Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  “You don’t want to play that card, Jamie. It cuts both ways.”

  “Listen, Sully, if the tables were turned and you were in my shoes, are you seriously going to tell me that you wouldn’t be doing whatever you could to bring that bitch to justice?”

  Sully sighed deeply. “No, you know I can’t tell you that, but I’ve instructed Len to do whatever he believes is necessary to keep you out of our investigation, and I’m going to come down hard on him if you step over the line.”

  Len Hamilton looked at Jamie. “I’m not gonna let that happen, Griffin.”

  Jamie had held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Like I said, I’m not going to get in your way, and if I find out anything significant, you’ll be my first call. Take it or leave it.”

  Silence had played out for several seconds before Sully finally spoke. “Okay, Jamie, but it’s your head on a platter if this goes south.”

  A tap on his elbow brought Jamie out of his reverie . He looked at Johnny, who then pointed to the patio. Frank was gesturing for Jamie to join them, with a look that broached no refusal. “Oh, this oughta be a real treat,” Jamie muttered as he lurched to his feet.

  Johnny grabbed Jamie’s arm to steady him. “Thanks,” Jamie mumbled.

  “Séamus Edward.” Nuala spoke firmly. “You need to remember how this affects your father and your brother.”

  Jamie looked down at his mother and shook his head. “No, máthair, they need to remember how this affects me.” He glanced at Eileen, who watched him closely. Jamie smiled and walked into the lion’s den.

  The day was still gorgeous, even as dusk was beginning to descend, coming early as it did in a New England autumn. The elder Griffin’s back yard was small, but punctuated strategically with well-maintained trees. Jamie walked to the cooler, grabbed and opened a beer, took a long swallow, and then walked to stand beside his father, on the opposite side as his brother. “Yes, Da?”

  Frank Griffin did not look at Jamie. He stared at the burgers and hot dogs he was grilling as if they were suspects in an interrogation room. After a moment, Frank said, “Bob Sullivan tells me you’re being difficult about the Raisin Killer investigation.”

  “Difficult how?” Jamie asked innocently.

  “You know damned good and well how,” Frank said, turning toward Jamie with deep anger in his eyes and gesturing emphatically with the tongs he held in his right hand. “Sully told me that he warned you off the case, but you refused to promise to stay out of it.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, bro?” Patrick demanded. “You’re not a cop any more for Christ’s sake.”

  Jamie struggled to maintain his temper. “I’ll ask you two the same question I asked Sully. If you were in my situation, can you truthfully tell me you wouldn’t be doing the same?” He held his father and brother’s gazes for several seconds, and then Frank turned back to the grill.

  “No, and you know better than to ask that, but I’m your father, and I’m telling you to stay out of official police business.”

  “Or what, Da?” Jamie asked heatedly. “You going to put me in jail?”

  “That’s what I would do,” growled Patrick.

  Frank held up his hand to silence his eldest son. “I’ll handle this, Paddy.” He turned back to face Jamie. “I don’t want it to come to that, Jamie, but if you force my hand, I will order Sully and Len Hamilton to take you into custody if you cross the line.”

  “You can’t do that without charging me with something,” retorted Jamie, “and I’m going to make damn sure I don’t break any laws.”

  Frank Griffin sighed and turned back toward the grill, adjusting the meat as necessary. Then he softly replied, “I can always order you into protective custody, son. I can place you under house arrest.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Jamie spat each word with icy fury.

  Frank wheeled back to face Jamie. “You keep a civil tongue in your head, boyo.” The scar along the right side of Frank’s face flushed bright red, and his voice was clear and loud. “I’m still your father and you’ll by God give me the respect I’m due. If this is how you honor your father, I’m ashamed that my own brother gave his life for yours.” Frank’s right arm shot out as the tongs dropped to the concrete while Frank backhanded Jamie across the cheek with a loud crack.

  Shocked silence descended like an unforeseen winter storm over the back yard. Even Patrick seemed stunned that their father had actually hit Jamie. Physical reprimands had been commonplace when they were boys, but those had stopped years ago. Jamie wasn’t sure which hurt him worse—Frank’s stinging slap or the invocation of his uncle’s murder.

  The angry tableaux only held a few seconds before Frank’s eyes darted past Jamie toward the house. Jamie and Patrick turned to follow their father’s gaze. The rest of the family had been watching the byplay through the sliding glass doors. While they might not have heard the entire argument, the slap to Jamie’s face filled in any gaps in the exchange.

  Jamie felt himself to turn to brittle ice and knew he had to leave before he shattered into a million shards. Without another word, Jamie spun on his right heel, executing a precision about-face, years of practice coming out without a conscious thought. He walked stiffly to the sliding door and drew it open with enough force to rattle the glass in the frame.

  “Eileen, girls,” Jamie said tightly, nodding to his wife and daughters. “We need to go—now.” Without waiting to see if they complied, Jamie stalked out of the room and out of his parents’ house.

