The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

by Tom MacDonald

  He saw nothing on Dermot Sparhawk.

  What could he do to save Sparhawk? Jackie Tracy might warn him, but he might not. And even if Jackie warned Sparhawk, it might not be enough to save him, because McAfee was a top hand, an apt killer armed with a gun. There had to be more that O’Byrne could do.

  An idea came to him, a treacherous idea that could cost him his life, but he decided to go ahead with it. He opened his cell phone and pressed C4 for McAfee. Mac finally answered, but it took four rings before he did. O’Byrne cut in before Mac could speak and said, “Don’t say a word. Just listen. The hit is off, Mac. Forget about Sparhawk and come home.”

  O’Byrne rang off before Mac could dispute him.

  He returned to Clonard Monastery and continued to pray to Saint Angus MacNisse of Connor and to his wife, Kathleen. At sunset he went home and drank a tall glass of whiskey with ice and fell asleep on the couch. At noontime the next day he woke up and logged on and browsed the Boston dailies. He read a story about a fatal shooting at a South Boston garage. In self-defense, a man wrestled a gun from an assailant and killed him with it. No names were mentioned in the article. Something about the story bothered him, and he read it again. O’Byrne was reading it for a third time when his personal cell phone rang. The caller ID said Main-e-ack, the codename for Jackie Tracy. O’Byrne answered it.

  “How are the Red Sox doing, Jackie?” O’Byrne said, trying to sound upbeat.

  “You’re asking about the Red Sox?” Jackie unloosed a boom of laughter. “The hitters can’t hit, the pitchers can’t pitch, the manager can’t manage, and the fans can’t take it. But that’s not why I called.”

  “I know it’s not.”

  “Your man Mac is dead,” Jackie said.

  “I thought you were going to say that.”

  “He shot Sparhawk, but Sparhawk was wearing a vest.” Jackie sighed into the receiver. “Sparhawk took Mac’s gun, the gun I furnished, and shot him dead with it.”

  “I cannot feckin’ believe this.” O’Byrne turned off the computer and leaned back in his chair. “This cannot be happening.”

  “Believe me, O’Byrne, it happened,” Jackie said. “Sparhawk grabbed the gun from Mac and killed him with it, supposedly by accident.” There was a pause on the line. “I think it was an accident. Sparhawk wanted McAfee alive so he could question him.”

  “I imagine the police wanted him alive, too,” O’Byrne said.

  “But now Mac is dead, and I am hoping like hell that Liam calls off the hit on Sparhawk, because things are getting messy over here.”

  “Have the police identified McAfee?” asked O’Byrne.

  “He had no wallet, nothing on him at all,” Jackie said. “Does he have a criminal record in Belfast?”

  “I believe he does, but on trivial matters.” O’Byrne thought for a moment. “He’s a young guy, never took a felony charge to my knowledge.”

  “The way I way see it, the cops will assume he’s local, just like they assumed Alroy was local. Why would they think otherwise?”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Get back to me on Sparhawk. You guys are getting sloppy, and I want to know if I have to cover my ass.”

  Jackie hung up.

  It occurred to O’Byrne that there could be an upside to McAfee’s death. Liam would never know that O’Byrne had called Mac to cancel the hit on Sparhawk. O’Byrne thought further. Ach, probably not. Mac could have called Liam after O’Byrne had called him. Yes, that was quite possible, likely even, because McAfee went ahead with the hit. ’Twas a mire of shite O’Byrne had got himself into.

  VIII.

  O’Byrne walked into Slattery’s Pub and sat at a corner table. Slattery made a phone call, looked at O’Byrne, and flipped a towel over his shoulder. Fifteen minutes later Liam McGrew came into the pub with his oxygen tank in tow. He joined O’Byrne in the crook of the barroom, not in their usual spot in the back room. O’Byrne allowed Liam a moment to gather his strength, and then he told him the news from Boston.

  “McAfee is dead,” O’Byrne said.

