Irish Tweed

by Andrew M. Greeley

  The phone ran again.

  “Dermot Coyne.”

  The sound of someone clearing his throat.

  “I’m Finnton Burke, Mr. Coyne. I’m the Uncle of Finnbar Burke whom you were kind enough to visit in, ah, hospital last night. We’re very grateful for your, ah, kindness.”

  “Finnbar is a fine young man, desperate on the links, of course.”

  A dry laugh.

  “As you might imagine his family is greatly concerned about this seemingly unprovoked attack. We would like to think that it was merely random violence, but we are, ah, unsure. It has been suggested to us that it might be a matter you and your, ah, wife could assist us in . . . Our family firm does not particularly like public attention. We are very, ah, conservative and, ah, cautious.”

  “We are very fond of Finnbar,” I said carefully.

  “I am a lawyer and Vice President of the American firm as well as a director of the mother firm in Cork City.”

  “Would it be convenient for you to visit us this morning? My wife and I will both be available. Say half ten?”

  Note that I said my wife and not me wife.

  “That would be, ah, capital, Mr. Coyne.”

  “I should mention that we employ Ms. Julie Crean in our family. She may be in the house at that time, if she isn’t in class at DePaul.”

  “Ah, yes, splendid young woman. We, ah, encountered her at the hospital this morning. Very intelligent. Hair like, ah, a budding wheat field . . .”

  “In the early morning sun,” I concluded the saying.

  “Then we’ll see you at half ten.”

  “Capital!”

  Nuala waited for him to hang up.

  “Typical Cork talk, pratie in his mouth.”

  “A very cautious lawyer,” I observed. “Probably his masters in Cork City are in a state of great unease.”

  “He sounds like a head usher in Church, a finicky old man.”

  Finnton Burke did indeed look like a head usher—thin, graying hair, very proper manners and clothes, perpetually uneasy—but he was neither finicky nor old. Rather he was only a few years older than I am, and handsome in a pale, sickly Irish way. He might have said that he was not long for this world. But he didn’t. Rather he sat down in our visitor’s chair, rubbed his hands together, and spoke more confidently than he had on the phone—and more tersely.

  “The Burke family was, as you may imagine, dismayed by the attack on Finnbar. We have never experienced anything like this in four generations. My cousins in Cork blame it on a violent city and are inclined to recall Finnbar from his assignment here. He is the heir to the company, the crown prince, one might say. Understandably we do not wish to lose him.”

  “I have a pretty clear idea of the kind of work your firm does,” I answered. “Surely you don’t make enemies with what is essentially an altruistic activity.”

  “We have many begrudgers in Ireland, Dermot, as I’m sure your wife would tell you.”

  “Don’t they hide under every bush.” Nuala Anne reverted to her thick Galway brogue.

  “Would you have any enemies in Chicago?” I asked. “Men or women who might have long memories of old times in Cork?”

  “The last troubles south of the Ulster border were in the early nineteen twenties—between the Free State and the Irregulars, if you know the history of the time. They cost Ireland the life of Michael Collins. Like most commercial firms in Cork City I believe we were on the side of the Free State. But that was ninety years ago . . .”

  “Time passes more quickly for revolutionaries when they’re on the scene of old battles,” me wife said, “than it does for the irredentists who are thousands of miles away.”

  “True enough, ma’am. The rebel songs persist in American pubs, long after they have lost meaning for young people at home.”

  “And meself singing them and thinking that they were songs for eejits.”

  “We don’t know of any families here from those days, though surely there were some. We would think, however, that if this were a revenge attack, they might claim credit for it.”

  “Is there any memory of someone being thrown in the river . . . what’s the River in Cork? Is it the Corrib?”

  “That’s in Galway, you eejits. In Cork it is the Lee.”

  “We have thought of that, naturally. Our company has never been the kind that throws adversaries into any river.”

  Nuala returned from the kitchen with her teapot, her soda bread, and her tea service, all from Galway, including Nuala.

  She ascertained that our guest wanted milk in his tea. She knew that I rejected such pollution of God’s great gift.

  I noted that our guest did not sample her soda bread.

  “Thank you, Ms. McGrail, I was after needing a sip of hot tea.”

  “Your family has a tradition at the Old Head Links at Kinsale?”

  “Indeed, though only young Finnbar is active there now. It is a very difficult course, but we know of no ill will in our family history associated with the links, other than the understandable fury of golfers at its challenges.”

  “The Royal Irish Yacht Club?”

  “That’s another matter. The family has a motor/sail craft moored there, which we use often and fight about. Young Finnbar’s interests, however, are on the links and not on the harbor.”

  “As I remember my history,” I said, “didn’t the Free Staters have the audacity to land their troops, equipped by the English, while Regatta week was in progress?”

  Finnton Burke permitted himself a smile.

  “ ’Tis true, though I don’t think that outside of Cork anyone remembers that . . .”

  “Galwegians have long memories,” Nuala remarked.

  “As far as you know, your family had no special role in that event.”

