The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

by Tom MacDonald

  “Or a leak in the magistrate judge’s office, the issuer of the search warrant,” Kenny said. “We kept the magistrate judge in the dark about our ploy against Halloran. We get three cracks at this thing: a leak in Treasury, a leak in the US Attorney’s Office, or a leak in the magistrate’s office.”

  “Three cracks,” I said. “So if there’s a mole, and if Halloran gets tipped off by the mole, and if Halloran tries to make a run for it, I’ll be waiting for him. You’re right about the moving parts.”

  Chapter Nine

  I.

  From Castle Island I drove to the L Street Bathhouse for an AA meeting. The topics ranged from gratitude to acceptance to powerlessness. The last speaker summarized the meeting, saying that she gratefully accepted the fact that she was powerless over alcohol. We said the Lord’s Prayer and filed out of the building.

  I got in my car and drove toward Morrissey Boulevard, having no destination in mind. With time to kill before my rendezvous with Harraseeket Kid and Vic Lennox, I kept driving and ended up at a penny arcade on Nantasket Beach. I dropped twenty dollars on Skee-ball and left the prize tickets for whoever found them.

  I walked to Nantasket Beach and took in the ambience—in other words, I watched the girls walk by in bikinis. After an hour of sun and spray, I left the beach for South Boston. I pulled into Kid’s garage and couldn’t believe what I saw. Vic Lennox was swinging a hatchet in a chopping motion, apparently for practice. Harraseeket Kid was pushing a snub-nose revolver into his waistband, but only after he gave the cylinder a spin.

  “We’re ready.” Kid untucked his shirt over the gun.

  “I just want to block Halloran’s car,” I said. “I don’t want to cleave him open or gun him down.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” Kid said, ignoring me.

  “Hey, I don’t want anyone getting hurt tonight,” I said. “I just want to block him. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, we understand.” Kid got in the driver’s side and slammed the door. “We don’t want to get hurt, either.”

  I looked again at Vic Lennox. He was decked out in faded denim from head to toe. He could have been auditioning for a part in The Trial of Billy Jack.

  Vic sheathed the hatchet. “Let’s go, men!”

  The three of us squeezed into the front seat, nobody bothering with seat belts. Kid gunned the engine and hauled out of the lot, leaving a wake of gravel dust behind us.

  We ramped onto the Mass Pike and drove for Halloran’s house in palatial Weston. After driving twenty minutes west, we exited the pike and drove into Weston. The homes got bigger and the lots got vaster as we drew closer to Halloran’s address. The road was dark when we got there. There were no streetlights or stores or nearby residences, a bonus for us, since we wanted to remain unseen. Kid backed onto the soft shoulder across from Halloran’s long driveway and killed the engine and headlights. All was quiet. We waited in the truck and watched the hours pass. It was now three in the morning.

  “Halloran didn’t take the bait,” Kid said. “We’re sitting out here like a bunch of fools while he’s inside sleeping.”

  “It’s early.” Vic responded. “Halloran is smart, he’s biding his time.”

  “Halloran is smart.” I agreed with Vic. “We’ll stay until dawn.”

  “What if nothing happens?” Kid asked.

  “Something will happen,” I said. “Halloran can’t risk staying put with the stolen money. He has to make a move.”

  “He doesn’t have to do a damn thing,” Kid argued. “The guy’s a billionaire. He could burn the money, and it wouldn’t make any difference to him.”

  “You’re wrong, Kid. It would make a difference to him, because it’s not about the money. It’s about the thrill of stealing it. If he burns the money, he loses.” Was my guesswork on Halloran correct? I didn’t know for sure, but it was all I had. “Halloran needs to know he got away with the heist. If he gets away with it, he wins, he gets his fix. I’ll take it a step further. I’d bet he likes that we’re challenging him. It’s another hurdle for him to conquer. His victory will be that much sweeter if he wins.”

  “Except we’re not going to let him win,” Kid said, sounding more on board with the plan. “Because we’re going to stop him.”

  “Yup, we’re going to stop him,” I said.