  Liam grabbed the edge of the table, his nostrils sucking, his lips quivering. O’Byrne told Liam the rest of it, that Dermot Sparhawk had killed McAfee in the parking lot of a South Boston garage. Liam nodded his head, showing neither rage nor rancor. He tapped his knotty shillelagh on the old oaken tabletop and waved O’Byrne away with his free hand. O’Byrne left Slattery’s without saying another word.

  §

  O’Byrne awoke in his room. His bed was rumpled and his mind was a mess. A sense of disaster swirled in his head. He made a cup of tea and sat at the pine table and went through a stack of mail. He came across a letter from his godmother, Bridie, and opened it at once. Bridie had always called him Tossy, a playful nickname for his Thomas. She began the letter with “Dear Tossy,” a greeting that brightened his mood. Bridie wanted to see him and soon. This brightened his mood even more. Yes, he would visit Bridie in Dundalk today, and he called her to tell her of his plans.

  Elated, he toasted two slices of soda bread to go with his steaming tea. Oh, how he loved Bridie. Oh, how he loved Dundalk. He loved all of County Louth for that matter. O’Byrne bathed in warm water and dressed in suitable clothing. He took a cab to Belfast Central and boarded the Irish Rail for Dundalk Clark.

  Dundalk, a border town in the Republic of Ireland, was sometimes called El Paso for its easy entry to the North, and vice versa. It sat equidistant between Belfast and Dublin, a telling feature of a strategic town. O’Byrne enjoyed the ride south, especially the rugged vistas of the Mountains of Mourne and the subtle ripples of Carlingford Lough. He got off the train at Dundalk Clark and took a taxi to Seatown Ward, where Bridie O’Hanlon lived in a house that had been in the family for six generations.

  She was waiting for him at the door when the taxi pulled up, her hair wavy and white, like frosting atop a wedding cake. They embraced in the open doorway and stepped inside the house. His spine tingled and his skin prickled with tiny bumps. He was home.

  “Thank you for coming down so quickly, Tossy,” Bridie said, “but I found the tone of your telephone call rather foreboding. You have much on your mind, yes?”

  “I do indeed.” He agreed. “And from your letter, it seems you do, too.”

  “In truth I do, and I will tell you all about it, but first let’s enjoy an ice-cold bowl of Donegal oatmeal cream.”

  “My favorite homemade dessert!” exclaimed O’Byrne.

  They ate at the kitchen table, and when they finished, O’Byrne walked to the parlor and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  “I’ve got all this chatter running between my ears,” he said, “and I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Tell me about it.” Bridie smiled encouragingly. “Or would you rather simply rest for a few days?”

  “I don’t know that I can rest.” He reclined on the parlor couch and closed his eyes. “I’m lost, Bridie. I can’t remember when I got lost, but I’m lost as sure as I’m alive. I used to have a purpose in life, principles that mattered to me. Today I have no direction at all. I’ve killed men. I’ve stolen money, lots of money. I’m the reason Kathleen is dead.”

  Bridie tucked an afghan around his legs and told him to keep talking.

  “Fighting for freedom, that was our aim.” He propped himself on a pillow. “Now we steal for profit. We kill for revenge. I can’t pretend any longer. I want to put the past behind me, but I don’t know how I can.”

  Bridie rocked in her chair.

  “Go to confession, Tossy. Ask God to forgive you. All the things you’ve done can be forgiven, and that’s a cold fact. Talk to Father Donnallen here at Saint Patrick’s. He’s as old as the Dead Sea and just as salty, but he’s a good man, a true man of the cloth. Father Donnallen will absolve you your sins.”

  “I suppose I could do that.” O’Byrne could now add
lying to his list of sins if he ever did get to confession.

  “You can’t mistake Father Donnallen, for he still wears the fiddleback vestments. He looks like a cleric in a sandwich board.” She laughed and rocked. “Father took a bullet in the North, dead center chest, and he swears the thick weave of the fiddleback saved his life. Now about Kathleen’s murder, we’ve been over this before.”

  “I know we have.”

  “You have to stop blaming yourself, Tossy,” Bridie said, somewhat sternly. “The Brits killed her. They killed many of us, not just Kathleen, and you couldn’t have stopped them anyway. You weren’t even home.”

  O’Byrne shook his head so vigorously he nearly got dizzy.

