Black Diamond

by John F. Dobbyn

The fire in his eyes could have ignited a conflagration. But he stood there for a full ten seconds making a decision. Swallowing orders from this juvenile delinquent must have gone against everything he’d been conditioned to in half a century. But he was still there. I waited until the internal blaze subsided.

  “We could do this more easily sitting down, Mr. Fitzpatrick. We don’t have much time.”

  The decision did not come easily, but he sat down in the middle of the bench.

  “They say ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ On that score, I’m your friend. I’m convinced that to defend the jockey I told you about, I have to crack the wall of that Irish mob that controls the horse. I have reasons to believe it’s the same bunch that’s been extorting you.”

  He just stared at me in silence, but the steam pressure seemed to be slightly diffused.

  “I want your help, Mr. Fitzpatrick—and thirty thousand dollars.”

  That brought his head around, and the steam was back.

  “Just sit there, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I said I want it. I’m not demanding it. I’m going to explain why I need it and what I’ll do with it. Then you make the choice. You’re in or you’re out. If you opt out, it’s the last you’ll see of me.”

  He still looked suspicious, but he hadn’t moved. I took it as an invitation to get to the details.

  Before I lost him, I explained quickly how I’d begun to see the pieces of the puzzle fit together. I laid out how I planned to use his money in as much detail as I’d been able to work out. The payoff line was that if I could pull it off, I might have the answer to who killed Danny, and he might have the extortionists off his back.

  When I finished talking, he leaned back. For the first time he looked at me as if he were sizing me up without a preconceived prejudice. I only knew that he was still there, and he wasn’t glaring at me like the embodiment of Satan. I was the first to break the silence.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick, could I ask you a question? Answer it or not as you wish.”

  “What?”

  “I think you’re a good man. I’m literally betting my life on that. Back then, how could you give money to the terrorists in the IRA?”

  He shook his head. I think it was at the incongruity of his bothering to explain anything to this juvenile. He stood up and looked back at me.

  “Do you have any Irish blood in you, Knight?”

  “I do. My paternal grandmother was Irish. Her parents came over from County Waterford. My Irish blood is usually at war with the Puerto Rican blood on my mother’s side.”

  He half laughed, which was a first. His body language was still speaking tension, but for the first time he was speaking the words rather than spitting them out between his teeth.

  “Do you know when it started? What the Irish call the Troubles?”

  “No.”

  He sat again on the edge of the bench. He checked his watch against whatever was pressing him to just leave.

  “Why do I bother? You obviously couldn’t care less. On the other hand, maybe you should understand why your great grandparents probably risked their lives on a famine ship to come over here.”

  “I’m interested.”

  “Then listen. Two kings fought for the English crown and control of all Ireland in sixteen ninety. The Battle of the Boyne River in Ireland. Every hear of it?”

  “Not really.”

  “I thought not. The Catholic King James was beaten by the Protestant King William. Most of the people in the south of Ireland were Catholic. From that time on, they were subjugated in their own land. William and the rest of the kings of England that followed him took the best land from our people to give it to their English favorites. Your ancestors and mine were reduced to the poverty of dirt-poor farms and heavy taxes paid to the lords of the manors. I’m compressing a hell of a lot of history here.”

  “I understand.”

  “I doubt it. But I don’t have time to give you the whole picture. I’ll tell you this, though. If there’s a drop of Irish blood in you and you haven’t heard of the potato famine, I’ll say to hell with you and leave now.”

  He looked me in the eye.

  “Don’t leave. I’ve heard of it, but that’s about all.”

  “Then listen. Ireland was still a colony of England in 1845. Eight million people, and half of them living in abject poverty. Our people. They lived on dirt farms so poor that all they could grow were potatoes. It was literally all that kept them alive. There was no other food. One day they woke up and a blight spread like wildfire across Ireland. Every potato they pulled up was black, diseased, and shriveled. And that left nothing a man could feed his wife and children, let alone himself. It lasted five years.”

  He stopped for a minute. I could see in his face that he was feeling the pain of the people he was one with. There was bitterness in his voice.

  “Over a million, Knight. Can you conceive of that? Over a million of those people died the slow death of starvation. Women, children, the lot. Another million left Ireland on the famine ships to try to save their lives. Your great grandparents were probably among them.”

  “I had no idea it was that bad.”

  “Well then try to understand this. There was no reason for it. There was plenty of food in Ireland at the time. There was so much surplus food in the hands of the English king’s people who owned the land in Ireland that they were exporting wheat and grains for profit all through the famine. That, while over a million people in the same country died of starvation.”

  There was nothing to say. We both sat in silence for a time.

  “That was the start of it. The oppression of the Irish went on until the need to be free of the king of England drove them to fight an impossible insurrection to take back their country. They had the example of our own American revolution against England to give them hope for the impossible. The Easter Rebellion in nineteen sixteen was the start of it. It was bloody and it failed. But it was the turning point. Michael Collins led the fight in the streets of the cities and the towns until he was killed himself. Did you ever hear of Michael Collins?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “He was the George Washington of his day for Ireland. Anyway, in nineteen twenty-one, Michael Collins and his group met with the then British prime minister. The English were exhausted by World War I. They had no stomach to keep fighting the Irish. They finally gave Ireland home rule as a dominion in nineteen twentytwo. The Irish Free State, all but six counties in the north. Mostly Protestant. They chose to remain a part of England. Still do.”

