The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

by Tom MacDonald

  “Alroy?” Did O’Byrne hear him correctly? “Did you say Alroy?”

  “I’ll be sending McAfee, too. He’s a nasty head-banger, McAfee, the perfect gunman to flank Alroy on his first international job.” Liam sucked oxygen. “A brilliant pairing they’ll be. Brilliant, I tell you!”

  “You’re calling on Alroy to go to Boston?” O’Byrne couldn’t believe what he was hearing from Liam.

  “I am indeed.” Liam answered.

  “Are you sure Alroy is up to the challenge?” O’Byrne asked. “He is terribly young.” And terribly dimwitted, not the full shilling. “With every due respect, Liam, the boy isn’t ready for a job like this.”

  “No, no, Alroy is ready.” Liam stuck to it.

  “Liam, he’s a kid.”

  “I said the boy is ready. He’s as goddamn ready as he’ll ever be. Alroy is shipping up to Boston, for it is time the lad became a man. You yourself were but a teen when you started out.” A darting look escaped Liam’s eyes, and O’Byrne knew there was more to come, probably something unpalatable. Liam pointed a shaky finger at him and said, “I’ll be needing you to go with Alroy and Mac to America.”

  “What was that you said?”

  “And then I’ll have peace of mind, knowing you are at Alroy’s side. He can learn from you, O’Byrne. I want Alroy to learn from the best, and you are the best in Belfast, and perhaps the world. The job will go bang-on with you in Boston.”

  “I’m too old, Liam,” O’Byrne said, stalling for time, thinking of a way to get out of this mess. “I’d only slow the lads down.”

  “Nonsense, man.” Liam barked with confidence. “I have faith in you, and the job is easy besides. We just walk in, take the loot, and walk out.” Liam leaned forward as if pleading. “You know Boston, you know it well.”

  “The city has changed since I was there last.”

  “Come now, it hasn’t changed that much.” Liam forced a smile. “It will be fine.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” O’Byrne said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not talking about Boston, per se. I’m talking about Mr. H.” O’Byrne massaged his temples with his thumbs as he thought about the previous Boston job and the problems that arose from it. “This job could be a feckin’ set-up, Liam.”

  “A set-up?” He scoffed. “Do you honestly believe I’d put my own flesh and blood at risk? Alroy is my only family, my only remaining kin. I would never place him in jeopardy.”

  Liam grabbed the jug and topped his glass. O’Byrne slid his glass over for a refill. God knew he needed it.

  “I know what Alroy means to you,” O’Byrne said, “but I think you’re placing too much faith in Mr. H. He got screwed the last time out, and he got screwed by us!”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, O’Byrne, Mr. H knows we had nothing to do with that fake Vermeer.”

  O’Byrne tried a different angle, anything to avoid babysitting Alroy in America. “Boston is a tricky town, no place for a youngster. I’d rather do the job myself.”

  “No!” Liam leaned closer. “Alroy is going to Boston.” Liam grabbed his walking stick and shoved himself up from the chair, his face throbbing and red. “Tomorrow night, same time, same place, you, me, Alroy, and McAfee. Understand?”

  “Aye, understood.”

  O’Byrne walked to the door. He was ring-fenced and he knew it.

  §

  O’Byrne left Slattery’s Pub for his Divis Street flat, a tiny efficiency above a fancy café. He lit a gas burner under a copper kettle and waited for the water to boil. He steeped two teabags in two cups of Belleek china, placed the cups in matching saucers and carried them to a pine table that had been a wedding gift from Bridie. He set one cup in front of an empty chair and pulled out another chair for himself.

  O’Byrne said to the vacant seat, “How was your day today, Kathleen? That’s grand, just grand. My day? Oh, I hate to be complaining. Yes, ’twas Liam again. He wants me to go to Boston for yet another job. I know I shouldn’t be going and Lord knows I don’t want to go. What was that you said? Have I gone to confession? No, I haven’t, but I’m working my way up to it.” He took a swallow. “You’re quite chatty tonight, Kathleen, not that I mind. It helps with the loneliness. Please don’t say that about the brigade. We’re not just a bunch of crooks. We’re fighting for something important. No, no, that’s okay. I want you to speak your mind. Get some sleep now, for I’ll be turning in myself shortly. Oh, all right, I’ll stay up a wee bit longer.”

