The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

by Tom MacDonald

  “And you Charlestown guys are always glad to furnish them.”

  O’Byrne remembered a gun shipment to County Down. Literally a shipment, the boat’s hold filled with armaments, courtesy of Jackie Tracy. He also remembered the disaster at Tullyverry, a disaster that Jackie had somehow escaped.

  “And here I thought you were stopping by to talk about the national pastime.” Jackie laughed. “So you need a gun, doesn’t surprise me, I guess. As I understand it you’re working for the man again.”

  “Let’s just say I need a gun,” O’Byrne said, wanting to sidestep Jackie’s tack.

  Another laugh from Jackie filled the room.

  “Okay, hypothetically speaking, let’s just say you’re working for the man again, and let’s say the man told me that no guns were needed for the job. In fact, he was a little concerned about guns.” Jackie leaned forward. “A botched robbery is one thing. A killing, well, that’s another matter altogether.”

  “I understand your concern,” O’Byrne said. “But it’s like this. A man never knows which tools he might need to get a job done.”

  “I suppose a man needs his tools,” Jackie allowed.

  “It’s a bit like a game of chess. The goal is to capture the king, but along the way a pawn or two might get knocked off.”

  “I get nervous when I hear about pawns getting knocked off.” Jackie went to the kitchen and came back with two cans of Budweiser and handed one to O’Byrne. “Sorry, no Guinness.”

  “Bud is a fine brew.” He drank some. “The gun?”

  “I have guns on the way, but they won’t be here until the end of the week.” Jackie opened the beer. “You wouldn’t believe the profit in guns nowadays, and the demand for them is crazy. Every gun I get flies out of here the second it comes in.”

  “Sounds like you have a good supply chain,” O’Byrne said, “and a ready customer base.”

  “I have a gig going that keeps me overflowing with the stuff, but my man won’t be back ’til Friday night.”

  “Not ’til Friday night, you say.”

  “He drives an eighteen-wheeler, Boston to Seattle and back, does a run a month. When he’s out west, out there in Montana and Idaho, he goes to gun shows. Cowboy country, it’s wide open. No background checks, nothing. But even if they had background checks, most of the deals get done at the back door.”

  “He sounds like a good contact.”

  “They sell everything out there. Pistols, rifles, ammo, whatever you want. You want a Kevlar vest, no problem. Night goggles, piece of cake. My guy buys all he can haul, and then I buy it from him, but he won’t be back until Friday night.”

  “Can’t wait that long, I’m afraid,” O’Byrne said.

  “Yeah, I know you can’t. You have to move fast, because everything’s on a timetable. That’s what I heard anyway.” Jackie paused for a swig. “I probably shouldn’t even say this.”

  “Say what?”

  “I have a gun, but it’s no good.”

  “Is it jammed?” O’Byrne asked. “I’m good at fixing weapons.”

  “The gun works fine, but it’s, ah–”

  “It’s what?”

  “Well, it was used in a bank robbery over there in Hyde Park,” Jackie said. “The robbers shot a cop with that gun. It was a bad scene, real bad, what I heard.”

  “I see.” O’Byrne took it in.

  “It wasn’t my job, Hyde Park, word of honor. I came by the gun after the fact, and I should have dumped it the minute I got it, but I hate to throw away good merchandise.”

  “What about the garda?” O’Byrne asked, and noticed Jackie’s confusion. “The policeman, how is the lad faring?”

  “He’s hooked to life support, not doing so well. As for the gun, there could be ballistics on it, probably are, and because of ballistics, I’m a little uneasy even having the damn thing. Do you see the position I’m in?”

  “I do indeed.” O’Byrne understood.

  “A bad history comes with the gun, but it’s the only gun I have at the moment.”

  “I’m not worried about a bad history,” O’Byrne said. “I grew up in the land of bad history. What type of weapon are we talking about?”

  “A Walther PPS nine millimeter with a five-round clip.” Jackie’s face came to life when he talked about the Walther. “The gun is a gem except for the baggage.”

  “I prefer a revolver to a pistol, a personal preference of mine,” O’Byrne said. “Don’t get me wrong, I want the Walther.”

