Black Diamond

by John F. Dobbyn

  “Where does this leave us?”

  He muted his voice.

  “Perhaps there’s a positive side. Thank God you turned up that information. This might give us a lead to who was above Sweeney in the chain of command. Where are you now?”

  “Airport. I’m flying home. I assume you’ll be in contact with Billy Coyne. We can stay in touch through him.”

  “Fine. Have a safe trip, Michael. I really have to ring off. It’s a bit hectic here.”

  I was still processing information when I went through security. I bought an Irish Times to read the full report while I sat by the boarding gate. The details were vivid, but they added little to my understanding about the significance of Sweeney’s murder. I’m sure that most of the citizens of Dublin took it in with their omelettes and blood sausage and chalked it up to thugs murdering thugs. I just let it ruminate.

  Just about the same moment they called my flight for boarding, a flash of thought jolted me out of my seat. I grabbed my carry-on and bolted back through security to flag down a cab. I was back at the Gresham, to the surprise of my favorite concierge, forty minutes later. I took him aside and spilled out every fact I could recall about the country church I’d been taken to in the middle of the night a week previously, the church where an elderly priest and nun had put little Erin back in my arms for safe keeping.

  Thank God he knew the countryside of Ireland like I know Boston’s Back Bay. He made an educated guess and called me a private driver. The concierge gave the directions, and I gave the driver a tip sizeable enough to add serious weight to his foot on the gas pedal.

  Half an hour later, we pulled into the gravel courtyard outside of what looked like a church that must have been built in ancient times. I recognized nothing, since my last visit was in the middle of the night.

  I remembered hearing with shock from my driver of that night, Paedar Kearney, that the elderly priest had been tortured and murdered. I used the knocker on the stone cottage beside the church in the hopes that the nun might have escaped the same fate and might still be there.

  Five knocks, and I was about to give up hope, when I heard slow, uneven footsteps on the other side of the door. The old nun, who still wore the habit, opened the door and stood speechless to see me. She had been through a great deal, beginning with the harboring of a kidnapped child, followed by the vicious murder of the priest.

  She looked around behind me cautiously before asking me in. Her first words were regarding little Erin. I began by pouring out the news of Erin’s emotional reuniting with her mother and the fact that they were both alive and well. That raised her comfort level in talking to me. Being Irish, she insisted that we talk over tea and scones.

  She was in tears when she recounted the treatment that the priest had suffered at the hands of the thugs who tortured him. I noticed that she moved around the kitchen with a limp that I didn’t remember being there before. When I mentioned it, she waved it off, saying it could have been much worse for her but for the fact that the priest convinced them that she knew nothing about the child.

  I gave her time to dry the tears and suppress the thoughts that still terrorized her. I wanted to give her more time, but now I was under serious pressure. I had to ask the question, even though it would surely open raw wounds.

  “Sister, I’m so sorry. I have to ask it. So much depends on this. Did either you or Father tell them where I was taking little Erin?”

  That brought another flow of tears, but through it she spoke with emphatic certainty.

  “No. I can assure you of that. I was right here every minute. God love him, the good Father died at their hands without telling them a thing.”

  “Forgive me. I have to ask this, Sister. How about yourself?”

  “Not a word. I swear to God Almighty.”

  My driver took me back to the Dublin Airport. I was able to get onto the last Aer Lingus flight for Boston. I used the duration of the flight to fit some disconnected thoughts into a pattern that was making more sense to me every minute.

  I replayed a dozen times in my mind my last conversation with Sweeney. I searched every line of his face that I could conjure in my mind’s eye. I finally reached a conclusion that I was ready to act on. When Sweeney refused to answer my question about how Danny had been knocked out of the saddle, he wasn’t being evasive. He just flat-out didn’t know. And he didn’t know because he had had no part in Danny’s fall. He’d been relying on the kidnapping of Danny’s daughter to keep Black Diamond from winning the race.

  When we landed at Logan Airport, I hopped in a cab. I passed a sizeable tip to the driver before she put it in first gear. I could have sworn I’d ridden with her before—Carlotta something. I remembered that she had a knowledge of shortcuts and a willingness to treat speed limits as suggestions. She had me in the bowels of South Boston at the door of the Failte Pub in the time it would take most drivers to reach the tunnel.

  There was still a hole in my reasoning that needed to be plugged before I could make a move. It was five in the evening. The pub was doing a modest business by Irish standards. Being early in the week, the Irish music was recorded, which kept the sound level at a comfortable pitch.

  Among the handful of men at the bar, I recognized Sean Flannery. I remembered him as the one who relieved Vince Scully in keeping watch over Colleen’s home the night after Erin had been taken. He was the only one I knew for sure to be double-dealing on Boyle with the Irish mob.

  I sauntered casually to the door to Boyle’s office with a prayer that Flannery would keep his attention on the Bruins-Canadiens game on the bar television. The score was tied in the third period and the Bruins were on a power play. Thank God. He was glued.

