, you know, that’s just great,” Danny said, his tone equally light. “Let’s just pretend that everything is always perfect. That the Irish haven’t been trod upon since the time Henry the Second came to power and forced the Irish chieftains to submit to him. And that Henry the Eighth didn’t come to power, want a divorce, create his own church, fight the Irish of the established church who couldn’t see changing their religion because he wanted a new wife, beat them to a pulp and confiscate the lands of all those who opposed him. And let’s just forget about William of Orange and the Battle of the Boyne and the subjugation of the people who had supported the rightful king.”
“Dan, those things happened hundreds of years ago,” Michael reminded him.
“And the Easter Rebellion, where the leaders of the hoped-for Irish Republic were shot dead, executed after they had surrendered.” Dan was speaking as if he hadn’t even heard Michael’s words.
Moira was about to speak when Michael answered Danny sharply. “And let’s not forget those leaders who willfully and cold-bloodedly assassinated English public servants in Ireland. And let’s not forget the bombs that went off and killed dozens of innocent people, including children.”
Moira realized that though Molly and Shannon were still coloring, ignoring the tones taken on by the adults at their sides, Brian was staring at them.
“Is there still a war in Ireland?” he asked.
“No,” Moira said.
“Yes,” Michael answered angrily, staring at Danny. “Some people insist on fighting one.”
Danny shrugged suddenly, a slow smile curving his lips. Moira realized that he had intentionally provoked Michael. Trying to break the tension, she said, “I think we should go shopping, maybe take the kids down to Quincy Market. Have pasta for lunch in Little Italy. Or find a Chinese restaurant.”
“The kids just ate,” Danny told her placidly.
“They’re kids. They’ll be hungry again,” Moira said sharply.
Danny shrugged.
Michael sighed, rising. “I’ve got to get back to Josh. We’re going to bring your father down now, while there’s a lull after the lunch crowd.” He curled his fingers around Moira’s. “Later? We’ll do something later?”
“Absolutely,” she told him.
He rose and walked by her, close, slipping an arm around her, kissing her cheek. “Sorry,” he whispered softly.
“Not your fault,” she told him, purposely letting Danny hear her. Michael frowned, then squeezed her hand and walked by.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Moira asked Danny angrily as she dragged him away to where the children couldn’t overhear.
His eyes narrowed on her speculatively and seemed to gleam with a golden, predatory light. He shrugged. “Just trying to suss out the lay of the land.”
“Why? Leave him alone.”
“He’s Irish, isn’t he? That’s what your mother told me.”
Moira waved a hand impatiently. “Emigration has been going on for hundreds of years. Some people get to the States and become Americans. He’s Irish—he’s just not Irish, the way some people insist on being.”
“Moira, I’m sorry, but I am Irish.”
“Fine. But this is America.”
“So it is.”
“Auntie Mo,” Brian called suddenly, “are you going to marry Michael?”
“No,” Danny assured him.
“Yes, I think I just might,” Moira said.
“Your auntie Mo is willing to go to great lengths to aggravate me,” Danny said.
“To aggravate you?” Moira said incredulously. “Gee, he’s smart, good-looking, charming and willing to tolerate a lot of abuse for my sake. What on earth could be wrong with my marrying such a man?”
To her surprise, Danny replied softly, “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I just don’t know.” She realized that he wasn’t looking at her. The television set over the bar was on. He rose, and said, distracted, “Excuse me.” Standing before the television, he slid his hand into his pocket and watched the set. Curiously, Moira walked over and joined him.
“Turn it up, please, will you, Chrissie?” he asked the woman behind the bar, who obliged him with a quick smile.
There was a tall, broad-shouldered, white-haired man standing on the steps of New York’s Plaza Hotel, answering questions put to him by news crews on his way into the hotel.
“Mr. Brolin, how does it feel to be in America?” a tall, dark-haired reporter asked.
“Great,” the man replied. “It always feels wonderful to be in America.” He had a deep, rich speaking voice and a light brogue, enough of an accent to mark him as Irish. He was clearly comfortable with the mikes thrust in front of his face.
“Have you come here for diplomatic reasons, sir?” a woman queried, getting her question in next.
“Well, now, as part of the U.K., Northern Ireland has a fine relationship with America. As part of the Irish people, we in Northern Ireland want you Americans to come see us when you’re visiting the Republic in the south. Some of the greatest places of legend, for Northerner and Republican alike, are in the north. Armagh, Tara, landscapes so beautiful they take your breath away. They belong to all of us, and to the Irish in America, as well.”
