Night of the Blackbird

by Heather Graham

  “Yes, but trust me. There are more than usual. I bet even Brolin’s people are here already. Jesus, Moira, trust me on this. Keep out of it—completely.”

  “It’s my father’s pub.”

  “Nothing is going to happen in your father’s pub. And there’s nothing that any of us could tell Brolin’s people that they don’t already know.”

  “If everyone is so smart, how come so many people have been killed through the years?”

  “Because there are too many people who see their side as a just and true cause, and they’re willing to die for it. You need to keep your mouth shut, and Seamus needs to keep his mouth shut. Ignorance isn’t just bliss, Moira, it’s life. Okay, they’re beginning to stare at me from inside for keeping this door open so long. We’ve got to go in. And I’ll never say a word about any of this to you in front of anyone else. Now, what kind of sandwich you want?”

  When she returned to Kelly’s with Jeff, her father was gone. Chrissie had come in and was working the bar. Patrick and Josh were sitting at one of the front tables, drinking coffee and talking to a blond man of about forty-five, nicely dressed, long legs casually stretched out from his seat at the table.

  The stranger saw Moira as she entered. He stood, bringing both Patrick and Josh to their feet.

  “Moira, I don’t think you’ve met Andrew McGahey as yet. He works with the Irish Children’s Charities group. Andrew, my sister Moira. And you have met Jeff Dolan, right?” Patrick asked.

  “Moira, how do you do?” McGahey said. His accent wasn’t Irish. It was New York City, if anything. He went on to shake Jeff’s hand. “Of course I’ve met Jeff. I’ve heard the Blackbirds many a time now. Wonderful group.”

  “Thanks,” Jeff said.

  “Coffee, you two?” Patrick asked.

  Moira lifted her cup. She hadn’t forgotten to stop for the gourmet coffee she had told her father she was craving.

  “I’m fine,” Jeff said.

  “Moira, did you have any more plans for the day?” Josh asked.

  “What?”

  “Plans. For taping. The guys are off with the crew. They called in, and they’re doing fine with the pub door segment. Was there anything else you wanted to do today?”

  She’d forgotten about her own show. Forgotten that she’d detoured Josh and company from a delightful vacation to come home to film Saint Patrick’s Day.

  “Uh, no, not today. But,” she said hastily, “I think I can get an interview with Brolin. I have to call his people back in a bit for a time and a place, but I think it will work out.”

  “You got Brolin,” Josh said appreciatively.

  “I think,” she murmured.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Jeff said.

  “Or me,” Patrick said.

  “Well, it just happened. This morning,” Moira murmured uncomfortably. She didn’t mention her mother’s role, not because she didn’t want to give credit where it was due, but because she didn’t know if Katy wanted people knowing that she had been, at the least, acquainted with Brolin in Ireland.

  “Great,” Josh said. “If we’re done for the day, though—or if I’m done, at least—I’m going to take Gina sightseeing.”

  “Hey, thanks for the help down here,” Patrick told him.

  “Not at all,” Josh said, waving goodbye.

  “Where’s Dad?” Moira asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Patrick said, frowning. “He got a call, asked us to man things and took off like a shot.” Her brother looked unhappy. “I asked him what was wrong, and I was going to follow along, he was so damned white. But he told me he needed me here.”

  “That’s strange. You’re sure he was all right?”

  “No, he wasn’t all right. But I couldn’t knock him down and insist he tell me what was going on. He will, in his own good time. And by the way, Andrew came by today specifically to meet you.”

  “Oh?” She looked at the blond man.

  He smiled. A mature charmer, tall and good-looking, with a single dimple. He had an air of casual sophistication.

  “I’m hoping you can help us along with your show, somewhere along the line.”

  “Ah,” she murmured. “How?”

  “Airtime.”

  She nodded. “Of course. Did you mean…now? For this show?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, no, we’re just putting the whole thing together now. Your brother has been doing our legal work. I’m hoping to get Jeff and his group to do a special CD for me, with the proceeds going to my cause. Once we get it going, we’ll be hitting the news stations, papers and all, but with your show…well, it would be nice to touch the heart of America’s travelers. They usually have money.”

