Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

Sedecla widened her eyes and her voice softened to a whisper. “Are you refusing me, Timothy?” The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

  “No, Mistress,” he replied. The other two men were not only silent, but motionless, not wanting to attract attention. “I am simply advising that we proceed carefully in this matter. I don’t think we need to worry about Griffin. He’s been ill for nearly a month and no longer allowed on any official departmental activities, so I’m surprised to learn that he came today. I can make sure that he no longer has access to any departmental resources, thus eliminating his ability to threaten us in an official capacity.”

  “What about the other two men?” demanded Sedecla.

  O’Neill shrugged. “Well, I found some pressure points I can bring to bear on Cushing. Once I confirm the identity of the third detective, I’ll check him out as well.”

  Sedecla said nothing; the only sound in the room was their breathing. Finally, she said, “Timothy, proceed as you see fit. I would remind you, however, that you are in too deep with us to hesitate in dealing with this matter. My anger aside, you would face great personal and professional harm should your superiors learn of your activities with the Mazzimah.” Timothy O’Neill said nothing more. He simply nodded his head in acquiescence. After another lengthy period of silence, Sedecla waved her hand. “You are dismissed. All of you take my orders to heart: finding ways to help us destroy these three men is now your highest priority.” The men filed out silently, and Sedecla stared ahead as she drank her wine, visions of destruction playing in her mind.

  Chapter Eight

  “I see your ten dollars and raise you twenty dollars,” said Jamie. He locked eyes with Cal, the next player to bet. Jamie’s face and body might as well be made of stone. He had worked hard over years of the monthly poker game to eliminate any tells.

  Cal Cushing looked at his partner, looked at his cards, then looked back at his partner. While Cal had also been participating in the game for years, he was not as successful as Jamie at eliminating his tells. The other men seated around the table all focused on Cal.

  “Call. That’s thirty dollars to you, Cushing,” said Paddy Griffin, taking a long draw on his beer. The men alternated hosting the game. This month, they were at Cal’s Battery Wharf townhouse. If any of the players had any doubts about Cal’s financial situation, one trip to his townhouse dispelled those doubts. Cal’s three-bedroom, three-bath townhouse was nothing short of spectacular. Jamie had once commented that Cal’s living room alone was bigger than his entire first floor, and he wasn’t that far off. Everything in the townhouse was done in top of the line fashion including a huge deck, with a spectacular view looking north out over Boston Harbor, lit up at night to rival the starry sky. Cal also had valet parking to his underground spot and a short walk to where his boat docked. Jamie had once asked Cal if his lifestyle put a serious crimp in his trust fund. Cal had replied that it did not and his salary as a detective was his “walking around money.”

  “Cushing, you fret like an old woman over your damn cards, even though you could buy all of us here several times over. Put up or shut up.” Ruarc “Rourke” O’Riley was the fire captain for Engine 17/Ladder 7, located behind the Churchyard on Meetinghouse Hill in the northern end of Dorchester. Meetinghouse Hill was also home to the oldest religious organization in Boston, the Unitarian Universalist church, and the first public elementary school in America, the Mather School. Married, with five children, Rourke and Jamie had known each other since their grammar school days and were the best man at each other’s wedding. Jamie considered Rourke his closest friend.

  “Shut up, O’Riley,” retorted Cal. “When I want your opinion, I’ll beat it out of you.”

  “Oh, tough cop. I’m soooooo scared.” Rourke widened his eyes and drew back in mock fear.

  “Keep it up and you will be, Cap.” Cal used Rourke’s title in a deprecating tone. “Okay, I call.” Cal threw the requisite number of chips into the pot.

  “Call.” Rourke immediately anted up.

  “Boys, may I remind you that you’re playing poker with a man of the cloth?” Jamie’s brother, Johnny, was also an occasional participant in their regular game. Whenever his schedule permitted, Johnny got great satisfaction from taking a brief break from his duties and interacting with other men in a non-religious manner. Johnny gathered up his cards and said, “Fold. If you guys were nicer to me, I’d gladly put in a good word for you with my boss.”

  In the laughter and derisive hooting that ensued, Timmy O’Neill tossed his chips into the pot. “I see the bets so far and raise another $20.” His bet drew scowls and appraising glances, but O’Neill was also good at keeping secrets.

