Black Diamond

by John F. Dobbyn

  “Sergeant, Justin Clifford again. Excellent response. Did your officer learn anything.”

  “I have him on the radio now, Mr. Clifford. The man said he’d lost his way and he was just resting. He’d fallen asleep. We could take him in and hold him for loitering.”

  “No, no, Sergeant. No need. I’ve been in that position myself. May I ask if he had identification?”

  “Yes. He’s not from the north shore. Sean Flannery. He’s from South Boston.”

  I decided to push the sergeant’s earnest desire to please a wealthy resident, possibly a powerful one, one more notch.

  “I know South Boston well. Is there an address?”

  “Yes. One eighty four B Street. Are you sure you wouldn’t like us to—”

  “No, Sergeant. It’s probably as he says. Our roads are confusing. If there was a problem, I’m sure he’s impressed with the efficiency of our Beverly police.”

  That encounter with the local constabulary spooked our boy off station. It was my turn to make an attempt at following him. I’m no Tom Burns, and on dark streets in a neighborhood with zero traffic at that hour, I worried about being spotted. That could tip the kidnapper to the fact that Colleen had broken silence. What that could lead to in terms of Erin I couldn’t risk.

  I noticed that the driver cruised south slowly while he made a cell phone call. When he closed the cell phone, he picked up speed, and still headed south toward Boston. I figured he’d been recalled by whoever was pulling his strings. That was probably the spider at the center of the web.

  I decided to exploit my one advantage—knowledge of every street and alley north of the tunnel. I put my Corvette in overdrive and took streets Mr. Flannery had never heard of to beat him to the tunnel. I parked well before and to the side of the line of toll booths. When he showed up, I swung into line a couple of cars behind him. Even I could safely follow him on the heavily trafficked, well-lit streets of Boston.

  We played bumper cars with the late rush hour traffic on Atlantic Avenue until he turned onto Summer Street and cruised into the bowels of South Boston. He was on his turf now. He could navigate traffic on instinct and be alert to any inexperienced tracker on his tail. My comfort level dropped a notch.

  Much as I needed to know whom he was reporting to, I seriously considered pulling over, when my cell phone vibrated against my ribs. Mr. Devlin reported that Tom Burns had tailed his subject to an Irish pub called Failte on C Street in South Boston.

  That made it easier. On a hopeful hunch that my subject was heading for the same spot, I took a more round-about course to the pub. I cruised slowly, and within a block of the pub, I spotted the Ford Taurus parked on C street. I pulled in and parked a few spaces behind the Taurus.

  Now what? I got the shivers every time I thought of precious little Erin in the hands of these thugs. My overwhelming desire was to call a couple of off-duty Boston cops who owed me favors and blow through the doors of that pub like Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan Earp. Simplistic and satisfying as that urge was, it was also the straightest path to harm for Erin. That chilled the desire.

  I called Colleen’s number to get a cautious update. She had sense enough to remain as cold and distanced as she had when I visited that morning in case anyone was tuned in.

  I asked if she’d heard from her father. She translated the question into what I was really asking, since her father had passed away ten years ago.

  “No.”

  “Okay. Let me know if he calls. I’d like to speak to him about Danny.”

  “All right.”

  “Try to get some sleep. I have to do some work on a case that came in today, but if I get time, I’ll call tomorrow.”

  I hoped she’d caught my meaning about the “case.” I’d have forfeited my bar membership to be able to give her more hope, but you can’t give what you haven’t got.

  On the notion that any action still seemed better than inaction, I made a call to a former client. Binney O’Toole was, by any measure, a piece of work. He was five foot two from his upturned shoes to the top of his cap, with a nose that glowed in the dark. If you sent to central casting for the consummate red-faced pub crawler, they’d have pulled Binney out of a bar and sent him over. He immigrated from the old sod at the age of twelve, and spent the next fifty years perfecting his Irish accent. He also had the useful credential of being the clearinghouse for South Boston gossip.

