Black Diamond

by John F. Dobbyn

  Mr. D.’s eyes were closed, but I knew it was all going in. “Perfect logic.”

  “All right. Now here’s where the logic goes sour. On the day of the race, the Irish mob behind Black Diamond goes to the extreme length of kidnapping Danny’s daughter. Why? To get Danny to win the race on Black Diamond? No. He was going to do that anyway. It had to be to get him to lose the race. Why? After all they went through to make a bundle on Black Diamond’s first race, why would they want Danny to lose? It makes no sense. For some reason, all of a sudden on the day of the race, both Boyle and the Irish mob had the same interest. They both wanted Danny to lose the race.”

  “I’ll give you this, Michael. You’re right. It defies logic. At least on what we know so far.”

  “And it gets worse. When Danny squeaked Black Diamond through on the rail at the eighth pole, he was apparently going for the win in spite of everything. So either Boyle or the Irish mob had to knock Danny out of the saddle to keep him from winning. That throws us two more curves. Which mob was it that caused Danny’s spill? Or was it both? And, even more perplexing, how did they do it?”

  “You’re assuming, of course, that there’s not a simple answer to that last question. I might add, one that does not defy logic.”

  I knew what he was getting at. I just looked at him.

  “You don’t want to hear it, do you, Michael?”

  I knew that he was suggesting that the simplest answer would be that our client, Hector Vasquez, used his whip to jab Danny out of the saddle. Nothing in the films showed that he didn’t. But to accept it would be to concede that Mr. Devlin was right in the debate that began the day I met him. I’d be admitting that clients do lie about their innocence to get the lawyer to fight harder, and therefore a lawyer should never build a defense on a belief that the client is telling the truth about his innocence. Mr. D. called it an invitation to being blindsided. As he says, the jury has to presume the defendant is innocent until proven guilty; defense counsel doesn’t.

  “Face it, Michael. If Vasquez is guilty, and if we can’t establish reasonable doubt, which, by the way, is looking more difficult all the time, our best service to the client may be to get the best bargain for a guilty plea. Heaven knows the D.A. is panting to cut a deal for the testimony of Vasquez against Boyle’s mob.”

  “True, Mr. Devlin. But if he is telling the truth, and he’s not guilty, even with probation, which is not likely, it would mean a criminal-felony record and probably loss of his jockey’s license. That’s assuming Boyle’s people let him live long enough to ride again anyway.”

  Mr. D. just held up his hands and shrugged. I think it was a comment on my gullibility.

  “Besides, I want to try one more approach before suggesting a guilty plea to Vasquez. There are too many jagged edges to this thing.”

  “What kind of approach?”

  I could hear a perceptible protective shift in Mr. D.’s tone—protective of me. To avoid unwanted limitations, I decided to keep it vague.

  “It’s still a bit sketchy. I’ll keep you up to date.”

  “Damn it, Michael! Every time you do that, I get another ulcer. These are not boy scouts we’re up against. What are you up to now?”

  “A walk in the park. Nothing my mother couldn’t handle.”

  I neglected to tell him that the kind, loving, caring woman of faith he knew as my mother had had an upbringing in a neighborhood in Puerto Rico that could rival marine boot camp.

  He took a few seconds to digest the mother comment. His respect for her cooled the heat of the moment. He went back to being quietly strategic. I made a mental note to remember that little ploy.

  “There’s another reason we have to get this game together soon, Michael. We have a preliminary hearing before Judge Peragallo this afternoon at four. I got a call from his clerk this morning. I want you there. He’s going to be looking to set a trial date. Angela Lamb’ll be trying to pressure us into a plea with a trial in the next couple of weeks. It’s fish or cut bait time.”

  I must have had a look that conveyed my reaction to a two-week trial date.

  “What is it?”

  “We need more time. At least three weeks. I may have to go out of town for a bit.”

  “There you go again. Where are you going this time? If you get yourself hurt, your mother and I’ll both have your head on a platter.”

