Night of the Blackbird

by Heather Graham

  “Hello, welcome to Kelly’s. You’ve been here a few nights now.”

  “Great band,” he told her. He didn’t smile, just watched her gravely.

  “We hadn’t had an order for a blackbird in a while.”

  “Heard about it from a friend,” he said casually. “You’re Moira Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve seen your show.” He didn’t mention whether he had liked it or not. She was surprised when he said, “Can you sit a minute?”

  Moira looked around. Danny was behind the bar with her father, and Colleen was out on the floor. The crowd had thinned out enough that Patrick and Michael had taken seats at the end of the bar and were talking to each other.

  “I suppose,” she murmured, taking a seat opposite him in the booth against the wall.

  “Interesting place you have here,” the man said.

  He smiled, but there was something insincere in it, Moira thought.

  “Lots of people,” he went on.

  “It’s a pub,” Moira said flatly.

  “Very Irish.”

  “It’s an Irish pub.”

  “Have you ever had any trouble here?”

  “Trouble?” Moira said. “Um, let me see. Once a man got ornery when my father said he’d had too much and refused to serve him. We called the cops, and he was escorted out.”

  “Hasn’t your band man, Jeff Dolan, been arrested a few times?”

  “He was a wild kid. He’s straightened out.”

  “Don’t always count on people being what they seem.”

  “Excuse me, what’s your name?”

  “Kyle. Kyle Browne,” the man said, smiling and offering his hand across the table. Moira shook it briefly.

  “You know, Americans finance half the trouble that goes on around the world.”

  “In Northern Ireland, you mean.”

  Kyle Browne shrugged. “Your father is a very political man.”

  “He is not!”

  “Then there’s your brother.”

  “He’s an attorney, and he doesn’t even live in Boston.”

  “You don’t know all your clientele.”

  “Are you insinuating,” she asked, keeping a check on her anger, “that my father’s place is some kind of harbor for the IRA and their sympathizers?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything. What about your family friend? The writer. Just how well do you know him? Think he’s up to something?”

  “Are you a cop?” Moira asked bluntly.

  “Let’s just say I’m a friend, keeping an eye on things.”

  “Fine. You keep an eye on things. Let me tell you about my father. He’s one of the nicest men you’ll ever meet. He came to America because my family was mixed. Good Irish Catholics with a few Orangemen thrown in. You know—marriage, in-laws, things like that. My dad didn’t like the kind of conflict that could arouse back home. He never believed in any man killing another over his belief in God. Of course, in this day and age, the religious thing has really become political and economic. Sure, a united Ireland would be great. But my father doesn’t believe that thousands of people born in Ireland, whose families have been in Ireland for hundreds of years, should all be lined up and shot. My dad holds nothing against the English for something a brutal king did hundreds of years ago, and he understands how the Protestants in Northern Ireland are afraid of what will happen if they’re not part of the United Kingdom. He’s an American citizen, a Catholic and a man of the Republic, but he’s a moderate who hopes that time and negotiation and good and honest men will bring peace. Does that answer your questions about the pub?”

  She stood angrily and started to walk away, then returned to the table, still angry. “See the couple at the end of the bar? They’re English, and they moved into the neighborhood about two years ago. They love to come here, and they’re more than welcome. Danny, my good friend, was born in Belfast. As was Peter Lacey, the tall skinny guy talking to my dad right now. He’s a Protestant. Well, he was. He married a stunning young Jewish woman and converted. He’s welcome here, too. Sal who just came in, well, Sal is half Italian. We love his food, he loves our beer. And you, God knows where you’re from or what religion you practice, or if you practice any at all. Hell, my father even lets atheists drink in here. He puts up decorations for Kwanza, for God’s sake. So you’re welcome in here just like everyone else. You can come in and drink any time you want, or eat—we serve good food. You can sit there and watch and listen all you like. But take it from me, if you’re looking for a conspiracy going on here, you’re crazy.”

  She started away again. He caught her hand, smiling.

  “Hey, sorry,” he said softly.

  “Yeah. Great.”

  “No, I mean it, I’m really sorry to have upset you. You’re a beautiful woman, and it’s a fine place. I’d hate to see bad things happen here.”

  “They won’t.”

  “How about the old codger at the bar?”

  “Seamus?” she said incredulously. “He’s harmless. Completely. Don’t you want to accuse my sister of something, as well? Or my mother, perhaps?”

  “I’m not making accusations. I’m watching.”

  “Fine. It’s a public establishment, as I’ve said.”

  “The drink is terrific.”

  “Good. It’s on the house.”

  She freed her hand and walked away, and was startled to realize that she was rattled. She walked behind the bar. The Englishman, Roald Miller, lifted his glass. “Finally, a good bartender. Hey, Moira, how come you had to go off and become successful? We really miss you around here.”

  “Thanks, Roald. What was in that glass you’re lifting to me?”

  “Sarah and I are having Fosters.”

  She set the beers down and was startled to hear Danny behind her a moment later. “You really gave that fellow a piece of your mind.”

  She flushed. “You heard me?”

  “Most of it. I was trying to appear far away and busy.”