  “When they released me from Long Kesh, I wanted out of the brigade. I wanted out of the North entirely if truth be told. But I didn’t leave, I stayed. And because I stayed, a hit squad came to kill me. But they killed Kathleen instead. I should be in the coffin, not Kathleen,” O’Byrne shouted. “It should be me.”

  “Relax yourself now, Tossy.”

  “If I had listened to my senses and got out, Kathleen and I would be living in peace today. But no, I stayed, and because I stayed, Kathleen is dead.”

  “It’s not your fault she’s dead.”

  “The hell it’s not.” He tossed off the afghan and got to his feet. “It’s my fault!”

  Bridie stood next to O’Byrne.

  “I’m going to make us a cup of hot tea. Slow down, boy. I’ll be right back.” Bridie went to the kitchen and returned carrying a tray with cookies and tea. She picked up a cookie and nibbled on it. “The time has come for you to move on from Ireland, Tossy. Belfast isn’t Brigadoon. It won’t disappear if you leave.”

  “I know that, Bridie.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if you really do,” she said.

  “There is nothing left for me here,” he said. “Kathleen is gone.”

  “That’s true, that’s true,” Bridie agreed.

  “And then there’s the stealing,” O’Byrne said. “We’re always stealing. I don’t want to be part of it any longer. I want out.”

  Bridie pointed an arthritic finger at O’Byrne.

  “You’re finally making sense,” she said. “Go away from here and start a new life for yourself.”

  “Where would I go?” O’Byrne went back to the couch and closed his eyes. “I have no money. I have no family, besides you. If I did leave, how would I make a living once I got there, wherever there is?”

  “That’s why I wrote to see you,” she said. “I’ll soon be selling my property.”

  “You’re selling the house?”

  Bridie didn’t answer.

  “Why are you selling?” O’Byrne sat up. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” She walked to her bedroom and came back holding a stack of papers. “You’ll get your inheritance when the estate is settled. I hope you use the money to leave Ireland.” She handed O’Byrne a pen and said, “Sign the documents.”

  “I don’t want anything, Bridie. Keep it for yourself.”

  “Please sign the papers,” she said to him. “You will break my heart if you don’t.”

  Not wanting to break her heart, O’Byrne reluctantly signed the papers.

  “Come closer.” Bridie looped a brown cloth necklace with two patches over O’Byrne’s head. “These are Carmelite scapulars. They will safeguard you from harm and evil. I’ve sewn Saint Bridget’s Cross to it for added protection. Now you’ll be safe.”

  Part Two

  Charlestown, Massachusetts

  Chapter Five

  I.

  I clicked on the Red Sox game and it was clear from the announcer’s voice that things were not going well. The A’s were leading by nine runs, and it was only the second inning. Boston’s ace had already thrown forty pitches, most of them wide of the plate, and the few balls that found the strike zone were roped for homers and doubles. The camera panned to the bullpen, where an aging reliever stirred in slow motion, offering little hope to stop the Oakland assault. The A’s cleanup hitter dug into the batter’s box, leveled a practice swing, and waited for a pitch. He got a fat one and launched a comet over the Green Monster, adding to a meteor shower of baseballs over Fenway Park.

  I couldn’t stomach another cloying rendition of Sweet Caroline in the eighth, if the game got that far before curfew, so I clicked off the TV and tossed the remote on the hassock. I decided I’d rather bore myself gawking at sell-by dates on soup cans than torment myself watching a ball club squat on the lawn. I grabbed the keys and went to the parish food pantry to do some prep work for the next distribution.

  As I walked along Bunker Hill Street, the salty scents of tidal Boston washed away the angst of the game. My knee felt good, the best it had in years, and a resulting vigor enlivened my step. The sodium streetlights twinkled to life like city stars. On the western horizon the sunset spread like purple gas, and on the Tobin Bridge an endless stream of headlights congealed into a single beam.

  Sundown in Charlestown.

  I unlocked the pantry door and toed a granite wedge against the jamb to keep it ajar for the ocean air. After sorting and shelving five pallets of dry goods, a task that took two hours and change, I locked up the building and stepped out to the archway. I had no sooner pocketed the keys when I caught a whiff of tobacco in the air. The smell was fresh and strong and I looked around. At the fenced end of the archway I saw a bright orange dot, the tip of a cigarette, and the man smoking it spoke.

