The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

by Tom MacDonald

  We continued to talk about O’Byrne’s phone call, and Kenny said, “I’d like you to give me O’Byrne’s number.”

  “Why do you want it?” I asked.

  “To tell him I know about the call to McAfee,” he said. “If O’Byrne realizes that another person knows about the call, he gains nothing by killing you.”

  “It could backfire.”

  “I’ll tell O’Byrne that if any harm comes to you, I’ll tell Liam McGrew about the call. Now please give me his number.”

  I thought it over.

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “I need O’Byrne to trust me.”

  “Trust?” Kenny laughed. “He’s an IRA gunman, a ruthless killer.”

  “The answer is still no,” I said. “If I get out of Belfast alive, I’ll get out because O’Byrne trusts me.”

  “You’re nuts.” A moment of silence lingered on the line. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I just hope you’re alive to answer.”

  “Aye, me too.”

  “Aye?”

  I turned down the covers and went to sleep.

  III.

  Liam McGrew had been discharged from the hospital and was convalescing at his flat in Shaftesbury Square. Since Alroy’s death, Liam had been in and out of the ward, dealing with a dicey pulmonary condition. When O’Byrne heard that Liam had been released, he called him right away. Thankful for the call, Liam invited O’Byrne to dinner, and O’Byrne said yes. He got to Liam’s at six o’clock.

  They sat around Liam’s Formica table as yesterday’s roast beef reheated in the oven. O’Byrne chuckled to himself. Leave it to Liam, tempering hospitality with frugality, inviting a friend to supper and serving leftovers. He must be part Ulster Scot.

  Liam cleared his throat. “’Twas gracious of you to come by tonight.”

  “Must feel good to be home, eh, Liam?”

  “Aye, it feels grand.” He sat up with effort. “Not that I minded the hospital food. People are forever complaining about hospital food, and for the life of me I haven’t a clue why. The food was simply splendid.”

  “’Tis good to know.”

  “It’s good to know if you end up in a hospital.” He inhaled through his mouth. “Make us a cup of scaldy, will you?”

  “Sure.” O’Byrne boiled the water and poured the tea and raised his cup. “To happier days ahead.”

  “Hmm, happier.” Liam gurgled.

  “What’s on your mind, Liam?” O’Byrne said.

  “You’re right, I’ve got something on my mind.” Liam rested his chin on his fist like Rodin’s The Thinker. “I’ve always been a careful man, as you well know, and I’ve surrounded myself with men I can trust. Trust, that’s what I value most in a friendship. Loyalty, too. Trust and loyalty.”

  “Those are fine qualities, to be sure,” O’Byrne agreed.

  “But trust and loyalty are in rare supply these days.” He turned the oxygen knob. “Traitor! I won’t abide a traitor no matter how long I’ve known him. A bloody turncoat can destroy an army of soldiers in a twinkling.”

  “What’s all this talk of traitors and turncoats?”

  “Ach, I’m blowing off steam. How do the Americans say it? I’m venting, yes, I’m venting. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, O’Byrne? You’re familiar with the Yanks and how they speak.”

  “We were only in Boston a short time, Liam.”

  “Still, you pick up on their sayings, their idioms.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Americans are everywhere nowadays, even here in Belfast.” Liam took a breath. “Mostly tourists, no doubt. Why, I heard that a Yank wandered into Slattery’s Pub just the other day. A big strapping lad and he went right to you. Do you remember him?”

  “I remember him. And as you said, he was a tourist.” O’Byrne sipped his tea, stalling to regain his composure. “I suppose he came to me because I was the only patron in Slattery’s at the time, except for a few railroad hands sitting at a table.”

  “A tourist in Slattery’s?” Liam made a face. “I find the prospect of a tourist in Slattery’s highly unlikely, don’t you?”

  “Apparently the lad lost his way and ended up at the pub, that’s all.”

  “And yet he stayed and talked to you for quite a long time.”