  His phone rang. He answered it and handed the receiver over to me. I thanked God it was my secretary, Julie, rescuing me with word that Tom Burns was on my line. After I left Kevin Murphy, I had asked Tom to have a man keep an eye on locker 512 at North Station and tail anyone who made a drop there.

  “Shall I transfer it to Mr. Devlin’s office?”

  “Not on your life, Julie. I’ll be right there.”

  I remembered the question I had left hanging.

  “Possibly Ireland, Mr. Devlin. What could happen to me in the land of your ancestors?”

  It was an exit line, delivered over the shoulder as I passed quickly out of his office to take the call.

  I closed the door of my office and picked up the phone.

  “Go, Tom.”

  “Pay dirt. Got a pen?”

  “Shoot.”

  “That could be a prophetic phrase. This even has my head spinning. Your man dropped the valise in locker five twelve. He left the key at the news shop. My man followed him back to his office.”

  “Right. Which is where? And who is it?”

  “Top of the Fidelity United Trust Building on State Street. Are you hearing this?”

  “Tom, you’re dragging this out. Who is it?”

  “This is not just dramatic effect. I want your full attention.”

  “You have it. For the love of Pete, who is it?”

  “Colin Fitzpatrick.”

  He paused for some reaction from me. I had none.

  “Refresh me.”

  “CEO of the largest investment firm in New England. He burps and the stock market gets indigestion. You listening, Mike? This man is a walking pillar of power and money.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Not when you say it that way. I’m talking power beyond anything you can imagine. Want a translation? Whatever the hell you’re planning, back off.”

  My little bucket of confidence in what was shaping up as a plan was being drained by the gallon. I needed at least to bluff my way into a false sense of optimism.

  “Like they say, Tom, the bigger they are—”

  “—the harder they squash little gnats like you.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll be all right. In the words of Sir Galahad, ‘My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.’“

  “Oh shit, Mike. That’s the kind of crap that could get your parts in six different suitcases.”

  When I stepped out of the building onto Franklin Street, Tom’s words were slowly seeping into my sense of reality. I’d been able to dismiss the almost bombing of my Corvette outside of Daddy Hightower’s as a once and done incident. I’d even been suppressing the thought of what I could have walked into in Belle Isle Park. But I’d never heard Tom speak like that, and we’d come through some hairy tangles together. His tone, even more than the words, was stripping away my mental firewalls.

  On the walk to the garage, I could actually feel myself fighting down a good case of the jumps every time I melded into a sidewalk crowd, rounded a corner, or, in particular, contemplated turning the key to start my Corvette. Each of them brought up a little volcano of stomach acid.

  I had to block it out or I’d be useless to everyone. I remembered the wise words of John Wayne. “Courage is being scared to death, and saddling up anyway.”

  On that note, I saddled up and drove to Suffolk Downs.

  Alberto Ibanez rode a roan gelding in the second race and came in fourth. I caught the attention of his groom just after Alberto had handed him his saddle and straps to get ready for the next race. The groom hesitated, but finally walked close enough to me t
o take a slip of paper I held close to the rail. There was no one close by, but eyes were everywhere.

  I was standing by the rail in the paddock when the jockeys mounted up for the next race. Alberto was on number six, and when he rode by me on the way to the post parade, he never looked in my direction. He just smiled at some imaginary person across the paddock from me and mouthed the word, “Viernes.”

  As he rode past, I kept my eyes glued on his hands while he tied the traditional jockey’s knot in the reins. I knew what I was looking for. His only hand motion that had nothing to do with the knot was a quick flashing of four fingers close to the horse’s mane.

  I could suddenly sense the distinct clicks of a couple of puzzle pieces dropping into place. My note to Alberto had said that the time we talked about was now. I needed to know when Boyle was going to fix the next race. Alberto had cautiously told me in Spanish that it was to be Friday, the fourth race.