  “Too rich for me,” said the youngest Griffin brother, Conán. “I’m a struggling musician, not a highly paid public servant like the rest of you.” He turned to Johnny and said, “With you as an exception, padre.”

  At twenty-six, Conán was considered the “black sheep.” Educated at BC High School and Boston College, Conán was “wasting” his education in his father’s opinion, pursuing a career as a musician. A talented guitarist, Conán had been in and out of several groups, searching for the right way to make it big.

  That brought the betting back to Jamie. “Twenty dollars to me now, huh?” He made a great show of looking at his cards and frowning.

  “That doesn’t work with us, Jamie,” growled Cal. “You may not have any tells, but your damned posturing doesn’t work on us either.”

  Jamie laughed. “Okay, then, I call.”

  Cal didn’t hesitate. “I’m out—no sense throwing good money after bad.” Cal shook his head.

  “Call,” said Patrick, tossing in chips.

  The betting ran back around the table, leaving Jamie, Paddy, Rourke, and Timmy to show their cards. As the last to raise, O’Neill showed his cards first. “Read ‘em and weep, boys,” he said, laying down five hearts. “I filled out my flush.”

  Rourke threw down his cards in disgust, swearing, even though Jamie should have showed his cards next. “Feckin’ luck, that’s all you have O’Neill.”

  Patrick and Timmy looked at Jamie. “Whatcha got, little brother?”

  Jamie paused for a moment before slowly laying down his cards in a broad fan. “Full boat, lads. Can you top that?”

  Looking at Jamie‘s hand, it was now Paddy who cursed. “Wouldn’t you just know it? The slacker has kings over threes, which beats my queens over sevens.” He tossed down his cards with an oath.

  Normally, Jamie would have been an obnoxious winner. This time, however, he just reached out, raked in the pot, and took a large puff of his cigar. One of the standing rules of the game was that the host provided the munchies and the guests provided the drinks and smokes. Cal had laid out an impressive spread of junk food, one of his personal weaknesses. Jamie had brought the smokes: Stradivarius Churchill cigars, which at $40 a pop meant that he’d only brought one per man. The card game was the only time Jamie ever smoked, so he didn’t feel too guilty in splurging a little. Timmy, Johnny, and Conán had brought draft Guinness in bottles, and Rourke had supplemented it with some Harp. Patrick had been greeted with a cheer when he pulled a bottle of 18-year-old Limited Reserve Jameson’s from his brown paper bag. While most of the other men stuck to beer, Patrick and Jamie preferred to drink “The Craythur” or “Creature.” However, while Jamie took his on the rocks, Patrick always drank his neat.

  “Fuck you, Jamie,” came the consensus from the table.

  After stacking his chips, Jamie looked at Patrick with a hint of fire in his eyes. “Hey, big brother, what the hell was that crack about me being a ‘slacker’?”

  Patrick coolly looked back at Jamie. “Hey, if the shoe fits, brother,”

  Now both Jamie and Rourke looked stonily at Paddy. Timmy was also unhappy with the remark, but Cal and Jamie’s other brothers just looked away. “So you think I’m faking being ill? You think I’m happy not working? That I like seeing so feckin’ many doctors, having so feck
in’ many tests, and feeling like I’m feckin’ letting everyone down? I don’t need your feckin’ crap.” Jamie flushed.

  “Hey, I think we need some refills,” began Johnny, trying to turn the conversation away from a full-scale argument.

  “Don’t try to play peacekeeper here,” replied Patrick. “We need to get this out in the open. Da doesn’t always come to these gatherings, but he told me there was no way he could play tonight because he was too upset with Jamie.”

  “Oh, and that’s my fault?” retorted Jamie.

  “Time for a break,” interjected Cal, also hoping to short-circuit the coming storm.

  Paddy stood to face Jamie. “The point is that if the doctors can’t find anything wrong with you, then it means either you’re just wussing out or faking it.”