  “Dermot Sparhawk?” he said.

  “Yes?” Did I hear a brogue, maybe slurring? “Can I help you?”

  The man came down the alley and stopped at the edge of the opening. He stood half in darkness, half in moonlight, and completely in fog. I noticed something glinting in his hand. It was a gun. Before I could react he shot me in the leg. Down to the pavement I went. He walked over to me with less urgency than the mop-up man in the Sox bullpen and shot the other leg. A spent shell pinged on the hardtop next to my ear. He pressed the warm barrel against my temple, letting me know that the next bullet was ticketed for my brain and that I was ticketed for the boneyard. With nothing to lose I slapped at his arm. A shot rang out and missed. I grabbed his hair and dragged him low, got hold of his gun hand and chomped on his thumb, sinking my grinders in deep.

  He yowled and dropped the weapon. I groped for the granite wedge, found it, and slammed it on his head. I hit him again on the head. The second blow made a soggy sound on impact, as if it struck gray matter. I cocked my arm for a third clout, but he flopped onto his back. His mouth slackened and his eyes glazed. I looked at his face, blinked my eyes to refocus and looked again. I didn’t recognize him. The pain began to set in and my head swooned. I flipped open my cell phone before I passed out and dialed 911. An operator answered and began her rote response, until I interrupted.

  “I’ve been shot, Saint Jude Thaddeus Church, Charlestown, in the parking lot.”

  She continued to ask questions as if I were ordering a pizza, so I hung up. If I was going to bleed to death, I was going to do it in peace, and not with some nitwit babbling in my ear. My eyes closed, my eardrums pounded.

  I heard a distant siren and the siren grew louder and louder until it blared. A car rolled to a stop ten feet away from me and a spotlight shined in my face. Two cops got out with their guns drawn and moved carefully into the alley. One of them leaned over the man who shot me and said, ‘No ambulance needed for this guy.’ The other one asked me if I was okay. I tried to nod yes. He pointed to the gun on the ground and asked if it was mine. Too weak to say anything, I tried to shake my head no.

  The surroundings got hazy. Tinny sounds bounced off the archway and became distorted. Was I in an echo chamber? The cops talked about moose hunting in Maine and smoking cigars at a lakeside camp. Was I hallucinating?

  An ambulance c
ame into the lot and two medics got out. I think there were two, and one of them felt the gunman’s throat and told the cops what they already knew, that he was dead. The other one applied compresses to my wounds. Things went from hazy to black. One of the medics said something about blood loss. They hoisted me onto a gurney and loaded me into an ambulance. I heard sirens again.

  II.

  The doctor who had tended my wounds the night before consulted with me when I awoke in the morning. He said that one of the bullets had hit my left leg, but had done little damage. The other one lodged in my right quadriceps. He told me that his medical team had removed the bullets, cleaned the wounds, and wrapped the gashes in pressure bandages. They administered intravenous antibiotic as a precaution against infection. They checked the pulses in my feet and were satisfied with the outcomes. They tested for artery damage, which could lead to an aneurism, and found nothing of concern. They gave me a transfusion to top off my blood level. He sounded like a mechanic recapping a tune-up.

  When he asked me if I wanted morphine for the pain I said no, saying there was no reason for a recovering alcoholic to take an unneeded risk, although my AA sponsor, Mickey Pappas, might have referred to prescribed stuff as a freebie. The doctor then told me that I would need crutches until I could walk on my own. He grabbed his clipboard and left the room.

  I fell asleep thinking of morphine.

  Later that afternoon Superintendent Hanson and Captain Pruitt of the Boston Police Department visited me. I expected the police but not the brass.

  “A superintendent and a captain,” I said. “Was the commissioner tied up?”

  “How are you feeling, Sparhawk?” Captain Pruitt asked with little empathy, as he wrapped his big black mitts around the bedrail and leaned over me. “You’re feeling better than that poor bastard you turned into a chalk mark, I can tell you that much.”