  At four o’clock a light went on inside the house, and another one went on outside the garage. Vic Lennox grabbed his field glasses.

  “The garage door just opened,” he said.

  Kid started the diesel, which rumbled in a low growl.

  “Take these.” Vic handed us Popsicle sticks. “Bite down on them so you don’t crack your teeth when we collide.”

  “I just want to block the car,” I said.

  “I’ll block it, all right.” Kid whispered. “Everyone quiet.”

  A vehicle rolled out of the garage and came down the curving driveway. Vic Lennox leaned forward with his glasses. “It’s a Lincoln Navigator.”

  Kid pulled a lever that raised the snowplow. “I want it eight inches off the ground, so the SUV takes the brunt of it.”

  “Just block it.” I repeated. “Block the driveway, that’s all.”

  “Sure, I’ll block it.” Kid stepped on the emergency brake and shifted into drive. “I don’t want them to see the brake lights.”

  “The camera is filming,” Vic said. “Buckle up, boys. It’s Popsicle time.”

  The SUV moved slowly down the driveway and was about ten feet from the street. We bit onto the Popsicle sticks. Kid released the emergency brake and floored the gas pedal. The wrecker roared forward, leaving rubber on the soft shoulder, and shot across the road and up Halloran’s driveway. Kid hit the halogens, floodlighting the property like a ballpark. The driver shielded his eyes and Kid rammed the SUV head on. Never in my life had I heard such noise, a cacophonous crunching of metal.

  “Bull’s-eye!” Kid screamed. “Dead center!”

  I jumped out of the wrecker as shattering glass tinkled onto the tar, and I ran to the SUV as I spit out pieces of Popsicle stick. Karl Kloosmann, the driver, was bloody and groggy, but that didn’t stop him from pulling out a gun. He opened the door and looked up, his eyes were blinking and unfocused. He raised the gun. I slammed the door on his wrist and the gun dropped to the ground. I slammed it again and this time it thumped his head. He fell to the driveway and reached for the gun. I tried to punt his head, missed, and caught him in the throat. And then Vic came from behind me and smashed Kloosmann’s hand with the flat side of the hatchet. Kloosmann choked for air like a wheezing asthmatic and collapsed onto his back. I picked up the gun and threw it into the darkness.

  Harraseeket Kid dragged Halloran out of the back seat and stuck the revolver in his face and yelled, “Where’s the fuckin’ money!”

  “I don’t know what–”

  “I’d tell him if I were you, Halloran,” I said. “He’ll blow a hole in your head.”

  Kid cocked the hammer as tears rolled down Halloran’s cheeks.

  “Tell us,” I said. “Where’s the money?”

  “The hatchback.” Halloran sobbed. “The money’s in the hatchback.”

  I popped the hatchback and saw a cardboard tube. I opened the end of it and removed the sheets of $100,000 bills. I unrolled the sheets and walked to the front of the SUV and held them in front of Halloran. I grabbed his hair and jerked up his head.

  “Vic, get some footage of Halloran’s face with the money,” I said.

  Vic worked the remote like a drone pilot. “I got plenty, let’s get out of here.”

  “Come on, Dermot, move your ass.” Kid was already in the wrecker.

  Kid was shifting into gear when I hopped into the truck. Vic continued to film the wreckage of our assault. We sped out of Halloran’s neighborhood, ramped onto the Mass Pike, and headed for South Boston. We went through the Wes
ton toll plaza and through Newton Corner and past Boston University. When we reached Fenway Park we looked at each other and burst into laughter. Ten minutes later we pulled into the garage.

  Kid parked in the main bay and turned off the engine. I yanked down the overhead door. We gathered in the middle of the garage, nobody speaking a word. The rising sun fought through the grimy windows and spilled daylight onto the oily floor. Still no one spoke. Kid walked to Glooscap’s office. Vic and I followed him inside.

  Kid looked at me and said, “Why are you smiling?”

  “I liked slamming that punk.”

  We had another good laugh, until Kid cut it short.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now I go to Halloran’s house and threaten him,” I said.