  The room fell silent as Jamie stood to face his brother. “Really? Well, the experts at Johns Hopkins would disagree with you, brother of mine. I went through another gobshite round of tests earlier this week down in Baltimore.” Jamie’s voice rose in volume, to match the increased flushing of his face. “I got coated in powder and baked for half an hour, had another tilt table test, a whole crapload of muscular tests, met with ear and eye experts and another neurologist.”

  “Yeah, what did they find then?” Patrick stepped out from his chair toward Jamie.

  Jamie stepped to stand before his older brother. “They found anomalies in something called my autonomic system, but they still don’t know exactly what’s wrong, even though the headaches, fatigue and balance issues are still kicking my ass. Now I’m starting some meds to try to knock this thing down, and we go back to Baltimore on Monday for my final results and recommendations. It may not seem like it to you, boyo, but I’m doing everything I feckin’ can to find out what’s wrong with me.”

  Patrick stood as straight as possible, giving him an inch or two over Jamie. He looked down at his younger brother and poked him in the chest with a finger. While neither man was drunk, they had drunk enough to loosen their normal restraints. “So basically, they can’t find anything wrong. To me, that says you ain’t really sick, laddie. So now, Da and I have to try to explain to the top brass, including the Commissioner, why the hell you’ve burned all your days off and have now requested a leave of absence instead of just manning up and working through it.”

  Jamie drew himself up to his full height and leaned in close to his brother. They were eye-to-eye now. “You have no feckin’ idea what it’s like for me. Every time I try to ‘man up’ and work through it, I get worse. My headaches feel like someone’s opening the top of my head with a dull knife, and I’m so exhausted that I have to take a nap. Take a nap, for Christ’s sake. Paddy, you know that’s not like me.”

  Paddy shook his head, but pulled free, when Johnny pulled on his arm, trying to avert a fight. “All I know is you’re making Da and me look bad. If the doctors can’t find anything wrong, maybe you need to see a shrink.” Patrick smirked as he spoke.

  Time slowed to a crawl for Jamie, and a red haze passed over his eyes. Then, as if he were a marionette, someone else pulling his strings, Jamie shot a hard right into Patrick’s stomach. As his brother exhaled sharply, Jamie followed it with a left to the jaw, connecting with Patrick’s chin.

  Patrick staggered back but did not fall. He leapt forward and tackled Jamie. The two men fell with a loud crash to the floor, and Jamie had the wind knocked out of him as Patrick fell on top of him. Stunned, Jamie could not defend himself as Patrick landed several blows to Jamie’s face. “Really?” Patrick gasped. “You really want to do this?.”

  Johnny and Conán grabbed Patrick’s arms and started hauling him away from Jamie, landing him unceremoniously on his ass as they stepped between the two. Rourke grabbed Jamie’s arm and helped him into a sitting position while maintaining a strong grip. Cal and Timmy now stepped in between the two men as well.

  “What the hell is wrong with you two?” Johnny shouted. “Are you both insane?” Johnny was now standing between the two men—Patrick still sitting on the floor and Jamie sitting upright and feeling the damage on his face. “How can two smart guys be so stupid?” Johnny cried out in his most authoritative voice. While younger, Johnny held sway over his brothers by virtue of his religious office. Johnny had his hands on his hips and flung out his left hand as he turned to Patrick. “You. As the eldest of us, you should be helping us in our struggles, not mocking them. How can you possibly believe that Jamie, who has always worked hard, graduated from Notre Dame, excelled in the police department, participated in dozens of activities while raising three beautiful young women, would fake an illness? That he would not try his damnedest to work through it?.” Johnny rarely cursed, but when he did, the person he was addressing knew they were in trouble.

  Johnny now rounded on Jamie, pulling his left hand back to his side and swatting the air above Jamie’s head with his right hand. “And you, you feckin’ idjit. How do you think punching your brother is going to make anything better?” Johnny pointed a finger down at Jamie. “I know you’re not a stupid man, Séamus Edward Griffin, but I’ll be damned if you aren’t acting like one now.” Johnny stepped back a pace and looked down at his brothers. “Now, the two of you are getting up and apologizing to each other and you’ll by God mean it, or by Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’ll sure know the reason why.” Johnny now stood with both hands on his hips, a towering figure of priestly anger.