“Mr. Brolin, do you have a campaign to see the island of Ireland reunited again?”
“My first campaign is to see people united again,” Brolin said.
“Can such a thing ever happen?”
“We’re into the twenty-first century now. I believe we see more clearly, that we can get to the root of our problems. Not to say that decades of bitterness can be wiped away overnight. But in the past ten years, we’ve made some giant leaps. We are working together in the North. Come now, you all know that we want your American tourist dollars. That’s a goal that can get all the people working together right there.”
He started to tur
n away. For a split second, it was possible to see the exhaustion on the man’s face.
“Mr. Brolin, Mr. Brolin, one more question, please,” a tiny woman, who had just maneuvered her mike near the politician, called. Brolin hesitated, and she went on. “We’ve thousands of good Irish Americans right here in New York. What made you choose Boston for your appearance on Saint Patrick’s Day?”
Brolin smiled slowly, eyes alight. “New York is as fine a city as a man can find, with many a good Irish American, indeed. I didn’t choose Boston, though it, too, is a fine American city. They invited me. Invite me to New York next year. I’ll be delighted to come.”
With that, he waved a hand in the air and started up the steps of the hotel. Moira noted the police in attendance, protecting him.
“He’s charming,” she murmured. “So even and moderate. I wonder why on earth he has such a large police escort?”
Danny looked at her strangely. “Because some people don’t want to be moderate,” he told her. “Ah, look, here comes your father. I guess you’re back on. Time to give Eamon a chance to promote the brews of Eire—and Boston, of course.” He turned away, walking to the street door at the front of the pub. He lifted his coat from a hook and left without so much as a glance back.
She could hear her father, Michael, Josh and some of the others coming down to the pub but, curious, she followed Danny, sliding past one of the tables by the window and looking out. He’d been in such a hurry to leave, but he hadn’t gone anywhere. He was just standing in front of the pub, lighting a cigarette. He turned, almost as if he knew she was there, and she shrank from the window. Danny looked at the Kelly’s Pub sign for several long moments. Then he crushed out his cigarette and started down the street.
“Moody bastard,” Moira murmured to herself, then turned to the others.
They went to work. Lights and sound levels were set. Eamon stood at his taps, while Moira settled onto a bar stool in front of him. Eamon gave a great recitation, explaining the differences between lagers and ales and stouts. Customers began to filter in, making it all work perfectly. Chrissie, shy at first, got into the act. Seamus and Liam arrived and talked about the heart of the pub, how it was a place like home, a haven where you came to be with friends. “A beer…a beer you buy anywhere,” Liam told the camera. “But a place where a man belongs, with friends to argue and agree, where the bartender always knows what you’re drinking, now that’s not so easy to come by.”
Moira was stunned to find herself having fun as she began to move around the room to speak with customers. She put the kids on camera again, coloring at their table. Jeff Dolan had come in to set up early for the night, and she caught him teasing the kids while they laughed and crawled all over him. Jeff was the one to tell the video camera, “A pub is far more than a bar. A pub offers family fare, meals for the kids, good warm food, as well as ale. Well, now, I grant you, until recent times there existed many a pub in Ireland where the men had their place, and the women, well, they had their place, as well, but not on the same side with the men. I’d be willing to bet such a place or two still exists in the old country. But nowadays, I know I can come here alone—when I’m not working, of course—and I know I can come with kids, relatives, more. There’s a dartboard in the back, and I was teaching my nephew just last week how to play. We always have the games on—I’m a big Patriots fan myself. The point is, you can get a good beer, but also a whole lot more. The true Irish pub is the heart of the neighborhood. Kelly’s has a lot of heart, even here in America, and that’s a fact.”
Josh, who’d been following Moira with the camera, switched off the tape. Moira smiled with delight and kissed Jeff on the cheek. “That was wonderful.”
He blushed. “I’m glad. Thank God you didn’t warn me. I’d have been awful.”
“I’m glad we didn’t warn you either,” Josh told him. “This is going to be one of the best pieces we’ve done. Moira, I’m going over to talk with Michael and the sound guy. I want to make sure we’re good with what we’ve got.” She nodded, and Josh walked away.
Jeff seemed really pleased. “Seems to me you’ve got enough tape for a ten-hour show,” he told her.
She shook her head. “We’ll be editing everything we’ve got, taking out pauses, the amazing long spaces you get once you look over the video. Cutting and slicing shots…you’ll see.”
“You mean you’re still going to be taping in here?” he queried.