  Eileen made apologies to Nuala and Brighid, herding the girls before her. She made no apology to Frank Griffin, who stood in angry silence in the patio doorway. “How could you, Frank Griffin? I thought you were a better man than that,” she said angrily. Then Eileen followed her daughters to catch up with her husband, who was already halfway down the street toward home.

  * * * *

  Eileen Griffin unlocked the door to her music store, hurrying to escape the frigid, rainy Saturday morning that followed the balmy weather on Halloween like a cold-hearted stalker. Eileen shut out the miserable November day and flipped her shop sign to “Open.” She could not, however, shut out the miserable thoughts that had plagued her since last night’s debacle at her in-laws’ house. Neither she nor the girls had spoken to Jamie on the walk home or for the rest of the evening. The girls did not know what to make of the scene they had witnessed, so they went to their rooms to study or surf the net, coming out at bedtime to kiss their parents goodnight. Caitlin and Riona lingered over their father, hugging him perhaps a little harder than usual, showing their support.

  It had not been until they were both in bed that Jamie had finally spoken. Eileen knew her husband too well—he was far too angry for her to attempt to cajole or nudge him out of his funk. He had to make the first move and decide that he had stewed long enough. They changed into pajamas, and Eileen had opened her book to read, a lifelong nighttime habit. Jamie often read before bed, but last night, he had lain there for several minutes before finally turning to her. “Do you think I’m wrong?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Wrong about what, love? Leaving your parents? No, not at all. Your Da was way out of line.”

  Jamie reached out for her hand, and Eileen set aside her book, took his hand, and turned to face him. “No, although it meant more to me than you’ll ever know to hear you berate my father as you left.”

  Eileen blushed. “Oh, you heard that did you? It just came out of me before I knew what I was saying.”

  “No, no—you defended me and I love you for it, but I was talking about the case. Do you agree with Da and Paddy that I should drop the case? Am I being foolishly obstinate?”

  Eileen could tell that Jamie was genuinely concerned and wanted her counsel, so she paused before answering. “No, I do not think you’re being foolish or obstinate—at least, not about that,” she had added, drawing a wry smile. They talked for more than an hour. Eileen tried to reassure Jamie that he had her support in whatever c
ourse he pursued, and Jamie tried to reassure her that he would be careful.

  He cannot keep that promise, not really, Eileen thought ruefully as she hung her coat and sat at her desk in the small office at the rear of the store.

  Eileen began opening her mail. She was dressed in her usual business attire—a stylish blouse and slacks, which today included the addition of a sweater due to the temperature. Her only jewelry was her claddagh wedding band, which featured a modest diamond, her BC class ring, and the dangly, sparkly earrings she enjoyed wearing.

  As she waded through the torrent of bills, advertisements, and junk mail, Eileen paused over a letter from the property management company who leased the store space to her. Opening it, Eileen read a formal notice to all tenants of the building that the owner was selling the property to a developer and would terminate tenants’ leases within thirty days of sale. Tenants would have first right to purchase their space at a cost of $150 per square foot. Sugar plum fairies, Eileen thought angrily as she continued reading and calculating the effect this would have on Ceoil Scoil. You can buy retail space in Boston proper for that amount. This is completely outrageous for Dorchester. Her store occupied 1,500 square feet, so it would require nearly a quarter of a million dollars to purchase her store. The letter concluded that the sale was planned for early December.

  Eileen’s face grew grim as she considered the possibilities. Ceoil Scoil was profitable, but she had paid off her business loan only two years ago. The thought of adding a huge mortgage to her bottom line chilled her. On the other hand, moving would be expensive and would require a great deal of advertising to ensure that she did not lose business. Plus, I’ll probably wind up paying more in rent, even at another location here in Dorchester. Eileen drummed her fingers upon the desktop as she held the letter in her hands like a dangerous snake. When she heard the door chimes announcing the arrival of her first lesson of the morning, Eileen placed the letter in front of her computer monitor and stood. Well now, Eileen thought as she got up to go greet her student, Isn’t that just the perfect start to the day?

  * * * *

  Riona did not feel at all like going to Sheret on Saturday morning. The weather and her mood were both crappy. She was worried about her father and about what had happened at Aunt Brighid’s birthday party yesterday. Nonetheless, she made a commitment to the group, so Riona knew she had to go to the meeting. I don’t know why I agreed to be a team leader. If I thought Mom and Dad wouldn’t freak, I’d just quit.’

  The walk to the T-station did not to improve her mood—the wind blew strong, and the temperature had dropped considerably, so the rain whipping about her face made her miserable. Riona hurried to get out of the wind at the T-station and was very grateful when the train was on time. The ride to Sheret allowed her to thaw out a tiny bit, but she her body chilled again when she had to exit the train and walk to the Sheret offices.