  “The nerve! Insinuating that my father—”

  Danny interrupted her with a sigh. “He doesn’t have to be insinuating anything about your father. There are lots of people in this pub.”

  She spun on him and whispered softly, “What is going on, Danny?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I did. But now that you’ve given that bloke the what for, I suggest you stay away from him.”

  “I think he’s a cop.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But don’t go dating him, eh?”

  “You know that—”

  “You’re in love. Right. With old beady eyes. You should stay away from him, too.”

  “If I were to listen to the guy in the corner, I’d definitely be staying away from you.”

  “But you have to go on instinct, don’t you, Moira? And you know I’d never hurt you.”

  “If you only knew. You’ve hurt me time and time again.”

  “I’m sorry for that. It was never my intention. Honest to God, I’m trying to make up for it now.”

  “And I’m sorry, but you’re too late.”

  “Am I? Am I really, Moira?”

  She looked down the bar, where Michael was still talking to Patrick. The two had gotten into a conversation with Liam and Seamus.

  Michael looked up as if he had sensed her needing him. He smiled and lifted his glass. I’m doing my best to be part of it all, he seemed to be saying.

  She smiled in return and looked at Danny.

  “Yes, you’re really too late,” she said softly, and turned away.

  As she did so, she caught the eye of the man in the corner. Kyle Browne. He was frowning, as if…

  Warning her.

  About what, or…

  Who?

  10

  Moira wasn’t sure why, but she was still worried about Seamus, despite the fact that he had been drinking more moderately that night. Her brother was next to her behind the bar when the place finally wound down for the night. Liam had
long gone, as had most everyone else, but Seamus was still there.

  “Patrick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Walk Seamus home.”

  “Why? He only lives a couple of blocks from here.”

  “Please? Just humor me.”

  “Oh, sure, let me just run out into the bitter cold in the middle of the night to humor you.”

  “I’ll ask someone else.”

  “No, Moira, damn, I’ll do it. I was teasing you. Remember what teasing is? But why are you worried about the old coot?”

  “I don’t know.” She walked past her brother to the end of the bar, facing Seamus. “Patrick is going to walk you home tonight.”

  “Now, Moira, I switched between the real stuff and the unleaded all night.”

  “And how many did you have in all?”

  “Just a few.”

  “About ten, I believe.” Colleen piped up from the floor. She was gathering bottles and glasses from the tables.

  “Ten? It’s amazing you have kidneys left, Seamus,” Moira said.

  “Irish kidneys. The best to be had,” Seamus said.

  “I’m proud of you for switching. Next time, just not quite so many altogether. I wouldn’t have served you so many.”

  “Ah, but that’s the trick, lass. You get the real stuff from a different bartender each time.”

  “Shame on you, Seamus,” she said firmly.

  “Now, I don’t drive, Moira.”

  “You’d be cut off after the first one if you did.”

  “All right, girl. I’m going home.”

  “With Patrick.”

  “Sorry, Patrick,” Seamus said sheepishly.

  “No bother,” Patrick said cheerfully, grimacing over his head at Moira. “Come on, then.”

  Kyle Browne had departed at about one. It was nearly two now.

  Saint Patrick’s Day made for a long week.

  “Get Dad to go on up,” Patrick told Moira in a soft whisper as he followed Seamus.

  “Right,” she said, but Colleen was already chastising their father, urging him up the steps.

  “I guess I should get out, too, let the family close up,” Michael said quietly to Moira. She looked at him, saw the gentle concern in his eyes.

  “One of these nights I will get over there.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “My dad is gone. Kiss me goodbye?” she said, walking him to the door.

  He curled his arms around her, then lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. He kissed her lips lightly, but she clung to him, demanding more. She turned it into a long, wet, openmouthed kiss, the kind that would have stirred her had she any energy left in her body whatsoever.

  Michael withdrew when her sister cleared her throat and asked, “Shall we all leave the room?”

  Michael’s eyes were on her, intense, curious. “Was that a kiss?” he whispered. “Or a performance?”

  She felt a shiver snake through her. “A kiss,” she said firmly. “And maybe a performance. I’m just establishing a few things. Is…that all right?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He touched her lips briefly with his. “It’s after two. We’ll all be as tired as you look in the morning.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  He grinned. “Good night. I’m out of here.”

  Cold wind swept in as he departed. She closed and locked the door and turned. Colleen and Danny were staring at her.

  Danny applauded, clapping his hands slowly.

  “You could have gone with him. I can clean up with Danny,” Colleen said.

  “I—great. You two clean up. I’m going to get some sleep.”

  She started around the bar and through to the office, then remembered her purse in the well. She came back in, but couldn’t find it where she had thrown it.

  “Hey, Colleen, did you move my purse?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen it.”

  “Did you leave it at the restaurant?” Danny asked.

  “No, I’m certain. I came in, the place was wild, I walked behind the bar and threw my purse in the well.”

  “Maybe Dad picked it up. Or Patrick,” Colleen suggested.

  “Maybe,” Moira said, frowning and haphazardly moving bottles around to see if she had stuck it somewhere else. “Damn, I can’t find it.”

