by Leo Gher
From the front of the shop, Crow saw a stranger approaching. He suddenly froze. Why was he stopping? Crow wondered. Why was he raising his arm?
The Ruger – a precision pistol of blued alloy steel – was now being carefully aimed. Crow looked into the eyes of the other but only for a moment. Crow did not drop the gun, and he never heard the discharge of Jake’s weapon.
The red diode laser that was fixed on the bridge of Carmen Duda’s nose was the last thing Crow ever saw.
17
Deceiver
Indian summer was gone, and there was a bite to the air as clouds of blackbirds gathered over the Wentworth Forest Preserve. The mad wheeling and swooping in the gray sky was an annual affair – a portend that winter was coming, a Chicago winter, which was always long and hard. It had been eight days since Jake Moynihan killed the culprit named Crow. Jake had become a Chicagoland hero. There were YouTube interviews, media engagements, and a lengthy feature in The Trib about the valiant South Sider who saved his mother, aunt, and a half dozen other shoppers at the Pere Marquette Mall.
Lindy Bedrosian was giddy about her boyfriend’s celebrity, and fellow FAA members were thrilled by his bold action in the face of a lunatic, sex predator. Jake, however, had some reservations. The distractions had postponed the Sunday brunch where he and Denis were supposed to make their pitch about their college plans. Jake had not seen his cousin for some time and was worried about Denis’ commitment. He had never been entirely sold on Jake’s scheme. Denis knew his older cousin had something more in mind than just going to college overseas, and he wanted to know what that was. Jake, on the other hand, worried that the delay might lead his spineless cousin to back out entirely. But finally, events seemed to be coming together; today, the de Barras family was hosting the Moynihans for Sunday brunch.
The brunch had always been Julia’s idea. After Tom’s death, Julia thought her sister needed some family support to shake off her gloominess. Katie just could not get over it, and Julia thought her sister’s grieving abnormally long. “Three years is more than enough time,” she’d say to her husband. “Besides, Katie and Tom had been divorced for years.” Sean de Barras, however, paid little attention to Julia’s carping.
But Katie felt a strong obligation about Tom’s soul. “Why did we abandon him there? Katie complained every time they were together. When Sam and Jake returned from Baku, Sam explained the sepsis issue: that there were dangers, and that Tom’s body would have to be cremated to be shipped home. Katie, however, remained unconvinced, and cremation was out of the question for the passionately devout Katie. Jake was no help. He had his own account of things, and it was different from the official report. Most of the family had moved on, but Katie found it easier said than done.
This was Chicago, and the Kowalski sisters and the men they married were from typical, working-class families. Going to college was never a given. If a family member did go on to school, it was to earn a certificate or maybe a two-year degree. They enrolled at city schools like Roosevelt, Rush, DePaul, or the Illinois Institute of Technology. Tuition was cheap, and living at home helped defray the costs. Julia had a business degree from IIT and Katie a B.S. in Nursing from Rush. If Jake or Denis wanted to pursue a college degree, the city option was what was expected. The boys, however, had a different idea, and it wasn’t Notre Dame or Georgetown.
Jake had proposed the scheme to Denis a month earlier. They were eating at Hardy’s on 154th when Jake said, “You start the talk.”
“Why me? It’s your idea.”
“They pay attention when you talk.” Although Denis was five years younger, everyone considered him more trustworthy.
“Okay,” said Denis, and then he hesitated knowing Jake would not react calmly to his next sentence. “I’ve told my mother.”
“You what?”
“I have spoken to Julia about going to Ireland for school.” Jake threw a French fry onto the tray and then turned his head away in a huff. “You’ve got to trust me on this,” said Denis. “She’d be livid if I hadn’t told her. Then we’d be nowhere.”
“What’d you say?”
“‘That I want to see Dublin,’ that’s what I told her,” Denis said. “’I want to take a gap year and see our ancestral home.’”
“Gap year, ancestral home, that’s good, de Barras.”
“I added, ‘that will give me time to think about college here, or maybe I’ll just come home after a year, and go to IIT.’”
