Black Diamond

by John F. Dobbyn

  The ball was squarely in my court, and I couldn’t afford to whiff on it.

  “Mr. Coyne, I’m going to tell you something I swore I wouldn’t divulge to anyone. Last night the rules changed.”

  I poured across the table everything I knew about the kidnapping of Erin and finished with the final word of her death. His eyes were riveted on mine. They were cold as stone when I began. By the time I finished, they reflected the empathy for Erin and Colleen he was sharing with the two of us.

  “I’m going to Dublin tonight. At least I can try to bring her body back for burial before I break it to Colleen.”

  Billy looked over at Mr. Devlin. Mr. D. nodded and put his seal on everything I’d said.

  “So what do you want from me, kid?”

  I knew I’d graduated from the “kid” ranks with my senior partner, but not quite yet with Billy Coyne. No matter. He sounded ready to deal as long as Mr. D. backed me up.

  “Mr. Coyne, the indictment of Hector Vasquez is pure bullshit. Forgive the term in this fine restaurant. You have a shoestring for evidence, and your shock and dismay at the fixing of a race at old Suffering Downs was an Academy Award performance. I’m not criticizing you. Can we just admit that you and the D.A. have bigger fish to fry? You want Hector to take a plea bargain or witness protection or whatever to flip on someone higher. I won’t insult your intelligence by making that a question.”

  Billy looked at Mr. D. He tilted his head in my direction. “Your junior partner’s picked up a bit of the old Devlin piss and vinegar, Lex. Do I have to take on two of you now?”

  “Just listen to him, Billy.”

  I was back in the spotlight.

  “I need to know whom I’m up against when I get over there, Mr. Coyne. What’s really going on?”

  Billy took a few seconds and then called the waiter for a refill of coffee all around. When he finished, Billy asked him to close the door of the private room Mr. D. had reserved. That done, he took a minute in silence before he spoke, and then it was to Mr. D.

  “I could lose one hell of a lot more than my job for this, Lex. Are you familiar with the Irish mob in South Boston?”

  “I’m from Charlestown, Billy. Same as you. I never had to deal with them.”

  “But you’ve heard of them. They’re every bit as dicey as the Italian Mafia in the North End. Would you agree?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “I’m sure you have. Then let me tell you this. The people your junior partner is asking about would make the Southie group look like Sister Agnes’s Knitting Society. That’s what I’m after.”

  “Spell it out, Billy. It’ll go no further.”

  Billy drained half of his cup of coffee before the words started to flow.

  “The IRA. The Irish Republican Army.”

  “You don’t mean they’re still—?”

  “Sit there, Lex. Keep quiet and listen. God knows I shouldn’t be saying this. So let me get it out. There were two wings to the IRA. The political wing that held talks with the English reps for years to end what they called “The Troubles.” There was also the militant wing. They were the ones trying to bomb their way into a united Ireland, north and south, separate from England. There were people in that part of the IRA who could blow up innocent civilians, women, children, whoever, to get what they wanted. I’ve heard they exploded enormous bombs in London. It’s been said they fired mortar shells at Ten Downing Street. They blew up parts of towns in Northern Ireland. Let me say this by way of understatement. They were one hell of a tough lot. I’ll leave it to your imagination.”

  “But the two sides worked out a peace over there, Billy. It’s been years.”

  “True. It goes back to the nineties, early two thousands. The political part of the IRA and an outfit called “Sinn Fein,”

  “Ourselves Alone” they call themselves. They took the peace-making approach with meetings with the Brits. Some of the meetings went on in secret, while the other wing was said to be still killing innocent people. That’s another story. Listen to me. During those years of the troubles, there were people of Irish descent in this country, in Boston, who were supporting the militants over there with money and weapons.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “It was illegal to support a terrorist group, but we’ve had a hell of a time routing them out. For the most part we couldn’t.”

  “What’s that got to do with now?”