  “We chatted,” O’Byrne said. “And then he left.”

  “From where did this lost soul hail?” Liam asked. “Did he come from Boston by chance?”

  “He never told me.”

  “Did he tell you his name?” Liam’s tone grew deeper, more accusatory. “Usually when two lads meet they introduce themselves.”

  “If he told me his name, I don’t remember it. Probably something Irish, though. He was here on holiday, visiting family.” O’Byrne fought to relax. “We talked for a while, that’s true, but it was just small talk.”

  “What do you mean by small talk?”

  “You know what I mean.” O’Byrne now felt at ease for some reason. “We talked of famine and farmlands and bog fires and ancestry, nothing important. You know the touristy types, Liam. They have the depth of a summer puddle.”

  “Slattery told me that the talk was intense, low whisperings and hands covering mouths, everything secretive.” Liam sucked for air. “Slattery said that you doubled up on Jameson’s.”

  “Slattery is a feckin’ eejit.” O’Byrne snapped back. “I should slap the shit out of him for running his gob.”

  “Slap the shit out of him? Whoa, boy!” Liam burst into laughter. “Slattery is a feckin’ eejit, isn’t he?”

  “Aye,” O’Byrne said. “Speaking of Americans, what’s going on in Boston?”

  “What’s that you said?”

  “What’s going on in Boston?” O’Byrne set aside the teacup. “Alroy gets killed and then McAfee. I’m curious about Boston.”

  “Hmm, Boston.” Liam sipped his tea. “The Boston situation is fiddly, O’Byrne, very fiddly indeed. I have chosen to move it up the chain of command.”

  “I don’t follow,” O’Byrne said.

  “I handed the Boston problem over to the Army Council. The council will decide how to handle it.”

  “To use an American idiom, will the council be keeping you in the loop?”

  “Of course they’ll be keeping me in the loop.” Liam’s red blotch darkened. “Remember Alroy, my grandson, killed in Boston? Of course they’ll be keeping me in the lousy feckin’ loop!”

  O’Byrne nodded as if he understood.

  “Has the Army Council made a move yet?” O’Byrne asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard something that I found troublesome.” O’Byrne tinkered with his teacup. “I heard that a third man took a run at Sparhawk in Boston.”

  “What did you say?”

  “And this third man was killed for his efforts,” O’Byrne said, “killed by Sparhawk himself.”

  “What third man?” Liam’s eyes bulged. “Who told you this?”

  “Jackie Tracy told me.” O’Byrne finished his tea. “He told me about a third attempt on Sparhawk’s life, a third failed attempt.”

  “Jackie is mistaken,” Liam bellowed. “He’s wrong.”

  “That’s what he told me.” O’Byrne thought about it. Maybe Liam was out of the loop after all. Maybe the Army Council had brushed him aside and ordered the hit without telling him. “Jackie is reliable.”

  “In this case he’s pretty goddamn unreliable.” Liam caught his breath. “The Army Council would have told me if they went after Sparhawk.”

  “Maybe they didn’t go after him,” O’Byrne said, just to see where it would lead.

  “I don’t follow your logic,” Liam said. “If the council didn’t go after him, and I didn’t go after him, who did go after him?”

  “Maybe it was a coincidence.”


  “A coincidence, you say?”

  “Maybe Sparhawk was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe it was bad luck, a case of happenstance,” O’Byrne said.

  “Yes, happenstance,” Liam said, grasping at O’Byrne’s explanation. “Pure chance, as you say.”

  “That could explain it, Liam.”

  “Indeed, that explains it.”

  Despite Liam’s fervor to avenge Alroy’s murder, Liam seemed too feeble to pull it off. O’Byrne thought about the Army Council, who were anything but feeble. The Army Council had the resources and the reach. They had probably hired the third man. Yes, indeed, O’Byrne concluded, it was the Army Council. Besides, Liam would have simply told O’Byrne if he had hired the third man. Sparhawk had killed Liam’s grandson.

  IV.