  O’Byrne went to the stove and made two fresh cups of tea and continued the monologue with his long-dead wife, Kathleen.

  III.

  The following evening at ten o’clock O’Byrne entered the back room of Slattery’s Pub. He found Liam McGrew in the same chair at the same table, his rosy birthmark beaming brightly, a near-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. Next to Liam sat his grandson, Alroy McGrew––young, skinny, redheaded, reckless––a boy destined to do something stupid. Sitting beside Alroy was McAfee, who by comparison looked cerebral. His white complexion, orange mustache, and green eyes reflected the tricolors of the Irish flag. McAfee possessed a toughness that made him valuable on jobs, so long as the job wasn’t too intricate. O’Byrne sat down. Liam leaned forward and cast a long shadow across the round table, bringing to mind a sundial—Liam at twelve o’clock, Alroy at three, McAfee at six, O’Byrne at nine.

  “Well now, lads!” Liam harrumphed, his words scratchy but not yet slurring. “I thank you all for joining me on this most auspicious occasion. We are gathered here tonight to discuss a promising opportunity, an opportunity that will yield the cause abundant funding for future maneuvers. And, I might say, a venture that will add a few coins to our own purses as well.”

  O’Byrne wondered about the money from the museum job two decades ago. On what maneuvers was it spent? He couldn’t recall the purchase of ordnance or intelligence. As for his purse, O’Byrne wouldn’t have minded a few more quid.

  “How much coin, Papa?” asked Alroy.

  “We’ll get to that soon enough. Show a bit of patience.” Liam tapped the knob of his stick on the table, each tap getting louder. “I can tell you this much, and this much alone. It is a straightforward robbery. Mr. H, for security reasons, won’t divulge the entire plan until you get to Boston––much safer that way.”

  “Boston!” McAfee leaned forward. “When do we go?”

  “We must act quickly, Mac, for timing is of the essence,” Liam said, not answering the question.

  “When?” Mac pressed.

  “Your flight leaves tomorrow.” Liam adjusted the oxygen tube and turned the knob. “I only wish I could join you lads myself, but I can’t for my worsening health.”

  “You don’t need to go, Papa.” Alroy patted Liam’s shoulder. “I can handle the robbery.”

  “Aye, that’s true, Alroy, I have great faith in you,” Liam said. “I have no doubt you will handle the robbery. I’m not worried about the job, for the job is in good hands. I want to go to Boston for another reason. I have unfinished business over there.”

  “What kind of business?” asked Alroy, with a child’s rapt gaze.

  “A few years back a feckin’ half-breed named Dermot Sparhawk insulted me in an ungodly manner. He is a lowlife mutt from Charlestown, this man.” Liam sucked air and his eyeballs bulged. “I wanted to teach him some respect with my stick, but I was called off him at the last moment.”

  “Who called you off, Papa?” asked Alroy.

  “A man named Mr. H reined me in.” Liam nodded as if that explained it. “Mr. H stopped me from teaching Sparhawk respect. He stopped me because of a museum heist we pulled twenty years prior. Mr. H didn’t want to draw attention to it.”

  “What heist?” Alroy’s eyes fluttered.

  “It was well before you were born, son.”

  �
��How did Sparhawk–”

  “Sparhawk happened after the fact, Alroy, after the feckin’ fact.” Liam paused for oxygen. “He had nothing to do with the art heist, but I had reason to visit him when I was last in Boston, and that’s when the scummy feck ridiculed me.”

  “He ridiculed you!” Alroy shouted.

  “He did.” Liam nodded. The wattles on his throat squeezed like fish gills. “I had hoped to return to Charlestown one day and kneecap the sorry bastard, and someday perhaps I shall.”

  “We have a good man over there in Charlestown,” O’Byrne said.

  “I am well aware of that, my friend, well aware indeed. You needn’t remind me.” Liam leaned against the wall and mumbled, “Dermot Sparhawk, filth of the earth.”

  O’Byrne studied Liam’s face. For the first time since the Sparhawk affair, he knew why Liam never avenged the “ungodly” affront of the Charlestown strong boy. Liam was afraid of him.