  “You threatened him just now,” Kid said. “He was whimpering like a puppy.”

  “The next threat could land him in a federal prison.” I held up the cardboard tube. “I’ll sic the Treasury Department on him if he doesn’t do what I say.”

  We talked a little more and laughed a lot more. I found the violence of the ramming exhilarating, like hitting a quarterback.

  “Get some sleep,” Vic said, pointing to the couch in Glooscap’s office. “You’ll need your strength for later. Kid and I will stand guard. Ain’t nobody getting past us.”

  I crumpled onto the couch and fell asleep.

  II.

  I rang Halloran’s doorbell at five o’clock that afternoon and an ailing Karl Kloosmann answered it. A bulky cast encased his arm from fingertip the elbow. Wires and elastics caged his mouth. Unable to speak, he nodded to the hallway, and I followed him to the big sitting room, where Halloran sat with his legs crossed. His expression showed nothing. No rancor, no anger, nothing. I sat on the sofa across from him.

  “Any whiplash?”

  “How dare you come to my house after last night?” Halloran’s face reddened, matching the scrapes on his cheeks. “Karl’s larynx is irreparably ruptured. His jaw is badly broken, and so is his arm and hand. You’re lucky you didn’t kill him.”

  “I’d say he’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”

  Kloosmann croaked something indiscernible, paused, wrote a few words on a piece of paper and passed it to Halloran with his un-plastered hand.

  “Karl wants you to know that the car door broke his jaw, not your foot.”

  “Noted.” I tossed a DVD to Halloran, who showed surprisingly quick reflexes when he caught it. “Footage from last night’s crash, it shows you with three sheets of $100,000 bills, but there’s a problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “You only had three sheets,” I said. “The thieves stole four sheets.”

  Halloran and Kloosmann looked at each other. Kloosmann, who would never make it as a card player, blinked. Halloran’s mouth dropped. The mention of the fourth sheet surprised them. The lads from Belfast had buffaloed Halloran.

  “You got taken, Halloran, hoodwinked by the boys in the old brigade.” I lay back on the sofa. “You received only three of the four sheets.”

  “You are wrong.” Halloran regained his composure. “You’re making no sense.”

  “I pieced most of it together, but I’ll need your help to fill in the rest.”

  Kloosmann grunted. Halloran raised his hand as if to say he’d handle it.

  “I assume you’re engaging in levity, because I wouldn’t help you if there were a gun pointed at my head.”

  “In a manner of speaking, a gun is pointed at your head,” I said. “You’re in a box, Halloran, and you are going to tell me everything I need to know.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Halloran nodded to Kloosmann, who aimed a pistol at my head. Kloosmann loved his job as an enforcer. I had gotten lucky last night, catching his head in the car door.

  “Well, Sparhawk.” Halloran smiled. “I could have Karl put a bullet in your head this very second.”

  “You could, but there is something you should know first,” I said.

  “And what is that?”

  “The DVD I just gave you, I also gave a copy to my lawyer. If anything happens to me, he’ll bring it to the US Attorney’s Office downtown, and that US Attorney doesn’t like you very much.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” he said, and he meant it.

  “My lawyer will also give a copy to the press.” I could see that Halloran wasn’t fazed, so I tried another tactic. “And if you’re extremely lucky, you’ll live long enough for the Feds to arrest you, or for the newspapers to disgrace you.”

  “What do you mean if I live long enough?” he asked.

  “My friends from last night, the crazies in the truck, they’re Micmac Indians and they’re family. They come from all over the Canadian Maritimes. You can’t track them down and you can’t buy them off.”

  “So?”

  “So if any harm comes to me, they will kill you.” I faced Halloran. “Let me repeat what I said. If any harm comes to me, they will kill you.”

  “I understood you the first time.”

  “I don’t think you fully understood me.” I rested my feet on the coffee table. “If anyone harms me, you get a tomahawk to the head. For example, if the IRA comes at me, you pay with blood.”

  “I can’t control the IRA,” he said.