  I finessed knocking. I startled Boyle at his desk with a direct entry. I closed the door behind me immediately. Boyle made a grab for his telephone, probably to buzz the bartender. If I had Boyle sized up right, it was probably the first time he had ever been alone in his office with another human being and no muscle to watch over him.

  I leaned over his desk and put a finger on the telephone disconnect button. I snapped off, “Sit there, Boyle!”

  He sat frozen like a figure in a wax museum, still holding the dead phone. I reached over and grabbed it out of his hand and hung up.

  I looked down on him from an advantage of height. He could have made one cry, and I’d be dealing with the entire row of thugs at the bar. But he didn’t. I think he knew that I could do him serious bodily harm before anyone could come through the door. I was probably more fear stricken than he was, because whatever I could do to him in a few seconds would be doubly repaid at their leisure when his thugs arrived. The trick was not to show it.

  More than a physical advantage, which never seemed to work out for me, I had a theory that I was ready to go to bat with. I laid it on him with more self-assurance than I actually had in the tank.

  “Sit quiet and listen to me, Boyle, and you just might find yourself in one piece when I leave here. I have a little test for you. Are you ready for the first part?”

  He was just staring. I don’t think he even heard me. At least there was no response. I slapped the desk with my open hand directly in front of him. He jumped about three inches, but he had his mouth closed when he landed.

  “Once more, Boyle, open your ears. Do you read me?”

  He nodded. That was better than nothing. I backed off a couple of steps to improve his concentration. He seemed to loosen up a bit, but he knew I could be within arm’s reach in an instant.

  “Here’s the way it stacks up. There’s a mob of former IRA thugs that are squeezing a number of people who used to donate to their cause. Right now, it’s pure extortion. They send a man over here periodically to pick up the take and bring it back to Ireland. You know about that?”

  He was slow to respond, but when he did, he shook his head.

  “No. No. This won’t do. Bad start. I don’t have all night. I know the answers to these questions. It would be in your interest
to get the answers right the first time. Let’s try again. You know about that, right?”

  I had moved closer and his eyes were widening. He slowly nodded.

  “A little louder, Boyle.”

  His voice was hoarse, but he got it out. “Yeah. I know. All right? Ya through now?”

  “Next part. You and your boys are the collectors over here. You hold the money for the Irishman. He picks it up from you. You listening?”

  I was becoming more emphatic as I reached the end of that last sentence. He nodded.

  “Good. Then understand this. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your shenanigans with those Irish goons. That said, are we in agreement on the facts?”

  I leaned slightly over the desk. He nodded in agreement.

  “Say it, Boyle. We’re communicating here.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  “Good. Next point. Periodically, you have your own goons put the muscle on the jockeys at Suffolk to fix a race. I can prove that too, so you might as well agree to it.”

  He mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  “Louder, Boyle. We’re still not where I give a crap about your business. Are we in agreement about fixed races?”

  “Yeah, yeah. So what?”

  “Don’t get cute. I’m still within reach.”

  He straightened up in the chair. I had his full attention. He could see the deep water ahead.

  “Now to the heart of the matter. You’ve been playing a little game that might interest the boys in Ireland. You collect the extortion money the day before the Irish thug comes over to pick it up. You bet it all on a race at Suffolk that you’ve fixed. You skim off the winnings before the Irishman collects the extortion money the next day. Very clever. I finally matched up the timing of the Irish collections and the fixed races. It took me two weeks to catch on to that one.”

  Boyle’s eyes were as round as a couple of fried eggs.

  “Now hear this. I’m not shooting blind here. I can prove all of it. The only question is who do I give it to. The police? No, not yet. The thugs from the old IRA? Quite possibly. They might just want a share of your winnings. Like one hundred percent. They may even want to take the past winnings out in broken bones. Do I have your attention?”

  He nodded with more vigor.

  “Good. Then let’s do business. Suppose you show some good faith by admitting that everything I’ve said is true.”

  Silence.

  “Okay by me, Boyle. You’ve heard that old expression, ‘It’s your funeral.’ In your case, there’ll be a good old Irish wake to go with it.”

  I leaned across the desk and yanked the cord out of the telephone. I turned as if to leave, which was the furthest thing from my intention with the bar full of knee breakers just outside. He caught me on the second step.

  “Wait. What the hell are you doing?”

  I came back the two steps. “I’m waiting to hear you say that everything I said is the truth. But not for long.”

  “All right. Yeah.”

  “Yeah what?”

  “It’s the truth. So what?”

  I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket in the open position.

  “Congratulations, Boyle. You just made your first recorded broadcast. Copies are being made by my associate as we speak.”

  That was not exactly true, but it had the desired effect. He was almost bouncing on the chair. “What the hell you gonna do?”

  “I’m going to give you some new rules of life, you miserable excuse for an Irishman. Here’s the first. You’ve made your last collection for those extortionists. It ends now.”

  “They’ll kill me. I can’t just stop.”

  “Ah, but you will. If that raises the risk of personal danger, I’d suggest you get your pampered ass out of town. Here’s the second. If you or any of that scum at the bar make one more threat to a jockey or try to fix one more race, the tape of this conversation goes directly to Martin Sweeney and his gang. Do you read that?”