“Give her a way out. Pretty smart for a kid.” It was smart, and Jake knew it. But Denis wasn’t entirely forthcoming. He wanted out, out of Calumet Park and out of the stifling Polish culture and its sanctimonious claustrophobia.
“‘Fair enough,’ I’ll say.”
Then you talk about staying with Sean’s sister, Maggie; pay her a small stipend for room and board, it will help three families all at the same time.”
“‘It would save a lot of money,’ I’ll add.” It was set, then, the gap year plot. They had constructed a scheme they thought unassailable.
For most of his high school years, Denis had dreamed of Trinity College in Dublin, where his grandfather had graduated. He thought he would study the classics – unheard of in his family – and then, if his grades were good enough, go on to graduate school. For Jake, however, Ireland was just stopover. He had a promise to keep, and he was determined to get to Azerbaijan. But this he kept to himself.
No one could recall an instance when the de Barras didn’t live on Wentworth Avenue. They had a second-floor apartment above the Nowicki Grocery. It was a spacious apartment with a front-room, which had a bay window overlooking the busy thoroughfare. The brunch was going as planned, except for one problem. Katie had invited the Mike and Sonia Bedrosian the week before so Julia couldn’t uninvite them this week. Sonia was the elder Kowalski sibling and forever felt duty-bound to mother her little sisters. The twins, of course, didn’t appreciate being bossed around. But that’s what Sonia did, even at this late stage of their lives. Her husband, Mike, had some irksome faults as well. Like Jake, he was a member of the FAA and had an opinion about anything and everything. Sean said he would argue with a stump, particularly if the stump was one of those “damn downtown Democrats.”
Today, Katie and Jake were late, and for Sean, the tardiness took on a sense of prickly anxiety. “I’m not certain they’ll turn up,” he said.
“Calm down,” Julia said.
“Born late those Moynihans. Like Tom, he was always late.” Before they had married the Kowalski sisters, Sean de Barras and Tom Moynihan were family acquaintances, but not chums. Both were from a long line of expat Irishmen – Sinn Féin families – and that was often the subject of heated conversations. But they had no mutual acquaintances or core interests. Sean was a stevedore at the Chicago docks; Tom’s father, Gerry Moynihan, got Sean his job, just as he had for Mike. As Harbormaster of the Port of Chicago, Gerry had lots of influence.
“Why think ill of them?” Julia said, “They’ll be here.”
“They’re just a last-minute family,” Denis commented.
“They are not going to turn up, I think,” said Sean with an air of exasperation.
“Denis and Jacob have important matters to discuss today. They’ll be here.”
“Why would you be callin’ him Jacob,” demanded Sean. “It’s Jake, Mrs. De Barras.”
“It’s a boy’s name,” she complained. “He’s a man, and we should use his proper name, Jacob, like the one in the Bible.” It was more than the name, of course. It was about Julia getting her way with her husband.
Denis’ father was cold and aloof. Sean de Barras seemed to purposefully give the impression that he was indifferent to any father-son relationship. At least that’s the way Denis saw it. As a youngster, Denis never felt he knew his father. Knew is not the right word, but understood or appreciated were not right either. He was somehow apart
from his son. Sean was around as the boy was growing up, but he was not in Denis’ life.
But Julia was there. Mothers are like that, ready with affection or attention when needed. It didn’t really matter what kind of attention, a kiss, a little pat on the back, or a scolding. When Jake was ten and Denis five they would scream at each other, fight over who got to cling onto to their mom’s dress or pant leg. Jake remembered being disgusted by such petulance on his cousin’s part. He was in fifth grade and thought Denis immature.
At that moment, Julia heard a knock on the back door. Katie opened it, and shouted out, “Yoo-hoo, the Moynihans have arrived.” Five minutes later they were all seated for the Sunday brunch. After they had finished, cleared off the dirty dishes, and put away the leftovers, Julia invited the family to the front room for coffee and tea. Everyone was surprised. Rarely did the de Barras use that space for anything. The new sofa was still wrapped in a protective plastic covering.
