The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

by Tom MacDonald

  “Clean it up, Chuckie,” Salty said. “And get Slattery to help.”

  §

  O’Byrne walked along the Falls Road, grateful for the air that cleansed the scent of cordite from his nostrils. He hoped he never smelled it again, or witnessed a man’s face blown off again, or heard footsteps following him again. He was done. He looked to the Ulster sky and said, “It’s over, Kathleen.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I.

  The flight touched down in Boston at six in the evening. Cam and I walked down the ramp and into the terminal. When we reached US Customs, an agent came up to us. Cam showed her his badge. She glanced at it but paid it little mind. She looked at her phone and then at me.

  “Dermot Sparhawk?” she asked

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “May I see your passport?”

  I gave her my passport. She examined it, flipped it over a couple of times, handed it back and told me to follow her. Cam walked with me. She escorted us to a gate and told us to go through, never checking the items we were carrying.

  She said, “The US Attorney’s Office called Customs today and asked us to expedite your reentry into the country. Consider yourself expedited, Mister Sparhawk.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Thank Maddy Savitz,” she said, and went back to her post.

  On the other side of the gate I was greeted by Rat T. Kennedy, the man who killed Phillip Webb on the Northern Avenue Bridge. I introduced Rat to Cam. They looked at each other like pit bulls. I thought I saw Rat T.’s hair bristle. Cam said he’d talk to me later and left for the cabstand. Rat T. told me to follow him.

  Lugging the only bag I had taken with me on the trip, along with a canister of cash, I followed Rat T. to an SUV that was idling in the pickup area. Another man, who also looked like he could do some business with a gun, was leaning against the side of the vehicle. He opened the rear door for me and shut it once I got in. Rat T. hopped into the passenger seat. The other man drove us out of the airport. When we hit the Expressway, Rat T. said to the driver, “Greenburg’s Nightspot, Columbus Ave.” The driver nodded once. That was all the instruction he needed.

  We stopped in front of Greenburg’s. Rat T. jumped out, looked up and down Columbus Ave, and opened the door for me. It was the first time in my life I felt like a big shot. We walked to the club’s entrance, and that’s where he stopped.

  “This is as far as I go. I’ll keep watch out here,” He jutted his jaw in a hard guy’s salute. “I heard you did some nice work for Kenny. I’ll be seeing you around.”

  “Thanks for saving my ass on the bridge.” I said to him.

  Rat T. nodded once and stood guard like a sentry.

  I went into Greenburg’s to meet Kenny Bowen, but he hadn’t arrived yet. Ruth Greenburg, the club’s owner, took me to a table. She smelled of springtime lilacs after a long cold winter, a smell good enough to bottle.

  “You’re looking good tonight, Dermot,” she said, throwing me off guard. I was surprised that she remembered my name. I was even more surprised that she thought I looked good.

  “So do you,” I said in a feeble attempt to be suave. She laughed at me. I finally got a laugh.

  Ruth’s dark eyes mesmerized me. Her eyelids opened and closed like a gateway to something private, and she was the gatekeeper. Nobody got in without her say-so. Her figure was the stuff of Marvel Comics, almost a caricature in dimension, with a svelte waistline, exaggerated hips, and shapely breasts that defined her blouse. But it was her locomotion more than her proportions that drew the stares, the way she moved her parts. Ruth snapped me out of my daze when she said, “I know you don’t drink liquor. I recommend the Yemen Arabian Mocha coffee, just brewed.”

  “I’ll have a pot.”

  The house pianist, Zack Sanders, came into the room dressed in a black tuxedo. He sat on a padded bench and settled himself at the Steinway grand. After a few practice scales, he played one of those swing tunes that everyone knows but no one can name. A waitress delivered the coffee. I opened a package of Effie’s Oatcakes to go with it. Victory is not only sweet, but sweet to savor. Red Auerbach would light a cigar, the Beatles would take a bow, Orville Wright would fly a figure eight, and I ate Effie’s Oatcakes. I was tapping my toe to the beat of the song when Kenny Bowen came in and sat next to me.

  “Your Belfast ploy succeeded,” he said.

  “I had plenty of support.” I handed him the canister. “I paid my Irish friend a full ten percent of that sheet.”

  “I’m amazed at your resources and your generosity.” After Kenny examined the contents of the tube, he took a leather portfolio from his briefcase and opened it on the table. Inside the portfolio were gilded-edged checks. With theatrical flair he uncapped a fountain pen, filled in a check, tore it out, blew on the ink, and handed it to me, saying, “Nice work, Dermot.”

  “Thanks.” I looked at the amount. “This can’t be right.”

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “The amount is wrong. I recovered a hundred and twenty-eight $100,000 bills, which comes to $12.9 million.” I was no math whiz, but ten percent of that number is roughly $1.3 million. “This check is for more than twenty million.”

  “The money you recovered was insured at market value, not face value. Each bill is worth $1.6 million. The four sheets are worth roughly $205 million. Do the math, I paid you ten percent.”

  “Market value?”

  “What’s your next move, a waterfront beach house down the Cape? A mountain villa in the Berkshires?”

  What would I do down the Cape, watch waves roll in? Listen to seagulls? I’d rather dodge bullets in the projects.

  “Montserrat,” I said. “I owe an Irishman some money.”

  §

  The next day I deposited the check. My hand shook as I handed it to the bank teller. She looked at the check and then at me.

  “I know,” I said. “I can’t believe it either.”

  Back in Charlestown I bought the Boston newspapers and went to the Grasshopper Cafe for breakfast. After I finished my first cup of coffee I looked at the Herald. The headline said: “Billionaire Slain in Weston Mansion.” The subhead read: “Two Men Shot in Head.” Below the headline was a picture of Halloran’s estate, along with pictures of Halloran and Kloosmann. Kloosmann’s photo was a mugshot.