  As memory served, the offer of a taste of Tullamore Dew, one of Ireland’s finest distilled nectars, would open the vault to the hidden scandals of anyone who had lived in Southie since World War I. For an offer to split the entire ambrosial contents of one of those green porcelain jugs, Binney would have given condemning testimony against his grandmother. On those terms, I phoned and invited him to join me at the Failte Pub.

  Binney was practically tap dancing when he came through the door. I had dipped into the jogging wardrobe I keep in the car to change from a suit coat to a bulky dark sweater with a Red Sox cap pulled down to my eyebrows. Nevertheless, Binney’s instinct for “a wee drop” led him unerringly to the dark booth I had chosen at the far end of the pub.

  “Michael, me lad. What a grand thing it is to see you.”

  His fidgety, sweaty little hand came up for a brief shake, while his watery eyes scanned the table for a glimpse of the promised Dew. I waived to the waitress who had the familiar green jug with two shot glasses ready to deliver. When she came within sight, the smile of anticipation on Binney’s roundish face would rival that of any child on Christmas morning.

  I pulled the corked knob and poured us each a tall shot. By the time I raised the glass to my lips for a toast to the muse of Irish whiskey makers, Binney was wiping his lips and looking expectantly at the jug for a second shot. In the words of an old Irish drinking song, I “filled him up a full glass once again.”

  I gave him a third to lubricate his memory and his tongue and got down to business. I leaned close to Binney’s ear, and he followed suit, taking careful note that I was not tilting the jug for a fourth.

  “Binney, my man, whatsay to a bit of information? Is there anyone in this kingdom of South Boston that you do not know?”

  “If there is, he’s a tourist.” A proud and mellowed grin rested on his lips.

  “Then tell me about Vince Scully.”

  He bounced back as if I had jabbed him in the ribs.

  “Oh shite, Mikey. Not that one. You want to keep your distance from that one.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Binney. Why?”

  “Sure I want to live to see the sun come up. I’ve nothin’ to say on that one.”

  I slowly reached for the green porcelain knob with the cork and silently sealed the bottle. I had Binney’s rapt attention.

  “That’s unfortunate. I thought we might enjoy each other’s fine company down to the last drop.”

  Poor Binney’s entire body deflated. With each squeak of the cork, his countenance bespoke the wake of his last friend on earth.

  “Ah, Mikey. You’ve a cold, black heart, and that’s the truth.” His fidgety little fingers drummed on the table while his eyes never left the jug. I felt heartless myself, but one thought of Erin, and I got over it.

  “I’ll tell you this, Binney. You have my word. What you say stays at this table. No one knows me here, and no one can hear us. Give me a reason to pull this cork.”

  He put his head in his hand and wrestled with the decision. When he spoke, it was so softly I could barely hear him.

  “That’s himself at the bar. The tall thin one with the gray sweater.”

  He nodded at the bottle to urge a reopening. I took a grip of the nob to encourage his optimism.

  “Who is he, Binney?”

  “Ah, shite, Mikey. You’ll be the death me.”

  I twisted the cork half off. And stopped. He was almost in tears, but he leaned so close to my ear I could smell the whiskey he’d had for breakfast.

  “He works for Paddy Boyle. They say he’s his number one m
an.”

  “You’re getting close. Who’s Paddy Boyle?”

  “Oh for the love of the saints, do I have to say it? He’s the king of South Boston.”

  “Are you talking Irish Mafia?”

  “Put it as you wish. There’s not a politician elected in this ward without the nod from Paddy Boyle. And I daresay, not a family in Southie whose vote Paddy can’t deliver.”

  “Out of fear?”

  “Out of love and respect. And gratitude. If there’s a family in Southie he hasn’t helped with a word to a judge for a kid, with a delivery of groceries when the old man drank away the paycheck, with a boost for college money when it wasn’t there—”

  “What is he, Saint Robin Hood?”

  The eyes darted right and left like little blinking lights before he spoke.

