The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

by Tom MacDonald

  “Alroy, Mac, lift it from the sides. I’ll grab the sheets.” Alroy and McAfee raised the lid. O’Byrne grabbed three sheets of $100,000 bills and looked at the remaining sheet. Oh, for the love of Pete, take it. He took the fourth sheet. Alroy stuck his hand in and snagged the $5,000 bill as they lowered the cover shut.

  “Let’s move,” O’Byrne said. “We go out the way we came in.”

  They retraced their steps out of the building and headed back to White City. As O’Byrne was driving along the Jamaicaway toward Forest Hills, one pesky thought gnawed at him: It had been too damn easy.

  Chapter Three

  I.

  The next day O’Byrne turned the Chrysler 300 onto Hillside Street in Milton and swung into the parking lot of Houghton’s Pond. He watched the young mothers in bathing suits as they frolicked with their children on the shoreline, laughing and splashing and spreading maternal love. He thought of Kathleen.

  He parked at the snack bar as directed by K, who was sitting at a table under an overhang in the picnic area. O’Byrne ordered coffee at the stand and joined K at the table. Neither of them said anything for a moment and then K spoke.

  “The job went well?”

  “A schoolboy could have done it,” O’Byrne said. “And a schoolboy would have done it for less than two million dollars.”

  “Overpaid?” K munched on a donut. “I never heard that complaint before.”

  “Not a complaint.” O’Byrne dropped the car keys on the picnic table. “The loot is in the trunk, three sheets of $100,000 bills, ninety-six bills in all.”

  O’Byrne didn’t mention the fourth sheet since he wasn’t asked about it. He delivered what he was paid to deliver, and that was enough. The fourth sheet was a gratuity of sorts, a perk for a job well done. K dropped a different set of keys on the table.

  “They go to the green Avalon at the end of the lot,” K said. “How long are you staying in Boston?”

  “Not long at all,” O’Byrne said.

  “Mr. H doesn’t like people hanging around after a job is done, that’s why he hires crews from out of town. You said a schoolboy could have done the job. The way we set it up, a schoolboy could have done it, but Mr. H doesn’t like the idea of locals working for him. They drink, they brag, they screw up. That’s why he hired you, and that’s why he overpaid you, because it’s worth it to him. You could call it peace of mind. So I ask again, when are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow evening.”

  K dropped an envelope on the table. “Have a good time tonight and be on that plane tomorrow. As for the Avalon, leave it running in departures. What flight?”

  “Lufthansa 7974, 4:45 p.m.”

  “Our man will pick up the car.” K put the keys to the Chrysler 300 in his pants pocket and said, “Mr. H is a very cautious man.”

  O’Byrne counted the money in the envelope, two thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. ’Twould be a memorable time in Boston tonight.

  II.

  Back in White City, inside the kitchen of the Victorian house, O’Byrne opened a bottle of Guinness and thought about the robbery. The job couldn’t have been easier, a job a stooge could have done, and yet Mr. H called in the IRA to do it. Why? O’Byrne concluded that it didn’t matter why. Mr. H had wired the money to Liam McGrew, two million dollars for a two-bit heist. The job was done and the contract fulfilled––still, O’Byrne didn’t like it.

  McAfee and Alroy walked into the kitchen and helped themselves to Guinness. O’Byrne removed the envelope from his pocket and counted the money again. Two thousand dollars in hundreds. He fanned the bills.

  “Two thousand divided by three is $666 each, but they’re all hundreds. I’ll take six. You two get seven. K told us to have a good time tonight and to be on the Belfast plane tomorrow.”

  “All right!” Alroy said. “Let’s meet some Boston girls.”

  “Did K say anything about the fourth sheet?” Mac asked. “Did he ask about the $5,000 bill?”

  “No,” O’Byrne answered flatly, no singsong lilt in his voice this time, no hint of joy for their unexpected jackpot. His suspicions about the robbery grew stronger. He became anxious thinking about it, and the anxiety bordered on paranoia. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He said to his mates, “Let’s get a drink.”

  “Yeah, let’s!” Alroy cheered.