  “Sparhawk!” Liam regained his energy and whaled the table with his stick. His face beamed so brightly the blotch disappeared. “I’d double kneecap him if I had the chance. I’d put the boots to him, kick him to a red wad shod. Then I’d cyclops the swine with a bullet to his forehead, the dumb-ass mongrel.” He doubled over gagging. “That’s what I’d do to him, damn it, that’s what I’d do.”

  “Whoa, Liam,” O’Byrne said. “Easy now.”

  Liam laid his stick on the table and sat with his head up and his mouth agape, sucking like a trout on a pier. Ten minutes passed before he caught his breath, during which time the mood calmed. Liam nodded, ready to resume, now that he had regained his composure.

  “Let’s move on to the business at hand.” Liam placed four cell phones on the table. “Disposable phones, they cannot be traced to any person or address. I have saved the necessary contact numbers in each one. C1 is for me, C2 is O’Byrne, C3 is Alroy, C4 is Mac. All the numbers have a Boston area code and a US country code. We will use these phones and only these phones to communicate. Is that clear?” Liam stared at his grandson. “What are you writing, Alroy?”

  “I’m making a list so I don’t forget. C1 is Liam McGrew, C2 is O’B–”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, boy. Secrecy! That’s the reason for the codes to begin with. And don’t go calling your friends, either. No one is to use these phones except on robbery business. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I get it, Papa.” Alroy crumpled the paper. “Secrecy.”

  “Christ almighty in heaven.” Liam shook his head and then gazed at O’Byrne. “I’ll be needing to speak with you before you take leave.”

  McAfee interrupted. “Guns?”

  Liam said, “No guns will be needed on this job, no weaponry at all.”

  Soldiers without guns? They looked at each other but said nothing. Alroy and McAfee left the back room, and once they were gone, Liam took hold of O’Byrne’s arm.

  “I’m counting on you. I am hoping this job goes as smoothly as the museum job.” Liam released O’Byrne and cranked the tank. “On your cell phone is contact C5. C5 is for Mr. H. He’ll be expecting your call once you’ve landed in Boston. Now pour us a good glass, would you?”

  O’Byrne filled two glasses. “C5 goes directly to Mr. H?”

  “Not directly, no. It likely goes to his front man. I cannot remember the lad’s name for the life of me.” Liam rolled the walking stick in his hands like a pool shark before a tough shot. “I need you to do one more thing for me. Keep a close eye on Alroy. He may be raw, but the lad shows potential.”

  Potential? God save us, Saint MacNisse.

  §

  Early the next morning, well before the scheduled flight to Boston, O’Byrne cabbed to Sailortown, or what remained of it after the Parliamentary purges. He walked along the docklands to the now-shuttered Saint Joseph’s Church, the Chapel on the Quays, and looked up to its mighty steeple as he spoke.

  “Do you remember our wedding day, Kathleen, right here in this very church? Aye, ’twas a splendid morning indeed. You in your mam’s dress, me in my rented suit, Father Monaghan performing the nuptials.” His eyes lowered. “Why did you leave me, Kathleen?”

  He read a plaque that honored two Catholic school girls who were murdered by an Ulster Defense Association car bomb. The feckin’ UDA, homicidal cowards killing innocent girls. O’Byrne stopped himself from getting angry, for anger did him no favors, and he screamed to the Ulster sky, “Will ye no come back again, Kathleen?”

  O’Byrne heard no answer, not even a dismissive echo. He lumbered down Pilot Street to Barrow Square and went into the Teagueland Inn, a friendly tavern where a man could imbibe a peaceful drink. A stiff bracer was needed before the flight to Boston, and a stiff bracer he had. As he was sipping a tall glass of whiskey and ice, a thought came to him: When a man tells you that you don’t need a gun, you’d better bring one that’s loaded.

  Chapter Two

  I.

  The plane traversed the Atlantic and landed at Logan Airport with nary a bump. With trumped-up passports, Alroy, McAfee, and O’Byrne passed through US Customs as smoothly as the jet had touched down on the tarmac. A customs agent named Emmett O’Burke, known to be a Wexford man and an IRA sympathizer, nodded to O’Byrne as he went through the gate. The three Belfast men crossed the concourse to the curbside drop-off area. O’Byrne watched the baggage handlers greeting taxis and stacking luggage, toiling the way Sailortown dockworkers once toiled on the waterfront.