  “Well now, that’s one side of it. The other side, I’m only repeatin’, there are those who say there’s not a criminal act in Southie that doesn’t put more than a penny in Boyle’s pocket. And that one. Vince Scully. He’d as soon cut your throat as look at you. You don’t know what you’re dealin’ with here.”

  “I’m learning, Binney. I’m learning. How about Sean Flannery?”

  The pump had been primed. “He’s part of the same mob. No better than Scully. He was here a bit ago, but he left.”

  I thanked God that I’d asked Tom Burns to put a man outside of Colleen’s house. I had one last question. “Where do I find Boyle?”

  He looked at me as if I’d turned purple.

  “Did you hear nothin’ I’ve said? Have you lost the few brains God gave you?”

  I finished the shot of the Dew I’d been nursing and said into his ear, “We do what we have to do. Right now, you have to say one more word, and this fine bottle is yours. You’ll take it and leave. No one the wiser. Where do I find Boyle?”

  He leaned close enough to kiss my ear.

  “For better or worse, here it is, Mikey. You’re sittin’ next to it. That door to your left leads to Boyle’s office, not that I’ve been inside of it.”

  When I slid the shiny green jug across the table into Binney’s quivering two hand grip, he breathed a sigh of fulfillment.

  “You’ve earned it, Binney. Thank you.”

  He pulled his cap down to eye level and darted glances left and right.

  “And I’d say you’re welcome, Mikey. But we may both regret this night till our dying day, if we should live that long.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I was back sitting in my car outside of the Failte Pub, stymied for a next move, when my cell phone buzzed. I could tell from the tightness in Mr. Devlin’s voice that what was coming would not make my night.

  “Colleen called, Michael. They called her. They’ve shaken her up pretty badly.”

  “What did they say about Erin?”

  “They were pretty rough. They threatened things—”

  “Dammit! That could be my fault. I should never have called the Beverly police.”

  “Hang on, Michael. There’s good news here too. At least we know Erin’s still alive.”

  “Did Colleen talk to her?”

  “Yes. That was part of the threat. They let Colleen hear her crying.”

  It took every ounce of restraint I could muster to stay in that seat. It was only possible because I had no idea of what direction to go.

  “What else did they say?”

  “They had a demand. Ten thousand dollars.”

  That jarred me from several different directions.

  “How do they want it delivered?”

  “They said they’d call tomorrow morning at eleven thirty with instructions.”

  I sat there with the phone in my lap, trying to square the inconsistencies that were banging off the walls of my mind.

  I put the phone back to my ear when I heard Mr. Devlin’s voice.

  “What are you thinking, Michael?”

  “Probably the same as you. It doesn’t make sense. It can’t be worth the risk of kidnapping to these thugs for ten thousand dollars.”

  “Let’s think about it, Michael. Assuming it’s not for the money, why make the demand?”

  “I still think it’s tied to that race that killed Danny. I’m sure they didn’t plan on a murder charge. They may have a tiger by the tail. They’ve got Erin and don’t know how to end it. If they hurt her, they’ll be tracked down if it takes forever. If they can make it look like a kidnapping for money, it doesn’t tie it to anyone involved in the race. They can return her alive, and it all blows over.”

  “That was my thought. They picked an amount low enough so they’d be sure Colleen could raise it.”

  “Did they say anything else?”

  “They repeated the warning about going to the police.”

  “That means they still don’t know we’re in the game with her.”

  “Probably not. Colleen called on the prepaid phone you gave her.”

  “That could give us a free hand for the time being.”

  “Stay calm, Michael. Right now there are no safe moves.”

  “I’m trying. All I know now is that I’ll be at Colleen’s house tomorrow morning. She may need help with the ten thousand.”

  I dropped the phone onto the seat beside me and tried to separate panic from rationality. At some point, my mind leapt ahead to a conclusion. I knew to a certainty what I was going to do, but I had to backfill with logical justification, or I knew I’d carry the boulder of guilt for Erin’s harm for the rest of my days.