  “I know of a pub in Dorchester called the Blarney Stone,” O’Byrne said. “They serve a hearty drink and cater to the neighborhood lassies, who are terribly interested in meeting lads from the old sod. They find it romantic, I’m told, having a chat with a boyo from the Emerald Isle.”

  Alroy and McAfee left the kitchen to shower and shave. O’Byrne opened another bottle of beer and slowly drank it. He thought about the job, the simplicity of it, and his mind drifted. He looked at the bottle and it was empty. He didn’t remember drinking it. He cracked another one and sipped it with care, not rushing, taking deliberate swallows to make it last longer. Again his mind drifted to a distant place.

  Another empty bottle sat in front of him on the table. How long had it been sitting there empty? He took the Walther PPS from his jacket pocket, ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and placed the weapon and ordnance in the flatware drawer. The sound of Alroy uncapping a Guinness startled O’Byrne. He hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen. Then McAfee strutted down the hallway, showered and shaved, wearing white pants and an Irish rugby shirt. Time had gotten away from O’Byrne.

  “The Blarney Stone,” O’Byrne said. “We have an Avalon now.”

  He watched as Mac checked his moustache in the reflection of the kitchen window, and Alroy primped his messy hair to no avail. The cowlicks and sprouts couldn’t be combed out.

  “I’ll be in the garage.” O’Byrne walked down the breezeway.

  III.

  They drove to Fields Corner and pulled up at the Blarney Stone and went inside. It was five o’clock and the place was almost empty, reminding O’Byrne of Slattery’s back home. O’Byrne chose a table. They had no sooner sat down when a cocktail waitress, a plump, brown-haired woman named Delia, set napkins in front of them.

  She pointed at Alroy. “You look young.”

  “He’s of age,” O’Byrne said, and palmed her two hundred dollars. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “What’ll ya have?” she asked.

  As Delia was writing the order, McAfee shamelessly ogled her. His pupils ballooned and blackened his green irises. Delia blushed but didn’t seem to mind the attention. They placed the order, Delia served the drinks, and the lads imbibed with vigor. Every few rounds they handed Delia a hundred and told her to keep the change, which kept Delia smiling and coming back for more.

  It was now half seven, and the lads, save O’Byrne, were in their cups. McAfee had all but proposed marriage to Delia, and Delia had all but accepted. Alroy was scoring points with a local girl at the bar, who apparently found him charming. All was coming up aces for the Belfast boys. O’Byrne mulled over the robbery, and a bad feeling churned in his gut, the same churning he felt in the blanket protests. He was thinking about Long Kesh Prison when McAfee bumped into the table, with his pasty face flushed red.

  “Delia gets off at ten,” he said. “I’m taking her out for drinks.”

  “Make sure you’re back by one o’clock tomorrow. We’ve a flight to catch in the afternoon.” O’Byrne didn’t see Alroy at the bar. “It seems that Alroy is gone. And so is the girl he was talking to.”

  “Aye,” Mac confirmed, saving his words for Delia no doubt.

  “Don’t forget about the flight.”

  O’Byrne stayed until midnight and drove back to White City.

  §

  O’Byrne’s eyes opened in the morning. Daylight poured through the framed windows and painted a shadow grid on the plaster walls. The grid was skewed by the angle of the sun, not
like the square grid of the Maze prison bars. In the kitchen O’Byrne boiled water for tea and toasted bread and sat at the table to eat breakfast. Despite the previous evening’s whiskey, he felt good, even energetic, a positive sign indeed. He walked around the house and found nobody home.

  The front door opened and McAfee bounded down the hallway and into the kitchen. He looked like a disheveled rogue with a hangover, in other words, a man who got laid after a night of heavy drinking. Mac raved about his dalliance with Delia. O’Byrne feigned interest. Mac asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Alroy isn’t here,” O’Byrne said.

  “Ah, he’ll be back soon enough,” Mac said. “He met with good fortune last night, just as I did. Alroy will be here any second now.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” O’Byrne said. “Did you actually see him leave with her?”

  “I saw him at the bar with her. The next time I looked they were gone.”