  He looked out over the swan boat pond.

  “They share an island, Protestants and Catholics. But the hurts on both sides run so deep and so fresh—the violence on both sides, killings and bombings, not just the soldiers, but innocent people, children. There’s not a family, especially in the north where Catholics and Protestants live close together, that doesn’t have its dead to mourn and to keep the hatred alive.”

  He paused in his thoughts. I used the silence to ask what I might never get another chance to ask.

  “If Ireland got home rule in nineteen twenty-two, why did the fighting between Catholics and Protestants go on?”

  He looked at me as if I hadn’t heard a word.

  “What the hell do you think? The king signs a proclamation of independence and everyone lives happily ever after? The Irish people were still dirt poor. The English still owned the land. The power in a Catholic country was still in the hands of the Protestant English. The oppression didn’t disappear because the king found a pen. That’s why the Irish Republican Army came into existence. They fought the battles to make independence for the Irish people a reality. And yes, damn it, I supported them. My mother and father came over in nineteen forty. They had tales to tell of what life over there was still like. They saw to it that I got an education here. I made some money, and I did what I could.”

  He looked at his watch and stood up. I was about to lose him but for one last question.

&nbs
p; “So how did it change? How did it go from support to extortion?”

  He sat back down. I could feel a different kind of pain come back in his face.

  “The time came. It was in the nineties. Even Gerry Adams. He led a group called Sinn Fein, “Ourselves Alone.” He realized that the best course was nonviolent negotiation with the English. He and his outfit had meetings, some of them secret with the English, even while the violence continued. After a while, the violence of the paramilitary wing of the IRA became counterproductive. Eventually the negotiations led to the peace agreement of nineteen ninety-eight. The IRA agreed to lay down their arms.”

  “What about the bombers and shooters in the IRA. How did they take it?”

  “That’s the shame of it all. They became irrelevant to the cause. But they were still men of violence. And they were well organized as a paramilitary group. Many of them turned their skills to crime. Bank robberies, holdups, whatever.”

  “And extortion?”

  “I tried to cut off any support when the peace agreement was signed. But the violent ones had a grip on me. I could go to jail for the rest of my life because of the support I’d given them before.”

  “And you’ve been paying ever since.”

  He stood up, and I did too. The biggest question was still hanging in the air. I dreaded the moment, but I had to ask it straight out. I held out the bag I had offered him before with the corned beef sandwich from Zaftig’s.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick, I have to know. As my senior partner says, it’s fish or cut bait time. Not to be dramatic, but I may be staking my life on your decision. Are you in or out?”

  He looked into my eyes as if he were searching for an answer. Could he sanely risk his freedom, possibly his life in the hands of this underage Don Quixote with the implausible scheme?

  It took what seemed like an age, but he took the sandwich out of my hand and left with two words.

  “Call me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I was actually buoyed up by what I took as a positive result from the meeting I’d dreaded with Colin Fitzpatrick. At the same time, I was deeply feeling the weight I’d taken on these uncertain shoulders, and all on the strength of a “plan” that now seemed barely a hypothesis. In other words, the jitters were back with a vengeance.

  I had a rare few hours free of any other commitments. I indulged in the intoxicating prospect of spending those hours with Terry O’Brien and aimed the Corvette toward Winthrop. That also carried the prospect of checking on Colleen and little Erin.

  I was through the tunnel and into East Boston when I got a cell phone call from my faithful secretary. Julie may be on the short side of twenty-three, but she never lets that stand in the way of acting like my surrogate mother.

  “Michael.” I know that tone of voice. It always precedes a lecture. “Who are these people you’re dealing with?”

  “I don’t know, Julie. Give me a hint.”

  “Someone who’s very upset says he wants you to call him immediately.”

  “That could describe twenty people I’ve met in the last week. Narrow it down for me.”

  “Easier said than done. I think he was calling from Ireland. But it could be Iceland. That accent was thick as pea soup.”

  “It’s Ireland. Who was it?”

  “The best I could get out of it was something like Paedar something.”

  That rang no bells. “What number?”

  I jotted the numbers down as Julie read them.

  “I’ll call now. By the way, would you book me on tomorrow night’s flight to Dublin. Make it one way. I’m not sure how long this will take.”

  I got another shiver when I realized I’d have to survive what I had in mind to get to use a return ticket.

  “Michael, are you doing something risky again? I think I should get Mr. Devlin on the line.”

  “Not a bit of it. I’m fine. I’m flying over to catch the running of the Irish Derby. It’s just a little fun thing. No need to trouble Mr. Devlin.”

  My warped view of the truth is that the Lord perhaps sanctions the use of its opposite as an escape hatch from certain uncomfortable conversations. i.e., no harm, no foul.

  I pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and dialed the number Julie gave me. The voice that answered sounded as if he had his hand over his mouth and the phone to muffle the sound.