  I built from the ground up. First, this was no gang of loose canons looking for a ten thousand dollar score. The price was not worth the risk. That meant there was more to it. Second, the coincidence of that fixed race on the same day Erin was taken was too much to ignore. Third, If Binney O’Toole was to be believed, the tie-in to Vince Scully and Sean Flannery as stakeouts laid the whole rotten business at the door of Paddy Boyle. Fourth, every minute that little girl spent in their grip could be both dangerous and damaging. They were concerned about Colleen’s talking to the police. If I could convince them that my involvement would not lead to the police, maybe I could broker a deal that would cut the time in getting Erin back to her mother.

  It was that last part that drove the decision. I took another minute of chilling in the car just to quell the flashes of emotion that electrified my entire nervous system when I thought of Erin crying. When I finally felt stone cold, I laid the sweater and cap on the seat, put on the suit coat and tie, and walked back into the Failte Pub.

  I took as deliberate and unhurried a pace as I could manage to the middle of the bar. I stood at the bar immediately to the right of Vince Scully. He gave me a bored glance and turned back to his beer.

  I summoned the bartender over close before speaking.

  “I want to see Mr. Boyle.”

  The bartender and Scully both looked more closely at the only one in the pub in a suit and tie before the bartender spoke.

  “I don’t remember Mr. Boyle sayin’ he wanted to see you. Who are ya?”

  I took a Devlin & Knight business card out of my pocket. I wrote two words on the back of it and handed it to him. I looked him dead in the eye and lowered my voice.

  “Tell him it’s about ten thousand dollars that’s going to walk out that door in two minutes flat.”

  The sardonic look on the bartender’s face faded. He picked up the phone. He said a few words and looked toward the back of the pub. I could feel the cold eyes of Vince Scully taking a new interest.

  The door that Binney said led to Boyle’s office swung open. A fat, fiftyish, splay-footed form filled the opening. A halo of frizzy, salt-and-pepper hair framed his otherwise bald head. He was tieless in an open suit coat that probably looked better on the mannequin.

  He scanned the five or six men at the bar, and locked onto me. I watched him waddle his way down the bar until he was standing behind Scully. He looked at me, but he spoke to Scully.

  “Who might this be, Scully? And what makes him th
ink I owe him ten thousand dollars?”

  Scully shrugged. I kept the voice level low.

  “You got the message wrong, Mr. Boyle. I’m here to give you ten thousand dollars before I leave this place.”

  My heart would have leapt at any glint of uptake in Boyle’s face, but there was none. It apparently needed more explanation. At least I had raised his interest.

  “Would you look at this, Scully? He wants to give me ten thousand dollars just like that, if you please. Let’s not keep the man waiting.”

  He turned on his heels and marched back into his office. I took it as an invitation to follow. I could feel Scully following close behind.

  Boyle planted himself in a chair behind an oversized desk in a room about fifteen feet square. He pulled open a drawer and plunked his feet on it. I stood at the front of the desk. My shadow, Scully, leaned against the wall behind me beside the door.

  I led from my strongest suit. “Mr. Boyle, I have a check made out to cash for ten thousand dollars. Consider it a delivery made free and clear.”

  “Free and clear is it, Boyo. Do you know who I am?”

  Tough question. How informed I should seem was a touchy issue. When in doubt, hedge.

  “Word has it you’re a man of importance, Mr. Boyle.”

  He looked at Scully and broke into a grin.

  “A man of importance, Scully. What do you think of that?”

  Scully followed suit with a grin and a nod. Neither of us knew where this little scene was going until Boyle slammed the drawer shut with a kick and stood up. The volume went up ten decibels.

  “Then take your head out of your arse, you little shyster. I learned one thing on the way up. No one ever gives me a damn dime without expecting twenty cents change. The question is what do you want from me? And the first word of bullshit I hear, Mr. Scully throws you out on your arse.”

  One thing was clear. Boyle enjoyed his own dramatics. The test was not to flinch. I kept the tone low. He was still holding my business card in his hand. I nodded to it.