  “That’s the way I remember it, too.” O’Byrne tried to sound confident. “They must have left together.”

  It was noontime and Alroy still wasn’t back. O’Byrne punched C3 on his cell phone, the contact number for Alroy, and he heard a muffled ringing. Was Alroy in the house? Aye, he must have come home undetected and taken a nap without telling them. Yes indeed, he was taking a nap.

  The faint ringing continued and O’Byrne followed it to the kitchen. He opened the flatware drawer and saw Alroy’s phone inside it, but the gun was gone.

  “Mac, get your ass in here,” O’Byrne snapped.

  “What’s wrong?” McAfee rushed to the kitchen.

  “Alroy’s phone is in the drawer,” he said, “and my gun has gone missing.”

  “You had a gun?”

  “I put it in the drawer when the job was done.” O’Byrne slammed it shut. “What did that feckin’ eejit do with my gun?”

  IV.

  It was one o’clock and still no sign of Alroy. O’Byrne called Belfast, pressing C1 for Liam McGrew. Liam answered and wasted no time talking about the heist.

  “Well done, O’Byrne, well done!” he exclaimed. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “I’m afraid we have a problem,” O’Byrne said, cutting into Liam’s gust. “Alroy isn’t home yet, and our flight leaves in a few hours.”

  “Where is he?” Liam asked.

  “He met a girl last night.”

  “I see, a girl,” Liam muttered over the phone. “Well, I suppose that’s not the end of the world.”

  “I hate to miss the flight, but I think we should wait for Alroy,” O’Byrne said.

  “I agree.” Liam coughed into the phone. “Stay in Boston and wait for the lad.”

  “There’s something else,” O’Byrne said. “A small fortune came our way.”

  “I got the wire.” Liam assured him. “And there was nothing small about it.”

  “I’m not talking about the wire,” O’Byrne said.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Liam.

  “Perhaps I should wait until we get back to Belfast.”

  “Nonsense, man. Tell me now.”

  “I’m concerned about the phones, Liam.”

  “The phones are safe, damn it. I told you that at Slattery’s already.” Liam quieted his tone. “Tell me about this small fortune.”

  Thinking the house could be bugged, O’Byrne went out to the backyard and walked to the tall hedges. He spoke in a low voice.

  “Mr. H directed us to steal three sheets of $100,000 bills, which we did in fact steal, but the case contained four sheets. We grabbed the fourth sheet for ourselves, $3.2 million.”

  “Damn skippy, O’Byrne!”

  “Once Alroy is back, we can get the next flight to Belfast,” O’Byrne said. “We can book it in a day or two.”

  “You could do that I suppose.” The tone of Liam’s voice shifted and took on an air of authority. “I have changed my mind. Come home on the scheduled flight.”

  “What about Alroy?”

  “Instruct McAfee to wait for Alroy.” Liam ordered. “I want you to come home immediately, and bring the money with you.”

  “I’ll have to tell Mr. H what’s going on.”

  “Why?” Liam asked.

  “We’ll be needing the house and car for a few more days.” O’Byrne explained.

  “Right, right, I didn’t think of that.” Liam paused. “Tell Mr. H, but make it fast. You have a plane to catch.”

  V.

  O’Byrne called K using contact C5, hoping that K hadn’t discarded the phone. O’Byrne was relieved when K answered, even though he sounded ticked off.

  “Yeah?”

  “A problem came up,” O’Byrne said. “We need the house and car for another day or two.”

  “Another day or two?” K roared. “That’s totally out of the question. You were hired to do a job and to get the fuck out of Boston. The job is done, go home.”

  “I understand how you feel,” O’Byrne said. “But it’s not that simple.”

  “It’s not that simple?” K grumbled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It has to do with our mutual friend with the half-pink face,” O’Byrne said. “His grandson assisted in the job and now he’s gone missing.”

  “Gone missing?” K sounded incensed.

  “Last night he met a girl.” O’Byrne explained. “I’m sure the lad will turn up soon, but not in time for the flight.”

  “This better not be a fuckin’ problem,” K said. “I’m not happy about this and Mr. H won’t be, either.”