  “Mr. Knight. Thank God. I wasn’t sure she got the message.”

  “I’m sorry. She didn’t get the name. Who is this?”

  There was a pause as if he was looking around before he spoke.

  “I have to make it quick. My name is Paedar Kearney. I’m the driver who took you to the priest when you picked up the little girl.”

  “I remember. What’s wrong?”

  “Dear God. I had to let you know. I came back to the house. I found Father Martin. They tortured him somethin’ fierce. He’s dead.”

  The words rang through my mind. My God in Heaven. What kind of people are these?

  “How about the sister? She was there at the time.”

  “Nowhere to be found. I suppose they’ve taken her. I have to call the Garda. I needed to let you know first. They were probably tryin’ to make Father Martin tell them where the little girl is. I don’t know if he told them anything. Or the sister. The little girl can identify them.”

  I squeezed every memory cell I had to recall whether or not I had mentioned where I was taking Erin and Colleen. I couldn’t be sure. The best thing I could do was to assume that the thugs had the information and move.

  I called Terry immediately. I thanked God that she answered. She could tell from my tone that I hadn’t called for a chat. In the nearly six months we’d been a couple, I’d been in enough threatening scrapes that brought her within reach of the danger to react quickly.

  I told Terry to pack a few necessities and have Colleen do the same. I’d be there in fifteen minutes. She knew I had reasons, and there were no questions.

  I took time for a quick call to Tom Burns. I gave him the bare outlines. He caught my tension and the reason for it.

  “It’ll take me half an hour to get there through traffic, Mike. I’ll make a call. Damn it. I’ve offered you a gun twenty times. Why the hell—?”

  “No, Tom. We’ll debate it over a Guinness someday. I’m out of here.”

  With no traffic at one in the afternoon and a heavy foot on the gas pedal, it took me sixteen minutes. I skidded to a stop on the short gravel road to the beach that was Andrews Street. Terry’s car was there. The house seemed peaceful.

  My relief at finding the scene quiet lasted right up to the time I saw the outside kitchen door standing half open. Terry always kept it closed against bugs.

  I was caught between caution that said go slow, and the panic that was driving me to rip through the house in search of Terry. I was so distracted by worry that I was inside the kitchen before I realized that something else was missing. That set my alarms off full tilt.

  There was no barking. Terry had a Shetland Sheepdog. Kelty and I had bonded from day one. I couldn’t drive up the street without hearing that glad-to-see-you bark at the door. But not this time.

  I got as far as the dining room before getting the answer to one question. It nearly brought up my lunch. Kelty was lying there with a bleeding cut on the top of his head. My heart was in freeze-frame for them all. Kelty must have felt my presence because I saw him start to move. I ran to him as he was struggling to get up on his front legs. I held him for a few seconds until he could get his hind feet under him.

  He was still unsteady, but I held his head in my hands and whispered to him. “Where are they, boy? Where’s Terry? Where’s Mama?”

  I’ve told Terry twenty-nine times that that dog is smarter than both of us put together. He was weaving, but he made a direct line for the stairs. By the time he hit the top step, he was at full speed. I wasn’t far behind.

  He ran and leaped at the closed door to the bedroom. It didn’t budge. All I co
uld hear was Kelty’s frantic barking. There was no sound from inside.

  To hell with caution. I didn’t even turn the knob on the door. I just smashed it open.

  My heart went into overdrive. I saw Terry on the bed and Colleen and Erin on the floor. They were all bound hand and foot. Gray tape covered their mouths.

  I ran to Terry first and tried to get the tape off of her mouth without taking the skin off of her lips. Before I could pry it loose, I heard some kind of gargling sound from her throat. I looked at her eyes. They were looking over my shoulder with pure panic.

  I spun around, just in time to take a blow on the chin from what I later learned was the butt of a rifle. The room passed in an instant through gray to black. After what was probably a few seconds—or minutes, it passed back through gray to the fuzzy image of a man standing in the hallway.

  When the image cleared, I could see that he was on a cell phone. At that point I had nothing to fight with. I struggled to form one clear thought in a head that was splitting with gongs and cymbals.

  The first rational thought I had was why the hell did I keep refusing Tom’s offer of a gun? That was a dead end—but then not completely. It brought to mind something Tom said on the phone. He said he was making a call. To whom? I could only make one guess.

  My second rational thought was that this thug must be acting for the Irish gang that kidnapped Erin. He was here to finish the job. On the other hand, since he was on this side of the ocean, he might be one of Boyle’s men, like Scully, who was double-crossing Boyle for the Irish mob. So what does that do for us?

  I decided to grasp at two straws at the same time. The thug was yelling into the phone in the hallway. I figured he was talking long distance to Ireland. He seemed to be asking what to do about the two women with Erin.

  With as little movement as possible, I reached into my coat pocket for my cell phone. I used 411 in a whisper and got a connection to Paddy Boyle. The thug in the hall was so into his weak connection with Ireland that he couldn’t hear me.

  I can seldom remember being more relieved to hear a human voice on the other end of a phone line. Boyle was his usual gracious self.