  Billy held up a silencing hand. “Now the peace sets in. The Good Friday Agreement. There’s no so-called patriotic cause for these terrorists. There’s no place for them in the current government, north or south. So what do they do with their skills? We hear a number of them turned to pure crime. Why not? They had organization, training, and a whole country to prey on.”

  “That’s Ireland. What does that have to do with you?”

  “I’m getting there. The wealthy Irish here who sent money and guns over before to support the cause had been guilty of a serious crime. Now they’re ripe pickings for blackmail. That’s how some of the gangsters over there keep the flow of money coming from this side.”

  Mr. Devlin turned to me with one of those penetrating looks without words that said he was not delighted with my getting caught in that crossfire. I had no desire to debate it.

  “Mr. Coyne, how do you tie this to Hector Vasquez? He’s about as Irish as Pancho Villa.”

  “I don’t have all the pieces, kid. Yet. I’m sure in my bones that Paddy Boyle has had IRA connections for years. I’m also sure he’s up to his neck in the kind of racketeering that includes race fixing. How are the two connected? I’m working on that.”

  “And if you can get Hector Vasquez to flip, you think he’ll add a piece to the puzzle.”

  He looked back at Mr. D. “There you are, Lex. Cards on the table. One whiff of this gets out of this room, I lose my leads, probably my job, maybe my legs.”

  Mr. D. just shook his head while we both absorbed more than we’d anticipated.

  “Not all of them, Mr. Coyne.”

  The eyes were back on me.

  “Not all the cards.”

  “What do you want, kid?”

  “I need a name. When I get to Dublin, I need some entry point. What you’ve said will never come up, but I need to know where to start.”

  Billy sat back in the chair looking at his cup of coffee. I knew he was calculating the possible fallout on two sides of the Atlantic from mentioning one name at that table.

  “Mr. Coyne, consider this. This is the truth. Hector had nothing to do with Danny’s death. I wouldn’t have taken the case if he did. He won’t plead guilty and he won’t flip. This is not defense lawyer posturing. That’s how it is. On the other hand, if you give me a lead, I can run it down in places you can’t go. I give you my word, I’ll give you everything I get. We’re on the same side in this. Different reasons, but the same side. If you’re going to put your eggs in one basket, I’m a better basket than Hector.”

  I could feel his eyes drilling straight through to my innermost thoughts. If he were dealing with Mr. Devlin, he’d have jumped in. But this “kid” was a different gamble. I could almost hear the moment of decision when his chair came forward and he was four inches from my face.

  “Seamus McGuiness. You want to play chicken with the devil? There’s a name.”

  I looked at Mr. D. to see if he remembered that that was the name I got from Scully. I could see that it registered.

  “Who is he, Mr. Coyne?”

  “He’s a player from the old IRA days. He floats between Dublin and Boston. To do what? I’d like to know. I only know he has connections on both sides of the Atlantic.”

  “That’s a start, Mr. Coyne.”

  I started to stand up. He stopped me halfway.

  “Sit down, kid, or I’ll have your death on my conscience for the rest of my life. Dammit. I’ll give you one more piece. I’ve been working behind the scenes with the Garda Siochána. That’s the Irish national police. Superintend
ent Dermot Phelan. He’s in security and intelligence. He handles cooperation with foreign governments on terrorism and organized crime. I’ll give him a heads up you’re coming.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Coyne.”

  I held out my hand to him. He looked straight at me when he took it.

  “You’ve got us both out on a limb, kid. God help you. And God help me if you’re less of a man than your senior partner.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sun was high enough to light up the greenest countryside I’d ever seen when my Aer Lingus flight set down at the Dublin Airport, about seven miles north of the city. I breezed through immigration and customs with my one carry-on and looked for the quickest ground transportation. Julie had booked me into the Gresham Hotel on O’Connell Street in the heart of the city.

  My eyes were bleary from a second night without sleep. Sleeping on a plane is an art I’ve never mastered. Bleary though they were, I caught sight of an unexpected sign in the hands of a man in a Gresham Hotel Uniform that simply said “Michael Knight.” I blessed Julie and resolved to boost her salary.