  “I have never heard of one, Mr. Coyne, and I would very much doubt it. We are very conservative people. Restoration has always tried to stay out of politics during our hundred and fifty years of history. We’ve had our work to keep us busy and our faith to restrain us from military involvement. We were originally a Quaker firm. While we’ve been Catholic for over a century, there’s perhaps still some of the Quaker left in us.”

  “You’re asking us to supplement the investigations of the police, this of course with the permission of the police?”

  “Commander Culhane recommended such a strategy. Begging your pardon, Ms. McGrail, we are dull folks with little in the way of mystical genes. On the other hand there is just enough superstition among us to want to make sure that we’ve excluded ancient curses.”

  “I have been worried about our Julie and young Finnbar. I don’t think there are any ancient curses or Civil War feuds, but I do think there is evil, plain old unmystical evil, at work. We’ll try to sort it out for you. But you should have more confidence in Commander Culhane’s detective than in us.”

  “Yet didn’t your man say to me that you’ve never failed to solve a mystery.”

  “John Culhane is a Cork man like yourself—as I’m sure he told you, Finnton Burke—and I think when he visited the old country, he may have swallowed the Blarney stone.”

  We made arrangements to visit their offices and talk with the staff. It was possible that Finnbar’s parents would be flying over. They would certainly want to see us too.

  “Your brother is the head of the firm?” Nuala asked.

  “He is, Ms. McGrail, though you’d hardly notice. He is not one of your American CEOs.”

  “I hope they would like our Julie?”

  He smiled broadly for the first time.

  “My sister-in-law would consider her God’s answers to our prayers.”

  “A plausible fella,” Nuala observed when he had left. “Almost a Prot?”

  “He didn’t sample your soda bread, which no Irish Catholic would turn his back on.”

  “Cork folks are strange, aren’t they now?”

  “You don’t think it’s some blood feud.”

  “I didn’t quit
e say that, Dermot love. I said it wasn’t some ancient curse. There is evil swirling around, even in that emergency room. We’re going to have to uncover it.”

  I called Bob Hurley, the husband of my sister Cynthia. A lawyer like his wife, his field was West Side real estate.

  “Bob, my wife and I are working on a case that involves real estate on the West Side.”

  “Thinking of moving?”

  “Not yet.”

  “We’d get you a really good deal, especially now.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind . . . You know anything about a company that might be rebuilding West End Parkway?”

  “Sure, it’s a very shrewd idea. Irish firm. Used to be Abernathy and Sons. From Cork I believe. Doesn’t sound very Irish, does it?”

  “They were Quakers but became Catholics a hundred years ago.”

  “That’s outside the statute. I noticed that one of their locals got beat up yesterday. In front of the UC Downtown Center. There goes the neighborhood . . . You and the good witch of the West involved?”

  “He’s keeping company, as she would put it, with our nanny. Great golfer . . . Anyone out there have reason to hate them?”

  “Real estate everywhere these days involves a lot of hate. Great for lawyers. I haven’t heard of anything. I’ll poke around and get back to you.”

  “He wanted to sell you a house in the suburbs?” me wife asked.

  “I declined. I like it here.”

  “Even with the trouble across the street?”

  “That won’t last till Thanksgiving. I think I’ll ride the L down to Restoration Inc. and see what the people there look like.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll do my exercise and my singing and get ready for tonight. First parent-teacher conference. Herself says that she’ll get four failures.”

  “What!”

  “The poor teacher submits guideline grades to Fletcher, who then establishes permanent grades. All the anger is heaped on the teacher.”

  “So what do we do if all our kids flunk?” I asked.

  “Withdraw them from the school?”

  “They won’t want that, will they?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The offices of Restoration were a corner suite on the ninth floor of the “boutique hotel.” The transformation was proceeding slowly and carefully. The workers were men and women of considerable skill. It was neither a cheap nor a hurry-up job.

  There were four people in the office: Finnton Burke sitting behind an old table in the corner, working on an old and pokey computer; Josie Kieran, an American middle-aged accountant with an expensive wedding ring, poring over a double-entry account book; Nessa Malone, a young stenographer and receptionist from South County Dublin with a mouthful of gum and braces; and Sean McCaffery, a Yank in his middle twenties who was introduced to me as “our staff architect.” Low-key, unimportant people who would work hard for generous salaries and Christmas bonuses and not stir up any trouble.

  “Perhaps, Dermot, you could use our conference room for your interviews. I should note, my friends, that he does not work for the police, and that your answers will be held in strictest confidence. We want only to protect Finnbar from another senseless attack. Let me have a word with you first, Dermot.”

  The conference room was a card table surrounded by four hard chairs. On a second table of the same sort, a coffee and teapot, a few cups with no saucers, and a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies.

  “Finnbar is much better this morning. In good spirits and thinking clearly again, thanks be to God. Julie was leaving to go back to school and then her duties with your wife.”

  “She will be instructed to get some sleep and then return during visiting hours this evening.”

  “She will have money to take a cab? I wouldn’t want her to be in any jeopardy . . .”

  “We’re taking care of that.”

  “We didn’t set any agreement on your fee . . .”

  “We don’t take fees. Nor so-called freewill offerings.”

  “You are very generous, Dermot.”

  “My wife is very generous.”