  “At least you admit to knowing them.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” His face went red. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “The IRA is a problem for me,” I said. “They’ve tried to kill me three times.”

  “Too bad they didn’t succeed.” He uncrossed his thin legs. “I can’t do anything about the IRA.”

  “You have to keep me alive, Halloran,” I said. “The only way to keep me alive is to tell me what you know about the Irish Republican Army.”

  “I don’t think so.” He recoiled slightly.

  “They duped you again, didn’t they?”

  “They did no such thing.”

  “They stole four sheets of money and gave you three. You don’t owe them a thing. You can save your ass by helping me save mine. Come on, Halloran, use your goddamn head. Tell me about Liam McGrew.”

  “I never heard of him.” Halloran tapped his fingertips together. “I’m not saying another word.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say on the matter.” Halloran gestured to the hallway. “Leave my house immediately.”

  I couldn’t blame him for dummying up. Who in his right mind would finger the Irish Republican Army?

  “Rest up, Karl. I’ll see myself to the door.” I pointed at his neck brace. “You look good in a turtleneck.”

  III.

  It was eight in the evening, and the daylight was fading as fast as the Red Sox’ pennant chances. Tonight they were in Seattle to play the Mariners in the first game of a nine-game road trip. After Seattle it was on to Oakland and Anaheim. I called Kenny Bowen to tell him about the sheets of money.

  Kenny asked, “Did Halloran bite on the fake warrant?”

  “He bit like a snapper,” I said. “He tried to make a run for it and we stopped him.”

  “Did you get the money?” he asked.

  “Yes and no,” I said. “I don’t think you’ll be too disappointed.”

  “Yes and no? Too disappointed?” Kenny sounded exasperated. “Did you get the sheets or not?”

  “I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

  “A lot of people went out on a limb for you on this,” Kenny said. “Maddy Savitz, the Treasury Department, me, other people you don’t even know about, we backed you.”

  “I said I’ll fill you in when I see you.” Now I was the one who sounded exasperated.

  He agreed to my stipulation, but insisted on meeting tonight. I told him that tonight was fine, that I
wanted to give him the money as soon as possible. He liked that I had the money. I just didn’t have all of it, and that’s what I needed to talk to him about.

  Kenny said, “Meet me in an hour at Greenberg’s Nightspot, the corner of Columbus Ave and Camden Street.

  “See you in an hour.”

  I drove to the lower end of Roxbury and parked on Columbus Avenue, not far from Northeastern University. With $9.6 million in the tube under my arm, I warily got out of the car and walked to Greenberg’s, looking over my shoulder every half-stride. Talk about inviting a mugging.

  I entered the club through a set of swinging doors, which led to another set of swinging doors, which opened to a big carpeted room lit by soft purple bulbs. The walls were paneled in butterscotch satinwood. The prints on the walls were oversized and art nouveau. The overall atmosphere was hushed and cool.

  In the middle of the room sat a black Steinway grand with a glowing lacquer finish. Playing the piano was a black man who looked to be in his early fifties. He wore a black tuxedo, a white tux shirt, and a black bowtie. A glossy brass plaque read: Pianist, Zack Sanders. Zack finished an animated tune and announced to the room that it came from the Great American Songbook. He then played a bluesy number.

  A woman with dark hair and dark eyes walked up to me and asked if I’d like to be seated. I told her that I was waiting for a friend.

  “Is your friend Kenny Bowen?” she asked.

  “That’s him,” I said, ready to converse with her on any subject she desired.

  “Follow me.”

  She was easy to follow, with her hips swaying and shoulders rolling. She led me to a small round table and walked away. Fifteen minutes later Kenny Bowen joined me. I handed him the tube.

  “Three sheets of $100,000 bills,” I said. “Halloran didn’t have the fourth sheet. I don’t think he ever had it.”

  “Great work, Dermot.” He opened the end of the tube and partially removed the sheets. “I never thought I’d see these again.”

  “One is missing,” I said to him. “Liam McGrew must have kept the fourth sheet for himself. Maybe it was part of the deal.”