  “What exactly is your charity doing?” she inquired.

  “Moira, you’re sounding like an inquisitor,” Patrick murmured.

  “I need to know,” she told her brother. She didn’t know what was goading her on, but she was being rude. “I want to make sure you’re trying to teach kids about art and literature, language and mathematics, computer science. I mean, you’re not conducting a school for the manufacture and use of weapons, are you?”

  “Moira,” Patrick said angrily.

  “It’s all right,” Andrew said, smiling. He folded his hands on the table, looking at Moira earnestly. “There was a lot of violence in the seventies and early eighties, even into the nineties. Did you know that half the population of Ireland is under fifty years old? Bad times caused a lot of emigration. And a lot of orphans, or kids growing up in single-parent homes. A lot of poverty. Ireland is coming along financially now, both in the North and in the Republic. But we still have a generation coming into the working world that has grown up with little assistance. Young adults with little education and few skills. We’re hoping to change that.”

  “Well, then, when you get your charity up and rolling, I’ll be happy to see what I can do,” Moira murmured. Patrick was still staring at her as if he wanted to kick her leg under the table. Even Jeff was watching her with a slightly rueful expression. Was she becoming ridiculously paranoid? Every politician in the world took a chance, trying to change things, even trying to make a better world. There was always someone out there with the capacity for violence.

  “Thanks,” Andrew said. “Hey, I can show you one really special kid.” He took out his wallet. She almost jumped back, wondering for a moment if he was reaching for a gun.

  He flipped open his billfold, showing her the picture of a young woman of about eighteen, with long dark hair. “Jill Miller. Both folks killed. She was blinded in the explosion that took their lives. A car bomb. Anyway, she’s a wonderful natural musician. She plays the guitar like an angel. She’s got the talent, and she wants to come to the States, to go to Julliard.”

  Moira nodded. “Well, I hope she makes it,” she said softly.

  “She will,” Andrew assured her. “The world is filled with trouble. Eastern Europe, Africa, and naturally we need to learn to help ourselves right here in the States, too. God knows, AIDS is an epidemic killing us all. But I think that this is a good cause. In my mind, there’s never been anything to outdo the value of a good education.”

  “Yes, of course,” Moira murmured.

  “And it’s not a bad thing for those of us who have done so well in the States to give back,” Patrick said.

  “You’re an American,” she reminded her brother.

  “I’m American, as well, born and bred in New York, as I’m sure you can tell,” Andrew said. “But I’m first generation, just like you. My parents talked so long about doing something like this that I’ve finally realized they were right. Anyway, thanks for listening. And I’ll appreciate your help, whatever you’re willing to give.”

  “Like I said, I’m very willing to see what you’re doing.”

  “And I’ll want to show you—really show you. When the time is right.” He smiled at Moira, then turned to her brother. “Hey, Patrick, I think it’s closing in on cocktail hour. I’d like to tr
y one of those specialties of the house. A blackbird.”

  Moira thought he was staring straight at her as he said the words.

  A blackbird. Sure. They hadn’t made any in years, but what the heck, it was becoming popular now.

  “One blackbird, coming right up. You sit, Patrick. I’ll make him his drink. I think I’m becoming an expert.”

  As she rose, the pub door opened. Moira turned toward it.

  Her father was standing there, his face gray, beyond ashen.

  “Dad!” she cried with alarm, rushing to him.

  He didn’t protest, but he didn’t seem to notice that she had his arm.

  “Dad? Dad, are you all right?” she asked. “What is it?”

  Patrick was standing, as were Andrew and Josh, everyone looking at Eamon.

  “I need a chair,” he muttered.

  Patrick was instantly at his other side. They walked their father to a chair at a table. Andrew moved back instantly, allowing Eamon to sink into the chair.

  “Do you need your pills?” Moira asked anxiously. “Is it your heart?”

  “My heart is fine, girl.”

  “I’ll get Mum.”