  “Why a revolver?” Jackie asked.

  “You don’t have to pick up the brass afterwards.”

  “You’re worried about fingerprints,” Jackie concluded.

  “I have to be careful in the North,” O’Byrne said. “I might be on the right side of history, but I’m on the wrong side of the law.”

  “You’ve been warned,” Jackie said. “I’ll get you the piece.”

  “I’d appreciate it if this stays between us.”

  “Between us?” Another roar of laughter burst from Jackie’s gut. “It better stay between us, or we’ll both be wearing shackles in front of a federal judge.”

  III.

  O’Byrne left Jackie Tracy’s house and drove under the Tobin Bridge to the Charlestown Navy Yard. He parked on First Avenue near the old Marine barracks and took out the disposable cell phone that Liam McGrew had given him in the back room of Slattery’s Pub. He couldn’t believe it had only been a day since the meeting at Slattery’s. O’Byrne pressed C5 on the contact list and it rang. ’Twas a valid number.

  A man answered with a monotone drone. “What do you want?”

  The terse greeting threw O’Byrne, until he remembered he was in Boston. That’s the way Yanks talk in Boston.

  “I suppose you could say I’m in want of a job.” He poured on the brogue.

  “Yeah.”

  “And I was told you might know of a job, a particular job that might require my particular skills.”

  During the prolonged pause that followed, it struck O’Byrne that the pause lasted longer than the man’s words.

  “Meet me at McGreevy’s in an hour,” the man said. “It’s on Boylston Street across from the Hynes.”

  The man hung up.

  “Aye,” he said into the dead line.

  O’Byrne drove alongside the Charles River, looped onto Boylston Street and stepped on the gas, driving like a native Bostonian, cutting in and out of traffic, swerving into lanes. He regained his senses and slowed when he saw McGreevy’s on the left. ’Twas his lucky night. He found a parking space on Dalton Street, directly across from Bukowski Tavern. He turned off the engine and walked to McGreevy’s.

  Sitting on a barstool and listening to the familiar sounds of a bustling saloon, O’Byrne felt at home. He ordered a draught beer, drank a gulp and ordered a shot of top-shelf Jameson. A young lassie placed the whiskey in front of him. With her black hair and taut figure, she could have been the Rose of Tralee. O’Byrne scrutinized her backside as she walked away, and he thought of Kathleen, and he felt shame for his gawking. O’Byrne chugged the shot of Irish and tried to forget about his lewdness. Before he could slump into further despair, a ruggedly built man with gorilla hands sat on the stool next to him. Looking straight ahead, the man said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Aye.” O’Byrne recognized the man’s flat voice from the phone. “’Tis most generous of you. I believe I’ll have a Bushmills, a single malt whiskey distilled in the north of Ireland, as you must know.”

  “I know it now.” The man ordered a beer for himself and Bushmills for O’Byrne. “It’s noisy in here.”

  “But it’s a pleasant noise, don’t you think?” O’Byrne raised his glass and looked at the amber liquid. “You represent Mr. H?”

  “I do,” the man murmured.

  “We’re off to a good
start, meeting like this.” O’Byrne waited, but the man said nothing more. “You’re not much for talking, I see. As we say in Ireland, a silent mouth is sweet to hear.”

  “What was that?”

  “I’ve seen it too often that a man’s tongue broke his nose, which is no concern of yours, I suppose.”

  “Witty.”

  “At times.” O’Byrne sipped the Bushmills. “Ah, that’s fine stuff.”

  “I have to go.” Gorilla-mitts pushed away his nearly full beer. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at noon, your house. We will review the plans at that time. Make sure the other two aren’t around, just you and me.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Something occurred to O’Byrne. He had never met this man before. “Have you a name?”

  “Call me K.” He dismounted the stool like a cowboy.

  “K, as in the letter between J and L?” O’Byrne asked.

  K left McGreevy’s without answering.

  “Nice to meet you, K,” O’Byrne said to himself.

  IV.

  K showed up the next day at noontime, carrying a long leather tube under his bulging right bicep. He looked even more formidable in daylight, despite the Oxford getup, which was highlighted by a pink polo shirt, tan slacks, and a lavender belt with little white whales. Americans are a strange lot, hooligans wearing pink shirts and lavender belts, O’Byrne thought.