  In less than five minutes I was in the backseat of a limousine. In less than six minutes my eyelids dropped and I was in the land of Nod.

  I was jostled out of the sweetest sleep I’d had in days by the rumbling of the limo over a rough surface that turned out to be cobblestones. We cruised around a circular driveway that led to the front of what looked like a small country estate surrounded by nothing but green fields.

  The driver opened the limo door. I reached for my overnight bag before getting out.

  “You can leave it, Mr. Knight. We’ll not be long.”

  There are people whose bearing, clothes, and even haircut just smack of “government employee.” That was the cut of the tall, middle-aged man in narrow pinstripes and highly shined shoes waiting in the doorway. He smiled, introduced himself, and bid me welcome to Ireland. Without a wasted second, he led the way at a quick march to an office in the rear of the house. In that brief minute, I got the impression that Superintendent Dermot Phelan was comfortable in his capability and nobody’s fool.

  When conversation began behind the closed door of his office, I sensed that he attributed the same qualities to Billy Coyne. Billy had been true to his promise to alert the superintendent to my arrival.

  “Will you have a cup of tea, Mr. Knight?”

  To one who starts every day with a double jolt of Starbuck’s caffeine-drenched special, the offer of a cup of tea was like offering tofu to a carnivore. On the other hand, when in Rome—or Ireland—

  We were into the second cup of tea, diluted with milk yet, and some mutual sizing–up conversation by the time Superintendent Phelan seemed to reach the decision to take Billy Coyne’s word and put a certain amount of trust in this disturbingly young colonial sitting in front of him. From then on, it was full-cruising speed with no wasted words.

  “I understand you’re looking for a child—I’m sorry, the body of a child, Mr. Knight. Your Mr. Coyne was explicit. I offer my condolences. I’m afraid I can offer little else.”

  That brought the tea back up into my throat.

  “That’s a bit of a disappointment, Superintendent. Billy Coyne thought you could give me a starting point.”

  “And I can. And I will. What I’m saying, Mr. Knight—”

  He looked at me with an expression that said he was looking for the softest way to explain the brick wall I was up against.

  “—is that there’ll be precious little good you can do with it. We’ve been trying to break this gang of thugs for eight years now. They’re tight, tough, and well experienced in the art of terror. Forgive the question, Mr. Knight. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine, Superintendent. In years.”

  He smiled, “I appreciate the distinction. I’ve gathered myself that you’re more experienced than the years imply. Nonetheless, you’d have to have lived through what we have during the past two decades to understand what you’re up against.”

  “Superintendent, I want you to know I have no grand illusions of accomplishing world peace or eliminating terrorism. I’m here to find a child’s body. No more.”

  “And that’s what worries me. That child may be one thread of a sweater that won’t unravel as easily as you may like.”

  I forced down one more swallow of the tea before answering to give the impression I was duly weighing his words.

  “I’ll give you my word, Superintendent. If I find I’m over my head, I’ll pull out. I have no intention of sending two bodies home.”

  He smiled a benign silent smile.

  “You said you could give me a lead, Superintendent.”

  “And so I shall. You could do worse than to talk to Ten Sullivan. I’ll give you the address.”

  “Strange name. Who is he?”

  He leaned back. “Ah, now there’s a question. If nothing else comes of your quest, you’ll have made the acquaintance of a man worth remembering. Where do I begin?”

  He held out the teapot for a third refill. If eternal relations between Ireland and America depended on it, I could not have swallowed one more ounce of it. He seemed to understand.

  “I’ll tell you where he got the name. He was a fighter, a boxer as you call them, back in the days when it was a thing of honor. You had two men with gloves, toe-to-toe, each testing the mettle of the other. None of this kicking and butting like two animals in a cage you see on the telly today.”

  “And his name?”

  “Ah yes. When Sullivan was in the ring, shortly after the bout began, his opponent would invariably be flat on his back. The next thing he’d hear would be the ref counting him out. ‘—eight, nine, ten. Sullivan,’ with the referee holding up Sullivan’s hand as the winner. One of the sportswriters picked it up. Whence the name, ‘Ten Sullivan.’”