  “No, not yet.” He waved a hand dismissively in the air.

  “I’ll get a whiskey,” Patrick said.

  “That I need.”

  “Dad, please, what is it?” Moira asked anxiously.

  Patrick set a shot glass of whiskey on the table before his father. Eamon picked it up, put it to his lips, cast his head back and swallowed the shot whole.

  He set the glass down, staring at it.

  Then he looked at the foursome surrounding him.

  “Seamus is dead,” he said softly.

  13

  Long moments of disbelief followed Eamon’s announcement.

  “Dead!” Moira exclaimed.

  Seamus, dead? No. Seamus, so good a friend, a man who had been in their lives like a family member, dead. She didn’t speak words of denial. She knew by her father’s face that it was true. Tears stung her eyes at the loss. What had happened to him? Had they not paid enough attention to his health? Had he been ailing? What?

  Then a niggling of fear and suspicion swept through her sorrow. She looked at her brother accusingly. “Patrick, I told you to walk him home last night.”

  “I did walk him home, straight to his door,” Patrick said, staring at his father. “He was fine. He was certainly not drunk, and he…he was fine.”

  “How? What happened?” Jeff asked.

  Eamon shook his head, staring at Moira. “Don’t go blamin’ your brother, now, Moira. I’m sure he did as he said. Seamus died trying to help another, so it appears. It was the strangest thing. His neighbor, the old fellow downstairs, must have been having a heart attack and known it. He was found right outside his door, dead as well. The best the police could piece it all together, Mr. Kowalski must have called out for help, trying to get Seamus to come down. Seamus…Seamus apparently fell down the stairs in his hurry.” Eamon was quiet for a moment. “He broke his neck. They say it must have been instant. He didn’t suffer. That’s all the good they could tell me. He didn’t suffer.” He buried his head in his hands for a moment. “They were just lying there, the two of them. If the UPS man hadn’t needed a signature for a delivery, they might have lain there…well, until one of us went to find out why he wasn’t in the pub tonight.”

  “A UPS man found them?” Patrick asked, his voice strange.

  Eamon nodded. “He saw them through the glass door and called the police. The police arrived and called the medical examiner’s office. Apparently they died in the wee hours of the morning. When the police…when they’d investigated and taken the bodies away, they called me. Seamus was an organized man, neat with paperwork. He’d left my name and number right in his wallet and by his phone upstairs. I’m Seamus’s executor. He had no family. We were his family. The pub was his real home. Here in America.”

  “Kowalski had relatives,” Patrick said dully.

  Eamon looked at his son. “No, not really. Like Seamus, he never married. That’s what the police said. There’s a grandnephew in Colorado somewhere.”

  “Strange,” Patrick murmured. “Maybe Seamus was more addled than I thought. He told me that Kowalski had kids and that there were people in and out all the time.”

  “No,” Eamon said, frowning slightly. “Not according to the police. I was there awhile with them, answering what questions I could about Seamus.”

  “You told them that Seamus was here last night, right?” Jeff Dolan asked.

  “Well, of course. I hadn’t known, though, that you walked him home last night, Patrick. I’m glad to hear it. He had friends with him to the end.”

  “I left him at his front door—on the street,” Patrick said. “I think he was a little put out. He didn’t think he really needed an escort, he’d been watching his drinking. I asked him to let me walk him to his door, but he kept insisting he was fine.”

  Eamon put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And he probably was fine, then. The officers investigating the accident seemed certain they’d pieced it together right. Kowalski had come out to his doorway, right in the midst of his heart attack. Seamus must have been up the steps already when he was called back. You were with him, Patrick, just remember that. He loved you kids, our family.” He sighed, looking around. “He loved this place. He spent his last night here. We were his family, and he’ll have us through the last respects, as well. His funeral will be what he wanted. I don’t know what will be happening with Kowalski. The nephew will be coming for his body. There’s to be an autopsy on both men—there always is when there’s a situation like this—but we should be able to wake Seamus by Wednesday night and have his funeral on Thursday morning. Saint Patrick’s Day. That would have pleased him. He had a great faith in God, and he loved Saint Patrick’s Day.”