  A black Chrysler 300, sporting darkly tinted windows and a short chrome antenna, pulled up in front of them. The driver got out with the car still idling and wiped the windshield with a Kelly green handkerchief, a signal to let O’Byrne know this was the car. The plan was working. O’Byrne, Alroy, and McAfee got into the big Chrysler, with O’Byrne poised behind the wheel, and they pulled away from the curb into the afternoon traffic. Driving on the right-hand side of the road didn’t unnerve O’Byrne any, though his untraveled passengers seemed thrown by it. They drove out of Logan Airport and into Boston via the Ted Williams Tunnel. Tonight they would billet in a safe house in a section of Jamaica Plain once known as White City. He had taken refuge in the house before, courtesy of Mr. H.

  O’Byrne motored along the Arborway to Forest Hills. The area hadn’t changed much since his last visit. Boston had changed, but not Forest Hills. He turned onto Eldridge Road and looped White City twice, making sure he wasn’t being shadowed. He circled again and found their destination on Meyer Street.

  Tall hedges, eight feet or higher, bordered the lot and secluded the house. O’Byrne clicked a gizmo on the visor and the driveway gates swung open. The gates promptly closed once the car entered the property. In front of them sat a gray Victorian house with an attached garage. Another click and the garage door opened. O’Byrne pulled into the garage and killed the engine, and the door rumbled shut behind them. The three men got out of the Chrysler and entered the house through a breezeway sided with frosted jalousie slats. Nobody could see the lads in the car, getting out of the car, or walking into the house. All was going as planned.

  Alroy opened the refrigerator and like a soldier on leave he said, “Three shelves of Guinness. Welcome to America, eh lads?”

  “Give me one,” McAfee said, exhausting his daily word allotment.

  McAfee and Alroy poured mugs of beer and toasted with a tap of the glass. O’Byrne excused himself to lie down in one of the large bedrooms.

  II.

  O’Byrne awoke at twilight and walked into the living room, where he saw McAfee and Alroy slumbering on couches––Mac snoring, Alroy slobbering. O’Byrne looked at Alroy, already deemed a dolt by most, and wondered how the boy would bollix things in Boston.

  In the kitchen O’Byrne saw dozens of the empty Guinness bottles and an empty liter of Newfoundland Screech rum, which explained the sleeping slugs in the living room. Screech rum? He went to the garage and started the Chrysler and drov
e to Charlestown. Thirty minutes later, he pulled into the driveway of his old friend’s house on Chappie Street. O’Byrne hitched up the backstairs and reached for the doorbell, but it was painted over solid. He knocked on the wooden door. A man with a lion’s mane of dark hair answered the door; ’twas Jackie Tracy himself.

  “Been expecting you,” said Jackie, a retired longshoreman whose face bore the marks of his youthful occupation, that of a professional boxer. “Come in, O’Byrne. It’s been too long.”

  “’Tis a perfect evening outside, isn’t it?” O’Byrne said.

  “Yeah, it’s a perfect evening for the Red Sox to take another beating, especially with that chump on the mound tonight.”

  O’Byrne followed Jackie into the house.

  “We have no professional baseball in Ireland, I am troubled to say, but I can understand your passion for the game.”

  “I wish I could understand it.” Jackie sat down and slapped his knee. “I shouldn’t complain. They won the World Series, twice no less.”

  “Even in Belfast we heard about that.”

  “You know what it is?” Jackie went on. “We got so used to complaining about them it became a habit. Now if they don’t win it all, we think they failed.”

  “Indeed.” O’Byrne kept the banter going. “I loved The Natural, Robert Redford and that other fella, the old coot from Cocoon.”

  “Wilford Brimley.”

  “Aye, him.” Actually, Kathleen loved the movie. O’Byrne never cared for the theatrics of Hollywood, never cared much for idle chatter, either, and he decided to get to the point. “I hate to be so forward so quickly, Jackie, but I need a gun.”

  “You IRA guys are always in a rush for guns.”