Julia began the discussion, a purposefully casual chat about Denis taking his university degree next year. When the idea of going to Ireland came up, Sean and Mike were understandably taken aback. “And what would be the trouble with DePaul or Loyola?” Sean asked.
“Both fine Catholic schools, and here on safe American soil,” Mike added.
By nature, Denis was not confrontational, so he let Jake take the lead arguing with Uncle Mike. “I’ll be going with Denis. We want to experience our Irish heritage.”
“Will ya now,” Katie said sarcastically. “After all the years of in and out, Jake’ll be goin’ to college again. That’s funny.”
Jake countered, “Well, someone’s got to look after the boy.”
Out of the blue, Denis said, “I’m done with Newman and Jesuit schools.”
“Don’t be sayin’ such a thing,” Katie cautioned. “Newman’s a saint.”
“It’s a venial sin, for sure, Denis,” Julia added.
Sonia piped in, “There’ll be no pleas from the saint when the daars of the purgatory are slammed on ya, now will there?”
Jake laughed at Denis’ predicament, moral outrage by three Kowalski sisters was a tough thing to face. Working to get the proposal back on track, Denis said, “I meant to say ‘I’d like to have a gap year to see if I really want to spend four years in Ireland.’” It was a perfect dodge.
“We could live with the de Barras cousins in Dublin and save a lot of money.”
Everyone joined in the discussion except Mike. Quietly fuming, he was trying to stay calm knowing that Jake and Denis were up to something. He just didn’t know what. A different deal, he thought. Jake had made a pledge. What was he doing? Was this a double-cross?
That’s when Mr. de Barras came to the crux of the matter, “And how, saints be praised, would either household pay for such an education?” The room turned silent. No one wanted to be the next to speak.
Katie looked at her sister, simmering with resentment. Julia knew something she didn’t. Then, with an air of certitude, Julia said, “It’s hangin’ in the Moynihans’ hallway, the boys’ future is.” She meant, of course, Papa Martin’s treasure. The document – the original draft of the 1937 Constitution of Ireland, signed by Éamon de Valera – greeted every guest that entered the Moynihan household. It hung next to a picture of de Valera, Papa Martin, and his brothers. It was Martin’s last and most precious gift to his grandson, Tom. When Tom died, Papa Martin insisted that Jake have it.
“If we sell Martin’s treasure the boys will have money enough for college and the gap year,” Julia said.
“It’ll bring a million dollars, it will,” Jake insisted.
“Not a million,” Sean said, “but several hundred thousand.
“If it were ever brought to auction in Ireland, it would fetch a fortune.”
There it was… the scheme unfolded. “Would anyone take another cup?” Julia asked. It was a lot to understand, but the final decision was Katie’s to make. If she agreed to the plan, it was a done deal.
Katie Moynihan was dazed by her family’s spirited back-and-forth. But her face told a different story. She put a soft hand to her mouth, recalling of all those sad years when Tom was overseas. Then she turned to Jake, took a small breath, and then asked, “What would you have me do, Jacob?” She searched for a sign in his eyes, “Do you want to go to Ireland? Is that what you want, Jacob?”
There would be no sitting on the fence now, and Jake reassured her that it was his heart’s desire. Afterward, he said something entirely unexpected, “I want to take Lindy with me.” That was a surprise. Jake and Denis had never talked about Lindy coming along. But no one put up a fight – Lindy was in.
And so, it was settled. Jake would put Papa Martin’s Treasure up for auction. Sean said it would be best if they used a London auction house, “Sotheby’s would bring in clients from all over the UK, and get the best price.”
With everything agreed, Sonia began clearing away the last of the dishes. Katie rose from the couch and hugged her son. All seemed satisfied, except for Mike Bedrosian. He stood next to the bay window facing Wentworth Avenue, unmistakably in a black mood. Once the others had gone from the room, he grabbed Jake’s elbow and escorted him outside. “Just gettin’ a smoke,” he said to Sean who had already turned on the TV for the Bears pregame.