  My turn to smile. “Was this recent?”

  “Oh heavens, no. He hasn’t stepped into the ring as a fighter in three decades. He’s been fighting a different fight.”

  “And that is?”

  “He runs a gym in the north section of Dublin. He’s used the respect people have for him as a fighter to try to save the kids from the muck they find on the streets. Especially during the times of the Troubles. He kept a lot of young lads from throwing their lives into that bottomless pit. Not all, but a good many. He’s still at it. Nowadays it’s the drugs, and the rest of it. The people in that neighborhood all but pray to him as a saint. Even among the kids, his word goes. He’s more powerful than the parish priest.”

  “That’s interesting. You say Billy Coyne told you why I’m here. The little girl. Would he know anything about that?”

  “If it happened in Dublin, especially north of the river, Ten’s your best bet.”

  I could see his expression sharpen. The smile was less pronounced.

  “And that’s where a certain amount of discretion enters, Mr. Knight. It’s a pleasant chat we’ve had. But I should tell you this. If it weren’t for your Mr. Coyne, we’d never have had it. When he says I can rely on you not to muck about in Garda business, I take him at his word.”

  “I think I’d better be sure what that means, Superintendent.”

  “Then let me speak plainly. This meeting never happened. You’ll not need to mention my name. I’ll have contacted Mr. Sullivan before you do. Then it’s just between you two.”

  “Thank you, Superintendent.”

  “To be perfectly clear. You’ll not mention my name or the Garda, or any such connection. It’s taken years to establish a certain rapport, shall we say a working relationship with Mr. Sullivan. It thrives on secrecy. I’d be very disappointed if your business, significant though it is, disrupted that relationship.”

  The words were civil and softly spoken, but the manner left no room for a flexible interpretation.

  “I understand perfectly.”

  “Good.” The bright joviality was back. “There it is then. The limo will take you to your hotel. Good choice, the
Gresham. Grand old lady since back in the eighteen hundreds.”

  He was on his feet for a handshake with one hand and the offer of a slip of paper with the other. The limo driver appeared, and I was in the backseat of the limo in the time it would have taken to pour another cup of that anemic liquid.

  I checked into the Gresham, which lived up to its reputation for classic grandeur in spades. I changed into jeans and sweatshirt without unpacking. Since this was, in no sense, destined to be the jolly tourist’s frolic in Dublin, I got down to business.

  The paper I got from the superintendent gave an address on Sheriff Street, a few blocks north of the River Liffey. I took a cab to the corner of Amiens and Talbot Streets and walked from there. It seemed less conspicuous to arrive on foot.

  The neighborhood was gritty working-class and less. You could almost breathe in the poverty and hard times that shaped the lives of those confined there by life’s circumstances.

  A brick-and-wooden building in the middle of the block sported the name in peeling paint letters, “Sullivan’s Nua Saol Gym.” The words in the Irish, I later learned, mean “New Life”—an interesting glimmer of optimism in a setting not otherwise glowing with joy.

  I walked in past a couple of exiting teenage boys with gym bags. Their nods in my direction relieved some of the uptight apprehension I carried in with me. Inside it resembled any of the boxer-training gyms in South Boston or Dorchester, from the ancient wooden floor giving off the vapors of decades of sweat to the elevated canvas-covered ring that had absorbed a saturation of sweat mingled with blood. You could smell, almost to the point of tasting, the pain of young fighters dreaming of punching their way out of the poverty.

  I passed through six or seven stripped-to-the-waist teenagers, focused on pounding a rhythmic cadence on light and heavy punching bags. Straight through toward the back, I saw the man I figured I was looking for. Two skinny Irish-looking redheads were circling and jabbing at each other in the ring, while a box-built, white-haired man in sweat clothes leaned on the ropes with his back to me. He was yelling instructions, curses, and encouragement at each of them in turn. His hands flew out in jabs and uppercuts as if he were carrying out his own orders.