  It was no trick to get the phone number of Fidelity United Trust. The trick was to penetrate the web of protective isolation provided by the staff surrounding Colin Fitzpatrick himself.

  I resorted to my fallback. When in doubt, fly direct, and tell the truth—to some extent.

  I worked my way through a series of holds and transfers from clerks and underlings with patience and determination until I hit the highest level I could reach with the unvarnished truth—Mr. Fitzpatrick’s appointments secretary. To go the final distance, the truth needed a bit of varnishing.

  Ms. Paxton’s creamy-smooth tones sugarcoated the steel-clad blockade she maintained against anyone who presumed to invade the privacy of the man himself.

  “Ms. Paxton, My name is Michael Knight. I’m a junior partner in a firm that is totally irrelevant to the business or pleasure of Mr. Fitzpatrick. And yet, I would like you to push that little button in front of you to interrupt his doings with the financial giants of the world in order to shoot the breeze with me.”

  That was the truth. And clearly the truth would have gotten me a disconnect faster than I could blink. Obviously, I didn’t say that. Instead, I repackaged the truth and took a slightly different tack.

  “Ms. Paxton, my name is Michael Knight. I’d like you to tell Mr. Fitzpatrick that I’m going to lunch now.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be absolutely delighted, Mr. Knight. Should I alert the city desk of the Globe?”

  I liked her already.

  “No need. But there’s more to the message.”

  “Are you about to disclose your dinner plans as well?”

  “You’re too kind. Insignificant as my little message sounds, it is more important than you can imagine that you tell Mr. Fitzpatrick immediately that I will be having a sandwich on the bench in the Public Garden in front of the swan boat dock.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled for you, Mr. Knight. Must I convey the type of sandwich?”

  “Kind of you to think of it. But no. That won’t be necessary. Just one more detail though. And this is the crux of the message. I have news regarding a certain Seamus McGuiness that’s more important than any stock quote he’ll hear all day. Will you convey that?”

  “I shall interrupt his conference call with the German and Swedish ambassadors immediately to inform Mr. Fitzpatrick of your luncheon plans.”

  “Ah, Ms. Paxton, I detect a note of levity in your voice. And to be perfectly honest, I could fall in love with you for it. Any day but today. You know that tired, overused expression a matter of life or death? Clichéd as this will sound, this is exactly that. But you won’t have to explain that to Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Within fifteen minutes, I was seated alone on a bench in the Public Garden. It would have been a center of tourist activity if it were swan boat season. Summer tourists from far-flung regions like to see where Make Way for Ducklings took place.

  As it was, I sat warding off a chill, looking at the quiet pond where my parents and those of practically every other Bostonian had treated their children to the gently paddled cruise around tiny islands, throwing bread in the direction of ducks smart enough to swim in their wake.

  The chill was partly weather and partly the jitters, wondering what I’d say to this behemoth of finance if he did show up, which was looking less likely every minute. Passersby were few at that time of year. I matched every one of them against the profile I had formulated for Mr. Colin Fitzpatrick. I was praying that the name, Seamus McGuiness, would penetrate the air of triviality with which our Ms. Paxton would deliver the message—if in fact, the message got through at all.

  Twenty minutes and half a sandwich later, I noticed the brisk pace of a tall, pinstriped suit, tailored impeccably to a man with snow-white hair and an air of self-confidence and New York urgency about every movement. The whitish, pinkish tint of his clear skin clearly bespoke a Celtic ancestry.

  His eyes remained fixed on the pond, but there was a deliberateness about his taking a seat at the far end of my bench. He simply sat in silence.

  My gaze also stayed on the pond. Between bites of sandwich, I broke the silence softly.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick, I presume.”

  I hoped he caught the allusion to Stanley’s greeting to Dr. Livingston to set a high tone to the conversation. Apparently not.

  “What is it this time?” The tone was heavily salted with something between anger and disgust.

  “This time, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

  “What does McGuiness want now? I can guess, but I’ll give you the pleasure of telling me. How much?”