  “Are we alone?” asked K.

  “Aye, I’m on me tod.” O’Byrne answered, and saw K’s confusion. “The lads are enjoying a splendid tour of your grand city.”

  “Can’t you just say we’re alone?” K scoffed. “Okay, now to important matters.”

  From the leather tube, K removed a lengthy roll of bound paper. Blueprints, K said. He flattened the sheets on the kitchen table and anchored the corners with empty beer bottles.

  “This is the Hynes Convention Center, the location of the job,” K said.

  “The building across the street from McGreevy’s,” O’Byrne correctly noted.

  “That’s why I met you there.” K smoothed the drawings with his large hands. “The plans show the layout of the entire building. Every floor, door, and room is outlined on these pages. Exits and parking and roof accesses, too. We’ve marked every alarm, camera, heat sensor, and motion detector. We’ve detailed security rounds to the second. We know everything there is to know about this building and this event.”

  “What event?” asked O’Byrne.

  “We’ll get to that in a moment.” K flipped the charts and stopped at one. “These are the fire doors facing Dalton Street. That’s how you’ll get in, Dalton Street. The Hynes will be buttoned tight except for those fire doors, which will be unlocked and unalarmed for ten seconds.” He flipped to another page. “Once you’re inside, you go to Exhibition Hall A. That’s where the loot is on display.”

  “What loot?” O’Byrne asked. “You’ve given me a grand tour of the Hynes, and a grand tour it has been, but you’ve told me nothing of the nuts and bolts.”

  “Not nuts and bolts, O’Byrne, bills and coins. You and your crew will be making a withdrawal from the World’s Fair of Money tomorrow night.” K ran his finger along the blueprint to a small rectangular figure in Exhibition Hall A. “This right here, this is the case you want. Inside it you will find three sheets of $100,000 bills. You’ll know they’re $100,000 bills because President Woodrow Wilson will be staring back at you. Each sheet has thirty-two bills, ninety-six bills in all, for a total of $9.6 million. Not a bad night’s pay.”

  “And I suppose the case will be unlocked and the alarms will be off and the guards will be in an alley smoking a fag.” O’Byrne became skeptical. “We simply slide down the rainbow and grab the money the way a leprechaun grabs a pot of gold.”

  “Speed and timing are of the essence.” K raised his head from the blueprints. “It’s a smash and grab, except nothing gets smashed.” K then straightened up and poked O’Byrne in the chest. “Do not, I repeat, do not take anything from any other case, not that you’d be able to open them anyway. But you’ll be tempted for sure, seeing all that money on display. Every case will be locked and alarmed except the one I just specified. Now pull up a seat and we’ll go over the details. Any questions before we begin?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Let’s review the plan.”

  V.

  In the early hours on Monday morning, Alroy, McAfee, and O’Byrne left White City in the Chrysler 300 to rob the money show. They turned onto Massachusetts Avenue in the South End, and because roads were empty, it took O’Byrne a second to realize he had to keep to the right. They passed Symphony Hall and the Christian Science Church Park and turned onto Boylston Street.

  The time was 3:00 a.m., the streets were quiet, the Fenway crowd long dispersed. A truck horn blared from the Mass Pike underpass, a deafening sound in a sleeping city. O’Byrne rolled to a halt on Scotia Street, where the plan called for them to park.

  He flicked the high beams twice as he was told. A black van drove away from the curb with its flashers blinking, and O’Byrne parked in the vacated space. His cell phone read 3:12. At 3:30 they were to be stationed at the fire doors of the Hynes Convention Center on Dalton Street. Don’t get there too early, he was told, don’t attract attention to yourselves. Dalton Street was twenty yards in front of them. They were in mighty good shape indeed.