  The morning sun brightened my room at the Maryville House. I showered, shaved, dressed in my best, and went to one of the inn’s tearooms for coffee and pastries, which they call tray bakes. I opened the Belfast Telegraph and read an opinion piece by a columnist named Eamonn McCann, who championed labor unions, and I thought of the Teamsters in Charlestown. I finished the paper and finished my coffee. I had time on my hands and an obligation to fulfill, and today was my chance to fulfill it.

  When my mother lived in Belfast, years before she immigrated to Boston, she had an aunt who treated her dearly, her Aunt Bridget O’Hanlon. Bridget lived in the Republic of Ireland, in the County of Louth, in the town of Dundalk. My mother, who died from the drink when I was seven years old, talked of Bridget every day, more so when she was in the spirits. I’d always wanted to meet Bridget, and today I had time to do just that.

  I rented a car and drove south for County Louth. An hour later I crossed the border into the Republic of Ireland and kept driving to Dundalk. It was like driving from Boston to Worcester, without the tolls, traffic, and hostility. I located Bridget’s house in Seatown Ward, parked the car, and walked to the front door. After taking a deep breath I knocked. An elderly woman opened the door. Her cheeks were sallow, and her skin was loose and dry. She looked up and said, “I hope to God you’re a friend and not a foe, the size of you.”

  “I’m a friend,” I said, “though we’ve never met.”

  “That much is true. I’d have remembered a leviathan like you.”

  “That’s a whale of a compliment,” I said. She didn’t laugh. “My name is Dermot Sparhawk, which probably means nothing to you. My mother was Mary O’Hanlon. I am hoping that you are her Aunt Bridget.”

  She folded her hands across her chest and sighed.

  “Sweet Mary O’Hanlon, my favorite niece.” She opened the door and told me to come in. “And you are Declan, Declan O’Hanlon you said.”

  “My name is Dermot Sparhawk.”

  “Come into the parlor, Declan, and make yourself at home. You were but a child when your mother died, and yet you’ve grown into a handsome, burly lad. Come into the kitchen and let me get a look at you. Sure, you must be starving.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “You don’t have to–”

  “You must taste my Donegal oatmeal cream, for it is the best in the land. I use only the finest pinhead oats in Ireland.” She opened the refrigerator and removed a large glass container and spooned a serving into a bowl. “Sit and eat. I’ll be back in a snap.”

  Bridget walked out of the kitchen and returned ten minutes later. In the meantime, I had wiped out the dessert, which was excellent.

  “Where did we leave off?” she asked.

  “We were talking about the finest pinhead oats in Ireland.” I sensed that she was nervous about something, probably me. “You must be wondering why I dropped by like this. I was in Belfast, and I had time on my hands, and I–”

  Someone rapped the door knocker and Bridget went to answer it. A man came in. He wore a drab olive suit and a perfectly knotted necktie with red and white diagonal stripes. His white shirt was pressed to the crisp and the cuffs were monogrammed in Irish script. They came into the kitchen and Bridget introduced him to me. His name was Martin McGovern.

  Bridget said, “Declan, I’ll be right back. I have to get something in my room.”

  Martin McGovern extended his hand and said, “It is nice to meet you, Declan.”

  “My name isn’t–”

  “Bridget is a bit overwhelmed by your visit.” Martin patted my shoulder in a friendly way. “She needs to rest now. Let’s go into the parlor where we can sit and talk for a time. We need to discuss a few things.”

  Discuss a few things? I followed him into the parlor. Martin unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in a chair. I sat, too. I got the impression that he was waiting for me to speak, so I did.

  “I showed up unannounced and it looks as though I made a mistake,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “And yet she called you.”

  “Bridget is quite emotional at this time,” Martin said. “She is not at all well, I regret to say. Bridget asked me to tell you that she is dying of cancer.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry to hear the bad news.”