  I slid a paper bag with the label of Zaftig’s Delicatessen across the bench. I had dispatched Julie to the bowels of Brookline for two of Zaftig’s world-famous corned beef specials. He cast a disdainful eye on it, but never moved.

  “Corned beef special on rye, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Even New York can’t beat Zaftig. Surely I haven’t met the first Irishman who didn’t like corned beef. I’m not McGuiness’s man.”

  He looked across at me. A slight tint of surprise joined the anger and disgust. “Then who are you?”

  “I’m probably the one person on this globe who can offer you the possibility of relief from the monkey on your back. I have no connection with McGuiness.”

  “Then this is not about money?”

  “Actually it is, in part. But it’s not about extortion.”

  He looked back at the pond as if to cut me out of his sight. You could practically taste the loathing for me and all he thought I represented.

  “Really. And what do you call it?”

  I gave it a few seconds. “Why don’t we stop playing the naming game and get to the point, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

  He just nodded, but he was radiating a seething heat. “McGuiness is dead.”

  That brought a slightly startled look in my direction.

  “And I suppose you take up where he left off?”

  “I’ve told you twice now. I’m not connected with McGuiness.”

  “Then who the hell are you? And what do you want? As if I didn’t know.”

  “What I want is ten minutes of your time. Where we go from there is your choice.”

  For the first time, he looked at me instead of through me. On the other hand, we were clearly not buddies.

  It was showdown poker time—all the cards faceup. He was a man who played for high stakes as a profession. Intuition told me that if I strayed one inch from the truth, I’d sever the thinnest of all possible threads.

  I laid out everything I knew, beginning with Danny’s fall and ending with all I’d learned in Ireland. Then I got to the thin-ice part.

  “Here’s what I think. For some reason beyond my understanding, you sent a lot of money over to Ireland to support the IRA during the years they were bombing innocent people in London and Northern Ireland. It probably went back to the eighties and nineties. That was a major crime in this country—supporting an illegal terrorist organization. That was then. The so-called cause must have ended when England and Ireland reached a peaceful agre
ement in the late nineties. My understanding is that it’s been all diplomatic relations since then. I’ve read that even Gerry Adams tried to squelch the bombing and shooting wing of the IRA. Am I right or wrong so far?”

  “You have a warped view, but I’m listening.”

  “Then let’s get personal. You still send shipments of money to those thugs over there. They don’t represent a cause anymore, except their own bank accounts. So now it has to be extortion. They’ve probably got you by the throat. You keep paying or they turn you in for supporting an outlawed rebel gang in the old days. It sounds like a never-ending gravy train.”

  He looked at his watch and stood up.

  “Young man, you had my curiosity. Now you’re just annoying. You clearly have no idea whom you’re dealing with.” He walked toward me until he stood nearly touching my knees. “If you think you can jump on that gravy train, let me put it straight. No room for doubt. If you ever contact me again, or anyone else on this subject, I’ll crush you into tiny pieces. Disbarment will be the least of your worries. Do you hear me?”

  I stood up. Our heights brought us eye to eye. It took every ounce of will to look into those pools of hatred and not blink.

  “I hear you, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Now you hear me. This morning, you personally took a valise of money to the North Station. You put it in a locker and left the key with the man at the newsstand. It will be picked up by one of Boyle’s men and delivered to whoever replaces McGuiness. From there it goes to those Irish thugs, probably some of what’s left of the IRA.”

  The details brought the seething heat in his eyes to a boil. I had to hold fast against an avalanche of temptation to cut and run.

  “The locker number was five twelve. I can prove all of that. And if you can pry your ears open, I’ll tell you for the fourth time. I’m not here to extort your money.”

  He might have heard me for the first time. Anyway, he froze in place.

  “Then what the hell do you want?”

  “Exactly what I said. I want ten minutes. Stand, sit, stand on your head. I don’t give a damn. But listen to me. You may be surprised.”