  “It will be a bigger problem if we leave the lad behind,” O’Byrne said. “The boy isn’t exactly worldly.”

  The two men continued to talk. K finally relented. He told O’Byrne he could have the house and car for two more days and not a second longer. O’Byrne told K that he’d be flying back to Belfast that afternoon, and that McAfee would be staying behind to wait for Alroy.

  After they hung up, O’Byrne cursed Liam under his breath.

  “Let Alroy cut his eyeteeth in Boston, my arse!”

  §

  The sheet of bills formed a rectangular grid, four across lengthwise, eight down height-wise. O’Byrne folded the sheet in half, top to bottom, careful to fold it on the edge of the bills, and not across the bills themselves. He halved it again, left to right, with the same care to detail. He creased the sheet flat with his thumbs and squeezed it into a manila envelope. He tucked the envelope into his pants against the small of his back and checked himself in the mirror. ’Twas unnoticeable. If he could avoid a strip search at Logan Airport he’d be fine, and with Emmett O’Burke on duty in US Customs, O’Byrne was convinced he’d get through without incident. The Belfast end was already taken care of, that he knew for sure.

  Chapter Four

  I.

  The plane departed from Logan on time and arrived in Belfast ahead of schedule. After sailing through airport security unscathed, O’Byrne exited the terminal and hailed a cab for his Divis Street flat. Except for Alroy’s disappearance, everything had gone as planned––better than planned, considering the bonus sheet of banknotes. Alroy would turn up tomorrow, and when he did, both he and McAfee would share their tales of conquest, and they would catch the next flight to Belfast, and they would revel in the bounty of a successful venture. All would be fine again, not a thing to worry about.

  Inside his flat O’Byrne took the manila envelope from his pants and removed the $100,000 bills. He smoothed the sheet on the kitchen table and admired his American pot of gold, $3.2 million. Thirty-two portraits of Woodrow Wilson, wearing pince-nez glasses, stared back at him from the currency, staring like a judge. O’Byrne thought about Judgment Day, and then he thought about his wife. Kathleen, eyeing him from heaven, looking down with disgust, the stolen loot on their pine table, a wedding gift from Bridie herself, and the joy
of triumph turned to the shame of betrayal. He had smacked Kathleen’s cheek with a Judas kiss when he stole all that sordid money. And at that very moment something shifted inside him. A sense of doom engulfed his soul, and he was now certain beyond a doubt that he would go to hell. Yes, he would bypass purgatory and go straight to the netherworld, the eternal abyss.

  The idea of hell didn’t bother O’Byrne much. He had friends down there. But the idea of never seeing Kathleen again, because Kathleen was in heaven, that bothered him. In fact, the prospect of never again seeing Kathleen made him morose.

  “Is it too late, Kathleen?” O’Byrne got on his knees. “Pray for me.”

  He blessed himself and went to the counter and poured whiskey into a glass. He gulped it down with neither ice nor mixer, guzzling it like a pig at a trough. The intoxicating burn befogged his betrayal, a deliberate sellout that disgraced the memory of his wife. O’Byrne poured another glassful and dwelled on his sins and his lack of character. Would he ever get to confession? Would he ever utter an act of contrition? He drank more and kept drinking until he was drunk.

  Drunk, he vowed to get rid of the money. Drunk, he promised to give it to Liam McGrew and be done with it. He would dispose of his thirty pieces of silver, yes indeed, that’s what he would do. The very thought of dumping the money eased his pain. His eyelids lowered and his eyes closed shut.

  He awoke from a recurring nightmare, or was it post-traumatic stress disorder? He never knew which, didn’t really care. The dream played out the same way every time, reenacting a horror from the days of the resistance, when the British Army had kidnapped O’Byrne and forced him into a helicopter.

  In the dream the Brits soar a thousand feet above Ulster, up into the wispy clouds. They open the hatch and push him toward it. The roar of the rotors thumps his ears, the blistering wind blinds his eyes. They tie a hood around his head, nearly choking him, and pretend to shove him out. They laugh at his shrieks and pretend to shove him again.