  Jamie and Patrick looked at each other, and then both men got to their feet slowly, helped by those standing closest to them. They stepped forward to face each other. There was a tense moment of silence as they each considered who should apologize first. A quick glance at Johnny, who was glaring at them both, forced a decision. Paddy held out his right hand. “I’m sorry, Jamie. Really, I am—I know better than to question you. You’re not the kind of man to fake an illness. and you’re one of the toughest damn cops I know.” Patrick spoke sincerely, albeit forced out by their brother’s anger.

  Jamie paused before taking his brother’s hand in a firm grasp. “Ah, hell, Paddy, I know. I’m sorry I lashed out at you—mostly I’m angry at myself for the very things you said. I feel like I’m letting everyone down, like I’m doing something wrong being ill, that it’s a sign of weakness.” Jamie released Patrick’s hand and put his own hands, palms up, in front of his chest to stave off any responses. “I know, I know—that’s stupid on my part as well, but it can’t be helped. ‘Tis the way I am.”

  Jamie and Paddy both stole sheepish glances at Johnny, who had gazed at each brother as he spoke. “Okay then. Maybe you two knuckleheads have learned something tonight.” He sighed deeply, as only the Irish can sigh. “On that note, gentlemen, I think we’re probably done for the night.”

  General agreement greeted this pronouncement.

  “Don’t worry about cleaning anything up,” announced Cal. “That’s what I pay my cleaning service for.”

  Weak laughter came from everyone.

  “Jamie, let’s head out,” said Rourke. Jamie had felt too tired to drive, so he hitched a ride to the game with his best friend.

  “Alright,” Jamie replied. He looked at Patrick and the other men. “Sorry for spoiling the game, gang.” Everyone demurred, but as Jamie walked out with Rourke, he felt that he had ruined an otherwise great evening. He did not notice the thoughtful look on Timmy O’Neill’s face.

  A short while later, as they were driving back toward Dorchester in Rourke’s black Camry, Rourke broke the silence. “You know Paddy is just as frustrated as you, don’t you? He doesn’t really believe you’re faking or slacking. That was just the booze talking.”

  Jamie shrugged, turning away from the passing streets and looking at his friend. “You’re a good man to say that, Ruarc O’Riley, but there’s more than just frustration there. Da can’t even come to a poker game because of me. Patrick was only saying what Cal and others at the precinct have been too polite to say. Why the hell can’t I just get over this if they can’t find anything wrong with me?
” Bitterness laced his voice as Ruarc turned to meet his gaze.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Jamie,” Rourke said, looking forward again as they pulled away from a stop light. “I’ve known you since the third grade and I know you’re not faking it. I know you’re not slacking. So do Eileen and your girls, and so do your brothers. I think Cal probably does too, but he’s just not sure what to do.”

  Jamie chuckled mirthlessly. “Neither am I, pal, that’s the problem. Neither am I. I feel like this is driving a wedge between me and my family, my friends, and my co-workers. I can’t go anywhere without someone asking about my health, and it makes me feel weak to have to tell them I’m still sick. Especially when I can’t tell them what the bloody hell is wrong with me. I just don’t know, Rourke,” he said, turning back to look out at the flashing lights of the cars and neon lights as they passed by, “but I know that something has got to give, and soon. I can’t go on like this.”

  * * * *

  Saturday morning was dreary. Jamie looked out at the weather in disgust as he let Finn MacCool out for his morning duties. There’s nothing worse than a cold and rainy day in October. I think I’d rather have snow up to my ass and sub-zero temperatures. Well, he amended after a moment, maybe not sub-zero temps, but give me the cold and snow any day over this damp shit. It gets down into your bones and won’t go away.

  Jamie let the dog back in, gave him his breakfast. and made coffee without thinking. He was exhausted from last night’s activities and having to explain the bruises on his face to Eileen when he got home hadn’t helped. The girls hadn’t seen them yet, but Jamie knew he’d face more reprimands when they learned the story as well. Maybe they won’t be up before Cal gets here, he thought hopefully. Jamie had arranged with Cal before last night’s game that he would pick him up and drive them to their next step in trying to put some more pieces into the puzzle. Sure, and I didn’t have to twist Cushing’s arm all that hard when I told him where we were going.