  The three men waited in the car, nobody saying a word. O’Byrne patted his side and felt a sense of serenity at the heft of the Walther PPS. To the right sat a church named for Saint Cecilia herself, she of divine music and betrothed to an angel. He slid his hand away from the gun and thumbed the rosary beads in his pants pocket. He prayed to Saint Cecilia, praying that the heist would go glowingly and that nobody would get hurt. O’Byrne had never prayed to her before, and not wanting to be presumptuous, he petitioned Saint Angus MacNisse of Connor to intercede, to talk to Saint Cecilia up there in heaven, to assure her that his request was indeed valid. It didn’t strike O’Byrne as odd, asking one saint to ask another saint to abet him in a crime.

  The Belfast men stepped out of the car and crossed Dalton Street.

  O’Byrne, McAfee, and Alroy waited at the fire doors. The time was 3:29. When it struck 3:30, they would have ten seconds to open the door and get inside. Thank the good Lord in heaven for satellites or the timetable would be impossible to keep. The clock hit 3:30. Something clicked. Mac pulled the door open and they stepped into the Hynes. Alroy tripped and would have fallen down the stairs if O’Byrne hadn’t caught him.

  “Calm down, Alroy,” O’Byrne whispered. “Pull it together.”

  A second click and the door locked behind them. It happened that fast. They descended the concrete stairs to a dark corridor and began their journey through the bowels of the building. McAfee shined his flashlight in front of them, leading the way as they walked in the direction of the X on the map. The fact that it was literally an X on an actual map made O’Byrne feel like an Irish pirate.

  “Light the chart,” O’Byrne said, and then he pointed to a spot on the map. “We’re standing here, we need to get there, so we best turn left up ahead, just past the firebox.”

  The red dot on the firebox marked the first leg of the trek. The men turned left at the firebox and continued on the map route, a map given to O’Byrne by K himself. Alroy hadn’t said a word all evening. Would the boy hold up? O’Byrne had his doubts, especially after Alroy had nearly fallen down the stairs.

  A fluorescent bulb flickered behind them. The three men froze in place, and the bulb sputtered out. They moved ahead, navigating the underground maze. Time crawled, their eyes adjusted to blackness. They came to a stairwell that led up to street level, according to the map. The Belfast soldiers ascended the stairs.

  O’Byrne opened the door a crack and glimpsed inside. ’Twas the main lobby indeed. He said to Alroy and Mac, “We’re bang on, right where we’
re supposed to be.”

  Alroy still hadn’t said a word. They walked across the lobby to an escalator that led to the Plaza Level. Not surprisingly, the escalator was off. They scaled the metal risers to the next story, an open space that looked like a mezzanine. O’Byrne’s adrenaline was pumping now. He didn’t limp a bit, the pain totally gone. They made it to the top, Exhibition Hall A, a colossal space with high ceilings and unlit chandeliers. Rows and rows of glass cases lined the gallery floor. The aisles between them were long and wide, offering plenty of room to operate. Alroy remained mum. Mac nodded toward the chart. O’Byrne held it up and said, “The leftmost row about halfway down, that’s the case we want.”

  O’Byrne was relieved to see no security guards on duty, just as K had promised. Many people had made many promises to O’Byrne over the years, and given his experience, he put no stock in them. Still, he was glad to see no security. He didn’t want to shoot anybody tonight if he didn’t have to.

  Wandering down the middle aisle, gawking at the various cases, Alroy said the first words he’d uttered all night. “Look at the silver dollars! They’re big and shiny!” Maybe the boy was thawing out, O’Byrne thought.

  “Get over here, Alroy,” O’Byrne said in a loud whisper. “We have a job to do, so let’s get to it. Mac, give me the light. You two, follow me.”

  O’Byrne walked to the case that contained the loot, with Alroy and McAfee trailing behind him. He tried to lift the glass lid, which lay flat on the case, but it didn’t budge. The case was ten feet long, six feet wide, two feet deep. Inside it O’Byrne saw the money, sheet after sheet of $100,000 bills, just as K had said. But there were four sheets, not three, and a $5,000 bill, too.

  His cell phone read 3:50 a.m. At 3:55 the lock would deactivate. They waited. The five minutes felt like five years, like O’Byrne’s sentence in Long Kesh Prison. A click sounded from the case. O’Byrne hoisted the hinged lid an inch. With its thick glass and steel frame, it must have weighed two or three hundred pounds.