  The article speculated that Halloran might have been involved in the drug trade and other illegal ventures. Why else would he be killed gangland style? The story went on to say that Karl Kloosmann, the second victim, had a lengthy criminal record in Ohio, a fact that bolstered the paper’s premise that Halloran had engaged in illicit activities. Neither paper mentioned Belfast or the Irish Republican Army or the World’s Fair of Money.

  “Halloran and Kloosmann got their Irish comeuppance,” I muttered.

  “What was that?” the waitress asked. “Irish coffee?”

  “Just talking to myself, Lynne,” I said.

  That evening I drove to Dorchester to conclude some unfinished business with a feisty cocktail waitress. I parked in front of the Blarney Stone and went inside and found Delia waiting on a table. When I approached her, she rolled her eyes.

  “I thought I saw the last of you.” She didn’t sound angry when she said it. “What now, another twenty questions?”

  “No more questions.” I handed her an envelope. “Thanks for the help.”

  Inside the envelope was a check for five hundred thousand dollars. The information Delia provided proved to be pivotal in solving the case. Without it I never would have known about the Belfast connection, and for that she deserved to be rewarded.

  “Hey, Dermot,” Delia said, holding the envelope in her hand. “My friend Angel is interested in you.”

  “Who is Angel?”

  “The bartender at Caffé Bella.” She winked.

  I shou
ld have given her a million.

  Epilogue

  I flew into Montserrat on an island hop and rented a car at the airport. After two days of searching the Emerald Isle of the Caribbean, I located O’Byrne at a waterfront cottage in the town of Hell’s Gate. Finding O’Byrne was no great feat. Fewer than six thousand people inhabited Montserrat, a number that wouldn’t fill the bleachers at Fenway Park.

  I pulled into a short driveway that was paved with crushed oyster shells and knocked on the screen door of a pink stucco house. The door rattled but no one answered. I went around back and found O’Byrne lazing in a chaise lounge. He was ten feet from the shoreline holding a fishing rod. A canvas sailor’s cap covered his bald head. Sunburnt skin flaked on his neck, and dry sea salt speckled his forearms.

  “Catch anything?” I asked.

  “For the love of Pete.” O’Byrne got off the chaise. “It’s good to see you, Dermot, better than you know. What brings you to nature’s paradise, certainly not the bright lights and the action?”

  “I have news from Boston.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned,” I said, staring at the green ocean. “Halloran and Kloosmann are dead, both shot in the head point-blank.”

  “Mr. H and K,” O’Byrne said. “I never met Mr. H.”

  “You didn’t miss much.”

  “I dealt with K, God rest his soul.” O’Byrne looked to the water. “I didn’t like him very much, but he treated me fairly enough, I suppose. No doubt the lads in Belfast had a hand in this.”

  “The police have no leads.”

  “I don’t suppose they ever will.” O’Byrne picked up a flat stone and skimmed it on the water’s surface. “I was wondering about something whilst sitting here wetting a line. Why did Liam warn our mutual friend in Charlestown about Tullyverry? Why did he warn Jackie, but not me? What was so special about Jackie that Liam tipped him off a week ahead of time?”

  “I can venture a guess, but it’s only a guess,” I said.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Money,” I said. “I’m guessing that Jackie was the middleman between Liam and Halloran. And if Jackie was the middleman, Liam would need him alive and out of jail to conduct business.”

  “A middleman, you say.”

  “Jackie linked Liam to Halloran’s lucrative thefts,” I said. “I can’t see any other reason for Liam to warn Jackie, except money, but it’s only a guess.”

  “And a good guess it is, I’m sad to say.” O’Byrne actually looked sad. “Everything with Liam was money.”

  “Speaking of which, I owe you something.”

  “You don’t owe me a blessed thing.” He reeled in the line and set the rod on the sand. “I have my freedom. I’ve gone to confession. Kathleen and Bridie begged me to confess my sins and now I have. Thanks to you and Bridie, I have a new start.”

  “Who’s Bridie?”

  “My godmother,” he said, “and a saint she was.”

  “I wish I had the chance to meet her.” I handed O’Byrne an envelope with a check for five million dollars inside. “Open it later.”

  He tossed it on the chaise lounge.

  “The water is tepid down here, nothing like the icy currents of the Irish Sea. Take a dip, will you?” He smiled at me with sunshine on his face. “Look at me, wearing Bermuda shorts and a tank top. I’ve never worn shorts in my life.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” I said.

  O’Byrne doffed his hat and waded into the Caribbean. I followed him into the turquoise deep. We were up to our necks in it, twenty yards off shore, treading water and letting the soft whitecaps slap our face. After a time, probably seconds before our fingers pruned, we splashed toward the beach. We stood ankle deep in seawater, glistening in salty residue and basking in a spirit of unspoken joy, and then we stared at each other.

  “I cannot believe it,” O’Byrne said.

  “Neither can I.”

  I looked at the Carmelite scapulars around O’Byrne’s neck. They were exactly like the ones around my neck. Everything made sense.

  “Tossy,” I said.

  “Aye, ’tis.”

  Photo by Maribeth McKenzie MacDonald

  Tom MacDonald has Boston in his blood. Born, raised, and living in the Boston area, Tom knows of what he writes. As Director of Social Ministries at St. Mary-St. Catherine of Siena Parish in Charlestown, he brings his real-life work to the pages of The Charlestown Connection, Beyond The Bridge, and now in his newest installment of the Sparhawk series, The Revenge of Liam McGrew.

  Tom has a BA in sociology from Stonehill College, an MBA from Boston College, and an MFA from /the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast Writing Seminars.

  www.tommacdonaldbooks.com