  “The doctors are quite hopeful about Finnbar’s recovery. They’re pleased with the way the break is healing and hope to have him on crutches in a couple of days. Off the crutches and out of the cast by Christmas. No golf till spring, I fear.”

  “You have passed this information on to his parents?”

  “I have, of course. I’m sure, however, they’ll fly over here to see him. You’ll find them very interesting.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “Golden Dome four years ago, Mr. Coyne. Fooled around in restorative architecture. Bumped into himself on the golf course. Got a job. Love it. Your name is legendary at the Dome. Walked away on a middle linebacker slot and a glorious career in the NFL afterwards. Made a lot of money on the CBOT and married a beautiful and talented singer. From Dublin. His girlfriend takes care of your kids and adores your wife.”

  “That about covers it, I guess.”

  “The Holy Cross Fathers would value you more if you had gone to some swampy banana republic and came back with a permanent case of malaria, but they point with pride just the same.”

  “You wait long enough, Sean McCaffery, and your vices all become virtues. I learned a hell of a lot at the Dome, some of it even in classrooms, only it wasn’t what I would have had to learn not to flunk out. Same at Marquette . . . You have any drawings of West End Park?”

  “Thought you’d ask.”

  He opened an outsized manila folder and spread out the top drawing.

  It was astonishingly good. The old parkway looked brand new, elegant, and yet musty enough to be an 1898 reproduction.

  “You are very good, Sean McCaffery, very good indeed. All it needs is gaslights, carriages, and top hats.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Coyne. I kind of thought it was neat too. Finnbar fils and Finnbar pere really bought into it. They’re going to get construction contracts next month. I’ll be in charge. Well, me and Finnbar, if he can get around on crutches . . . These folks are the real thing, though they act like I don’t know quite what.”

  “Head ushers at the old parish!”

  “Got it! Perfetto! Here’s the details on the first two homes. They’ll be corner mansions right on Austin Boulevard. Walking distance from the L. Inexpensive compared to other such houses in the metropolitan area . . . You want to put down an advance payment? I can get it for you wholesale.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll have to show you my house sometime.”

  “That’s what Finnbar says.”

  “You work under severe constraints here?”

  “No way. Uncle Finnton pretends to be an old fogey. All he wants is quality work—or what he thinks is quality work. He doesn’t peer over our shoulders. He sends my work to Cork and they go ape over it. Easiest job in the world. Maybe the most fun. I’ll miss himself, though. That blond is a distraction, but those things are inevitable, I guess. She’ll be good for Finnbar?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s what Uncle Finnton says. She sure is pretty. Can I have dibs on your next nanny?”

  “Who would want to throw Finnbar into the Chicago River?”

  “Business rivals from Ireland trying to break into the American market, real estate crooks out on the West Side, maybe River Forest types not wanting the competition, IRA dissidents in nursing homes.”

  He shrugged.

  “The cops,” I said, “are probably thinking the same things. Any talk here about these possibilities?”

  “Uncle Finnton talks to Cork every day from the phone on his desk. Neither side has any suspicions. Me, I prefer Irish mafia, but I’m a romantic.”

  On the L platform I had called my friend Bernie, who has some friends who have friends, if you take my meaning.

  “Hey, Dermot, how ya doin.’ ”

  “Breathing in and out. Yourself?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Your wife and kids?”


  “Flourishing. Yours?”

  “Can’t complain. Wouldn’t do any good if I could.”

  “You read about the Irish immigrant kid that got himself thrown in the river?”

  “Dumb cops almost drowned him and the babes jumped in to help him.”

  “The wife and I are interested in helping him out. There’s some West Side real estate involved. The kid and his company are foreigners, innocents. I wondered if you’d have heard anything . . .”

  “I’m with you all the way, Dermot. There are some real assholes out here, same guys that blockbusted the old West Side. The friends of my friends won’t have anything to do with them. They won’t take ’em out, but sometimes they send signals, you know. Some of these assholes are so dumb that they don’t get the signals, know what I mean?”

  Bernie and I went to grammar school and high school together. I used to sit in the basement with his grandfather and watch the Bears games on giant screens. I did a big favor for the old man once, so he owes me. Bernie does too. I never hear any complaints that I’m picking up too many markers.

  “Yeah, too many people never get the signals these days, even in the church.”

  I was thinking of the crazies across the street in St. Joe’s.

  “Tell me about it, Dermot. Tell me about it. Hey, you want me to ask my friends to check with their friends and see if they know what went down? They don’t like anybody messing around. Attracts attention, know what I mean?”

  Like everyone else in their line of work, Bernie was heavily influenced by The Sopranos. Fiction shaping the style of fact.

  Actually, Bernie was mostly straight—maybe completely straight. He had to maintain the illusion that he wasn’t. He kept up our friendship because you could never tell when some of the friends of his friends wanted to have a channel into the Archdiocese.

  “Yeah!”

  If that should occur, I’d have to decide what to do. He did know, however, that I was, as he said, “painfully straight.”

  “Hey, Dermot, tell you what I’ll do. I’ll find out whatever I can and be back to you by the close of business today. My best to the lovely songbird.”

  “And to Rita and the kids.”