  They all sat there in silence, watching Eamon, not knowing what to say. Moira was afraid to look at her brother. She wasn’t sure what she would see. Her eyes kept filling. She remembered the times she had given Seamus a hard time. Arguing with him that they were Americans. Insisting that he get over it and quit reliving the Easter Rebellion. She could see him on the bar stool, telling her that he could well handle another Guinness. She remembered when they had all been younger, when he seldom came to the pub without some kind of special chocolate in his pockets for the kids.

  And still, somehow, no matter what her father said, something about his death wasn’t right. She was hurt and angry…and suspicious.

  She felt ill. Absolutely ill.

  “Well,” Eamon said, “I’m going to have to go up and tell your mother and grandmother. Colleen and Siobhan. And the kids.” He looked at Moira as if he’d been reading her mind. “And the kids,” he added. “He loved it when the kids were here. He said he could stuff his jacket with candy again and see little eyes light up. He should have had his own family. He would have been a fine father.” He shook his head. Then he looked around the pub. There was a single man on a bar stool and one couple at the back having a late lunch or early dinner. “And things go on,” Eamon said. “The place will be jumping tonight. Without Seamus. Still, it would be the old Irish way. Death is a passage, and the fullness of a man’s life is to be celebrated at its end.”

  “Dad,” Moira said, “you go up and see Mum and Granny Jon, and we’ll manage down here.”

  “Ah, now, daughter…”

  “She’s right, Dad,” Patrick said. “Spend the evening getting some rest. With Mum. You can talk about celebrating a man’s life all you want, but I know how you’re feeling. You lost one of your best friends. Tomorrow you’ll be making his funeral arrangements.”

  “Flannery’s,” Eamon said, nodding. “Flannery’s. That’s where he wanted to be waked. Actually, in the old days, we might have waked him right in the bar and lifted a pint or two over the coffin. Now that, Seamus would have liked. But Flannery’s. That was his choice. His coffin was chosen, his plot bought. He
didn’t leave me much to do for him but be there.”

  “I’ll take you on up, Dad,” Patrick said.

  “I can make it,” Eamon said.

  “Dad, let me go up with you,” Patrick insisted.

  Before any of them could move, the pub door opened again. A wild gust of wind blew in, and Michael and Danny were there, silhouetted in the dying afternoon light. “Evening, folks,” Danny said. “I’ve been teaching Michael here a few good Irish drinking songs. He’s got them down pat. Ready, Michael? Here we go…come on, Michael, join in.”

  Danny began to sing, Michael joining him and doing the Irish accent quite well right along with Danny, who purposely deepened his brogue.

  “The dear old lady, God bless her! She jumped into the drawer of her dresser. For the north wind blew and sailed, and the black-heart banshee wailed, oh, that dear old lady, God bless her, a-lying in the drawer of her dresser!”

  They finished the ditty together. Michael seemed very proud and pleased.

  The group in the pub stared at them both.

  Danny frowned, stepping in the doorway, bringing Michael along with him, his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “We’re not really wasted, you know. We stopped in a few pubs along the way,” Danny said, “but honest, Moira, I didn’t bring your Michael home drunk.”

  Michael was frowning, as well, as he stared at Moira. “We did a great job, I think. You and Josh will have to see the tape, of course. And we did stop in a few pubs, but…” He trailed off as he realized she was clearly upset. “Are we late? Did we miss something?”

  Danny was suddenly dead sober and serious. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” He asked.

  “Seamus is dead,” Moira said.

  “My God,” Danny breathed. “What happened?”

  “Seamus?” Michael murmured.

  “My dad’s friend, seventh stool down, you met him,” Patrick said briefly.

  Danny walked straight over to Eamon, kneeling at his side. “Eamon, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Aye, son, I’m good, thank you. He’d lived himself a full life, a good life. Could have been longer…but he was, at the least, up in his years. Doesn’t seem to matter how old a body is, though. When he’s gone, he’s missed. There’s just an emptiness, you know?”