  “It’s got to be there somewhere,” Danny said. “I didn’t see any customers hop the bar to make off with it.”

  “Moira, calm down. That’s Dad’s best aged whiskey you’re pushing around there. What’s in your purse that—”

  “Just my identification, my credentials, everything!” Moira said.

  “I was about to ask what was in it that you needed before the morning,” Colleen said. “I’m sure someone merely moved it.”

  Moira sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  Danny caught her by the shoulders. “Hey, go up to bed. You really do look worn out. Go up and get some sleep.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And don’t be going back out at night.”

  She looked at him warily.

  “Really. Please,” he said softly.

  “I wasn’t going back out tonight.”

  “Good.”

  “That’s not going to keep me from sleeping with him, Danny.”

  “I don’t think I need to be in on this conversation,” Colleen said, humming, trying to make a racket as she picked up the tables.

  “Maybe you’re not really so sure you want to,” Danny said, his hand on her arm. “Maybe that’s why you gave that Academy Award-winning performance at the door.”

  “And maybe I’m just really, really tired.”

  “There is no such thing as really, really, tired, not if you’re really, really certain and if you’ve been with your family this much time.”

  “How do you know where I’ve been all this time?” she demanded.

  “Trust me. I know.”

  “Great. You’re spying on me? Watching me?”

  “Circumstances, Moira, nothing more.”

  Colleen started singing “The Irish Washwoman.” Loudly.

  “Look, just for now, don’t be on the streets at night alone, okay? A sensible woman wouldn’t go wandering out alone in the wee hours of the morning anyway. Right?”

  “I carry Mace.”

  “In the purse you can’t find. And Mace is no defense against a gun.”

  “Why would someone use a gun against me?”

  He sighed with impatience. “Moira, Boston is a big city. Remember the dead prostitute? And God knows how many murders there are here a year. That’s the way of the world. Please, don’t go out alone late at night.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Danny, except to bed.”

  He released her at last. Tawny eyes met hers. She wished she didn’t like his face so much. An interesting face. She wished fervently that Danny had been called to Timbuktu to give a speech that particular Saint Patrick’s Day.

  “Night. Night, Colleen,” she called, and turned her back, going upstairs.

  “Hey, Patrick?” Seamus said sheepishly as they walked down the street.

  “Yeah, Seamus?”

  “You don’t have to do this. I don’t know what got your sister going, but you know I’m a man who can hold me ale.”

  “Seamus, it never hurts to have company on the walk home. Besides,” he said with a shrug and a smile, “it gives me another chance to slip away.”

  “To slip away to do what, at this hour of the night?” Seamus asked.

  “Well, I really have had business here. I haven’t been around as much as I should have been these past few days. I’d like to head downtown. And stare at my boat.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Sounds weird, huh?”

  “Sounds like an excuse for something else,” Seamus told him.

  “Oh, yeah?” Patrick said, stopping and staring at Seamus.
<
br />   “But then,” Seamus said quickly, “that’s what you were doing. Something else. Everyone knows a man can stay in a pub till all hours, not even drinking, just talking. Talking. There’s the crux,” he suddenly muttered. “I shouldn’t have talked so much. Or maybe I should have talked some more.”

  “What are you going on about, Seamus?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” Seamus looked sideways at his escort. Patrick Kelly was a tall man, lean, but solid. He had a fine face. All of Eamon Kelly’s children had fine faces, probably thanks to Katy Kelly. Hard to tell, though; he and Eamon had aged and wrinkled and grizzled together, but Eamon Kelly had been a fine-looking man in his prime.

  “Are you all right?” Patrick asked.

  “Oh, I’m fine. I’m a big fellow. Did you know I used to box?”

  “I’m sure you were a hard hitter.”

  “Aye, that I was. And only a wee bit of me ale has gone to me belly.”

  “You’re still a heartthrob, Seamus, I’m sure.”

  “I’m tired and worried, that’s what I am,” Seamus muttered.

  “Worried? About what?”

  Seamus shook his head, wondering if he should pour his heart out or muzzle his lips. “Those orphans you’ve been looking into, Patrick. What’s the deal with that? You need money? I can donate a bit. I’m not a charity case, you know. In the old days, we needed sponsors and jobs to get into the United States. Me uncle sponsored me, and I worked hard in the fishing business for over twenty years. I made some good investments, too.”

  “Seamus, I’ve just gotten involved, but as soon as I know a little more myself, you’ll be the first man I hit up, how’s that?”

  Seamus thought Patrick was looking at him a bit strangely. “Sure, sure,” he said quickly. “Well, now, there’s me house, just along the street. Old man Kowalski lives on the first floor. Polish fellow. Nice enough. Has his kids in all the time, always lots of people around. You don’t have to see me in, Patrick.”

  There was sweat on his upper lip, Seamus realized.

  “You don’t want help walking up the stairs?” Patrick asked doubtfully.

  “No, no. The day I can’t make it up one flight of stairs…well, I’ll move to a ground floor somewhere, that’s what I’ll do.”

  He slipped his key into the lock, opened the door and waved to Patrick, who waved back, then turned to go.