  His expression said he heard me loud and clear. Fortunately, I was sure he was still thoroughly uninformed of the recent demise of Mr. Sweeney. When and if he did hear, I was sure he’d be equally terrified of Sweeney’s replacement.

  That left just one last point. I left it until last to be sure Boyle was softened up enough to insure the truth. I said it slowly.

  “Last question. Here’s the test. Did you or anyone you’re connected with have anything to do with knocking Danny Ryan out of the saddle?”

  I was scanning his features like a human lie detector. I believe to my core that he was totally truthful in whining that he had nothing to do with it.

  That closed that door. It left just one possibility.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The “recorded broadcast” to an “associate” of my conversation with Boyle was a complete fraud, but it accomplished my purposes, including getting my entire body, quivering knees and all, out the door of the Failte Pub unbent, broken, or spindled.

  The next morning, I called Mr. Devlin from my apartment. He told me the dinner was set with Billy Coyne for six that evening. I asked him to call Billy back and set up an interview for me with our client, Hector Vasquez. Things were beginning to move at the speed of light, and I couldn’t leave any pieces of the puzzle unchecked.

  Vasquez looked drawn and maybe a shade lighter for being out of the daily sun at the track. He was, needless to say, seriously worried and eager for any updates. I filled him in on what I’d been doing on his behalf, leaving out only the final theory I was about to test. For him, the whole story was an eye-opener. As far as he’d known, it began and ended with fixed races. Then I got down to business.

  “Hector, we’ve got new ground rules. I’m dealing with some ugly people in this. My neck’s been on the block more times than I’d like in the past week. From now on, I need to be playing with a full deck. That means you tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Both of our lives may depend on it. Comprende?”

  He nodded.

  “No, Hector. I want to hear it from the heart. I can’t do this on a nod.”

  “I understand, Mr. Knight.”

  “Good. Then let’s jump right into the deep end. Did you know before the race that Danny’s daughter had been kidnapped?”

  “Like I said, Danny was acting jumpy in the jockey’s room.”

  “That’s bullshit, Hector. I heard that version before. It does neither of us any good. This time I want an answer. Did you know about the kidnapping before the race?”

  He looked down. I reached over with my hand and lifted up his face until we were eye to eye. “Did you?”

  He said it in Spanish as if it would soften it. “Sí.”

  “Did Danny tell you?”

  “Yes. I told him that the fix was in for my horse to win. I thought he should know. They didn’t approach him with the fix because they thought his horse had no chance to challenge anyway. That’s when he told me about his daughter.”

  I sat back. It was just what I hoped to hear. I asked another question just to nail it shut.

  “Why did you deny it before?”

  “I was afraid you’d think I was part of the kidnapping. I thought it’d look worse for me.”

  “Damn, Hector. I’ll tell you what does look worse for you. If you lie to me in the smallest detail, it makes me wonder about everything else you say. Is that finally clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then on that basis, I’m going to ask you just one more time. Did you have anything to do with physically knocking Danny out of the saddle?”

  This time he said it so the entire cellblock could hear him.

  “No, Mr. Knight. No.”

  By my figuring, the next extortion payment from Fitzpatrick and the others would be due to be picked up from Boyle by the Irish gang’s emissary in four days. That meant that Boyle had probably already arranged in advance for the fixing of a race at Suffolk in three days. I checked with Alberto Ibanez and found that my
calendar estimates were right on. The fix had been set in place for the sixth race in just three days. Number four was to be the winner.

  At this point, timing was everything. I drove to the track and found Rick McDonough at the backside finishing up the workouts for the day. I was emotionally relieved to find that the freeze between us had thawed. It was essential that I have his complete trust for what I was about to ask.

  I spent twenty minutes giving Rick every detail of what had gone on since I came into this case after Danny’s death. I could see that he was stunned and angered by what was really going on around Danny and Black Diamond. I needed his anger to ask him to do something that could be personally risky.

  “Rick, I need you to enter Black Diamond in the sixth race three days from now. I know you’ve been acting on instructions from Ireland, but that’s over. Your contact, Martin Sweeney, is dead. If no one else has contacted you, it’s your call. You’re the trainer. I have to know now. Will you do it?”

  Even I may have underestimated the depth of Rick’s anger at the people who had manipulated him and possibly even caused Danny’s death. He was on his feet almost before I finished asking.

  “Where you going, Rick?”

  “I’m going to enter the damn race. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  I thought I’d better put in a call to Superintendent Phelan in Ireland. Now that I had positive information, I filled him in on Boyle’s game of betting the Irish gang’s money before handing it over to the Irish collector. I also told him that Black Diamond was entered in a race in three days.

  “I know you’re a busy man, Superintendent. Especially with Sweeney’s murder. But I suggest that the action is going to be over here the day of the race. I suspect that Sweeney’s replacement will get word that Black Diamond is running. He’ll probably be over here to collect the extortion money personally the way Sweeney did. If he does, he’ll probably be betting it on Black Diamond. This is the payoff for them for all the deception about his speed and lineage.”

  “That makes sense, Michael.”