“What the hell, Jake! This is not the promise you made.”
“There have been adjustments, Mike. I had to make Denis and Julia happy. I don’t care about throwaway promises.”
“I’m not talking about the Freedom Army,” Mike shouted. “I’m talking about the others… you know who. If they get a hold of this news, there will be trouble.” He stopped for a moment, then added, “I have no idea what Tadesian and the Alliance will do. No one can control them.”
Jake, needless to say, knew what Mike meant. “I’ve got this, Mike.”
Unable to calm himself, Bedrosian went on, “We set up Clear Spring so you could become an expert at drone tactics.” Hoping to get the upper hand, he added, “This is not over, Moynihan. I’ll be talking to Katie. The treasure, by law… she’s the rightful owner.
“It will all work out,” Jake reassured Mike, “as we have agreed.”
But Jake had a plan of his own. He had quit his job and purchased three, one-way tickets to London. The treasure was already scheduled for auction at Sotheby’s on Tuesday, October 31st. “Nothing has changed,” said Jake, “You’ll see.” He was lying, of course.
18
Tad Tadesian
Four days later, Jake Moynihan and Lindy Bedrosian were driving through Pennsylvania on their way to Boston. The long trip from Chicago was not merely for business, but also for pleasure and discovery. The previous day, they had stopped at Fallingwater to see the famous Frank Lloyd Wright site. Presently, they were several hundred miles further southeast. The plan was to visit three Revolutionary War battle sites: Brandywine, White Marsh, and finally, Valley Forge, where family legend had it, one of Jake’s ancestors had wintered in 1777-78 with General Washington. Afterward, they would meet with Tad Tadesian in Watertown, Massachusetts before heading to the Sotheby’s auction of Papa Martin’s Treasure.
To fill in the time, Jake said, “Tell me about Tadesian.”
“I’ve only met him twice,” Lindy replied. “He was one of the founding delegates of the Vartan Alliance.”
“Does that mean he’s Armenian?”
“Armenian-American. Both of his parents were part of the Armenian diaspora that came to the States about 60 years ago.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a publisher. Runs Saroyan Weekly, the Saroyan Review, and the Armenia-America website called Voices from Ararat.” Tali continued, “Watertown is a tiny suburb of Boston. It is the center of Tadesian’s operations, and his media outlets are nationwide and very profitable.”
“How does he have time for the Vartan All
iance?”
“Sees it as his patriotic duty, I suppose.”
“A fanatic then?”
“Dedicated, political, and clever,” Lindy replied acidly, “Yes, he is a fanatic, just like me. It’s a just war, Jake.”
“Quoting Saint Augustine, are we?
“Quoting Vartan, the warrior. He was first to explain what justice meant in war.” Lindy was wrong, of course, but like partisans of any ages, mythos was more important than the facts. Vartan the Brave was the legendary, fifth-century hero in the Armenian war with Persia. The Vartan Alliance was an expat movement of diehards that supported greater Armenia against evil others, especially those of Shia Islam. Lindy and her Uncle Mike were members.
“It’s simply that Sam told me this thing between Armenia and Azerbaijan has been going on for years, decades, each party playing the victim card when it suited them.”
“The 1.5 million dead by forced labor and death marches give credence for us to say otherwise, Mister Moynihan.”
“Ah, the Armenian genocide. But wasn’t that the Ottoman Turks?”
“Same people, Turks and Azerbaijanis,” Lindy replied.
Jake lamented, how quickly the woman forgets that my brother is Azeri, a bigshot Azeri.
That night, Jake and Lindy stopped in Strasburg, a small town in Lancaster County. It was Amish country: rolling hills, working farms, horse and buggy, all that. They found a cheap motel next to the Strasburg rail road. They had hot dogs, chips, and Cokes at the depot café, and then took a ride to Paradise aboard a historic steam train.
It was an entertaining tour until 40 Amish men boarded the train, speaking German. Jake and Lindy had never seen real Amish and didn’t know any German. One old gentleman sat next