“Sure, why not? Hey, I didn’t know Josh was going to come in last night and tape while Colleen and I were onstage, but it might be good stuff. I haven’t looked it over yet. That’s how you get a lot that’s really good for a show like this. Spontaneous pieces, you know.”
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” Jeff said.
“Why not?”
He hesitated, gazing toward the equipment he’d been setting up.
“What happens,” he asked her, “when you get someone on tape who doesn’t want to be seen on camera?”
“Jeff, we do what the big guys like Disney do. We put up signs warning people that there are cameras going.”
“And you think everyone reads signs?”
“We ask for releases from anyone we feature,” she told him, then frowned. “Jeff, I’m not sure what you’re so worried about. So far, I’ve come across an incredible group of hams. They all want to be on camera.”
“Yes, but…”
She shook her head, smiling. “Jeff, you’re not into any…I mean, there are no drugs being passed around in my dad’s place, right?”
“Moira, I’ve been clean as a whistle for over five years. Ask your dad—I barely have a beer or two now and then.”
“I wasn’t accusing you, Jeff….”
“I’m just a little worried about you, Moira, all right? Be careful what you get on camera. I don’t think your own brother is going to want everything going on in here videotaped.”
“My brother!” Despite her surprised tone, she’d had her own uneasy suspicions regarding her brother’s activities since overhearing his conversation with Siobhan.
“Yeah, yeah, you know, he’s an attorney. Has to be careful.”
“Jeff, this is a friendly little travel show!”
“Right. I know. Just watch what you’re filming. For me, okay? This place is important to me. I admit to being a wild child. Well, hell, you were there, you know. I was on drugs, off drugs. I went through a spell of being a tough guy on the streets and I tried to raise money to send arms overseas. I spent a night or two in jail. Your dad kept faith in me when my own folks were ready to call it quits. You be careful. Just be careful.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just ran his fingers through his unruly dark hair and turned to the band equipment.
She wanted to quiz him further, but she couldn’t because Michael came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. His aftershave smelled good. The texture of his cheek against hers as he leaned down was pleasant and alluring. She felt warmed and was glad for the moment.
“Want to slip away somewhere?” he asked huskily.
“I do.”
“I mean, really away. We don’t want to find out that Josh has decided to film Saint Patrick’s Day mating rituals or anything like that.”
She laughed aloud, turning to face him. “He wouldn’t dare.”
“Let’s sneak away to the hotel.”
“Let’s.”
Moira started across the pub to tell her father she was leaving. It wasn’t busy at the moment. Chrissie was tending to the three women at bar, and Eamon was poring over a newspaper.
Moira was surprised to feel a little bit like a guilty kid as she approached her dad. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say. She was well over twenty-one, of course, but she knew she was going to make up a story about needing something or going to scout locales or some such thing. What woman, no matter how old, would ever want to admit to her father that she was getting a little bit desperate to get away from her family for j
ust a few minutes of…quality time with the new man in her life?
“Dad…” she began.
“They haven’t found a thing,” Eamon said, looking up.
“Pardon?”
“On that poor girl, murdered the other day. The police have been questioning half the city, and they haven’t found out anything. She was at a bar the night she died, a high-priced place. I guess she was what they call an escort these days, a high-priced girl herself. Everyone remembers her sitting at the bar by herself. No one remembers who she left with. They haven’t been able to connect her murder with any others in the city.”
“Dad, unfortunately, it often takes months, even years, for the police to crack down on a killer,” Moira said. “And sometimes, as you know, people get away with murder.”
“I don’t like it,” Eamon said.
“Of course not, Dad, it’s tragic.”
Michael was behind Moira. “Eamon, I can tell you’re afraid for your daughters, and I’m making no judgments, but it’s true that a call girl takes her chances. Your daughters would never be in such a position.”
“It just bothers me, in the bones,” her father said.
“I’ll be safe in the city. I’m always with Michael or Josh, Dad,” Moira said. There was her opening. “And as to that—”
Just then Colleen came in from the office behind the bar and straight up behind her father. “Hey, it’s time for dinner,” Colleen said.
“Dinner?” Moira repeated blankly.
“Dinner. Remember that stuff we cooked all day for your program? Well, Mum has it in her head that we’re all going to gather around and eat it. You know. Dinner.”
“Now?” Moira said.
“Six o’clock seems like a pretty good time for dinner to me,” someone said from behind Moira.
She turned. Danny was back. Golden eyes on her speculatively. He seemed to know she’d been about to leave. With Michael. And he obviously found her situation amusing.
Night of the Blackbird Page 10