  “The doctors give her a week to live, maybe two.” He took off his glasses and dabbed his eyes with a hankie. “She wants to die at home.” Martin set his glasses on an end table. “I have known Bridget for many years. We belong to the same parish. I serve as a deacon. She is a Eucharistic minister. We are dear friends.” He put his glasses back on. “Bridget loved your mother, and she believes that your visit is a gift from God.”

  “A gift from God?” I said.

  “She got to meet you before she died.”

  I thought about my mother and what Aunt Bridget meant to her.

  “When my mother was a girl in Belfast, Bridget was good to her,” I said. “As you now know, Bridget O’Hanlon was my mother’s aunt.”

  “You referred to your mother in the past tense.”

  “She died when I was seven,” I said. “I came into some money a while ago, quite a large amount actually, and I wanted to give some to Bridget.”

  Martin smiled and crossed his legs.

  I continued. “That’s why I visited today, to see if I could help her financially. I also wanted to meet her. She was so kind to my mother.” I made eye contact with Martin. “I’m glad she has a good man looking out for her.”

  “We look out for each other.” Martin deflected the compliment with a flip of his hand. “The money won’t help her much at this stage. As the saying goes, you can’t take it with you.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  We silently sat in the parlor, and the silence started to get awkward. I took the cue and stood up.

  “I should be getting along, Martin. I’ve imposed long enough.” I looked at Bridget’s room, hoping to see her one more time. “I’d like to say goodbye to Bridget, but I probably shouldn’t bother her again.”

  “She is very tired.”

  “Please tell her I said goodbye.” I went to the door with Martin. I stopped and faced him. “I’d like to pay for Bridget’s funeral, the whole affair. I want to pay for it.”

  “Why?” Martin asked, stepping back.

  “For my mother,” I said. “She would have liked that we paid for it.” I gave Martin my number, which he typed into his cell phone. “Please call me when the time comes.”

  “This is generous of you.” He tucked the phone into his jacket pocket. “And because of your generosity, Tossy will inherit that much more.”

  “Who’s Tossy?” I asked.

  “Tossy is Bridget’s godson,” Martin said. “She left her belongings to him. You remind me a bit of Tossy. He is a good man in an unrefined way.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, I think.”

  “It is a compliment. Too many smoothies make a mess of the world these days.” He stuck o
ut his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise, Martin.” We shook hands.

  I was just about to leave when Bridget came out of her bedroom.

  “Hold on, Declan.” She reached up and looped a brown cloth necklace with two brown patches over my head and said, “These are the Carmelite scapulars. I have sewn a gold Saint Brigit’s Cross to it as an added defense. Wear it for protection. The Lord will never let you down.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and tucked the necklace into my shirt.

  The Carmelite scapulars, Catholic dog tags. If you are wearing them when you die, you bypass purgatory and go straight to heaven. I hoped this was true, but I also hoped I wouldn’t find out anytime soon.

  Chapter Eleven

  I.

  O’Byrne sat in the last pew of the Clonard Monastery with his body angled so he could see the doors. He thought about Liam McGrew and Dermot Sparhawk and the IRA Army Council. He thought about the third man, the assassin who failed to kill Sparhawk in Boston. Who was this third man and who hired him? O’Byrne had suspected that Liam had hired him, but now he wasn’t so sure. Liam seemed genuinely surprised when O’Byrne told him about the third man. Maybe the Army Council contracted the hit. He thought about Dermot Sparhawk again.

  O’Byrne had sent a message to Sparhawk, requesting a meeting with him here at the Clonard Monastery at this very time. Would Sparhawk show up? And what if he didn’t? Would it suggest that he went back to Boston, or would it suggest that he was dead? O’Byrne’s torment ended when one of the monastery doors opened and Sparhawk walked in. He sat next to O’Byrne in the same pew.

  “This place has more chambers than a nautilus shell,” Sparhawk quipped.

  “It’s a sacred haven, the Clonard, the only place I find peace these days.”

  “No one will bother you in here, that’s for sure,” Sparhawk said.