  Calling the space an office was too kind. Sheret was headquartered in an old warehouse that had been modified slightly from its previous appearance. The machinery had been removed, the floors and windows cleaned, and cheap throw rugs and secondhand furniture had been added in the middle of the room. It was still a cavernous space, and the heat either had not come on or was not working.

  Riona walked to where Sylvia Turner was sitting with the guy she met at their last meeting, ibn something or other. While she knew the other team leaders, none of them were friends or even acquaintances, so she felt a little shy.

  “Come on over, Riona. Come, come,” said Ms. Turner. “Would you like some tea or hot chocolate to warm you up?”

  “Hot chocolate would be fabulous,” Riona admitted.

  “Welcome to your first team leader meeting, Ms. Griffin.” ibn Ezra stood and introduced himself again. “I am Kohen ibn Ezra. I was so glad when Ms. Turner told me of your decision to become a team leader.”

  For some reason she could not identify, the man made her uncomfortable. She mumbled her thanks to ibn Ezra for the welcome and to Ms. Turner for the hot chocolate. She sat and drank her hot chocolate, listening to Ms. Turner drone. As group leader, it was her meeting to run, and she ran it just like a teacher. I wonder what she really does for a living? Riona thought, her mind wandering as she struggled to stay warm.

  She snapped back to attention when she realized that Ms. Turner had asked her a question. She took another drink of hot chocolate to buy more time. Frantically, she replayed the last sentence in her mind. “I’d have to check with my parents, Ms. Turner. When is this team leader retreat weekend again?”

  “The second weekend in January, Riona,” Ms. Turner replied. Riona thought the woman knew she had been daydreaming. “The Disciples of Endor have a camp located on one of the harbor islands. We provide new people such as yourself with more detailed instructions on your duties as a team leader. Plus, it gives all of our team leaders an opportunity to bond when we have free time and activities.”

  Riona nodded. “Well, like I said, let me check with my parents. As long as I don’t have any other obligations, I should be able to attend.”

  “Excellent,” said ibn Ezra enthusiastically.

  The rest of the meeting went by in a blur, and Riona was glad to be able to leave, even though it meant getting wet and cold once again.

  The adults followed them out, and ibn Ezra took his leave of Sylvia Turner. Then he stood and watched Riona Griffin walk briskly to the T-station. Taking out his phone, he punched a number on speed dial. “Yes?”

  “da Silva,” ibn Ezra said. “You may inform the Qedesh that it has been arranged.”

  Tomás da Silva chuckled, which made ibn Ezra’s blood run cold. “Excellent. So she will be at our retreat in January?”

  “Yes. She is checking with her parents, but I know that she will attend.”

  “Very good, ibn Ezra,” Lucky said in a silky voice. “I was not sure you would accomplish this task.”

  “Do not forget your place, seneschal,” ibn Ezra replied coldly.

  “Do not forget yours, priest.” da Silva hung up the phone.

  ibn Ezra looked at the disconnected cell phone and spat a curse. “Your time will come, you overgrown manservant.” Then he pocketed his cell phone and made his way into the rain.

  * * * *

  Father Anthony O’Connor looked around him nervously. It was a cold, dark, rainy Saturday night in Dorchester. O’Connor bundled up in a heavy insulated raincoat, and a large black fedora obscured his face. He turned up the collar of his raincoat with a gloved hand and walked slowly down the street. O’Connor wasn’t certain if the cold or his inner struggle were chilling him the most. Lord, he prayed silently. I am weak. I am an imperfect vessel for your work. Please give me the strength to resist temptation and to reject Satan and all his works. The priest shook his head as he walked. Probably too late to pray for strength now, especially since I came out on a night such as this.

  O’Connor recalled the teachings of one of the old Jesuits at his seminary. The elderly priest had described temptation as “a universal human experience—and overcoming it is a universal human struggle.” His instructors were fond of pointing out that even Jesus had been tempted during his trials in the desert. Even that temptation, they claimed, was an opportunity for spiritual growth. However, they were just as quick to conclude that the wages of sin is death. Well, then, Father Kirke, at this rate I am well on my way to receiving full salary. O’Connor walked toward a dark corner where some women were standing.

  “Hey, handsome,” one of them called. Even in this weather, the women wore short skirts, nylons, and high heels. Their only concession to the cold was the addition of coats and gloves, but in most cases, the coats remained unbuttoned and unzipped. They were all dressed for work—low cut, tight-fitting blouses, skirts that barely covered their butts, and an attitude and demeanor that made it clear that they were working girls.

  “What brings you out on such a cold night? You need someone to warm you up?” While several women eyed him, the one who
sidled up to him, smuggled close, and locked her arm with his, was about thirty. She had long, black hair—straight and falling darkly down the back of her white leather coat, past her shoulders to mid-back. Her looks suggested an Asian heritage, and despite wearing five-inch stilettos, she was still a couple of inches shorter than the priest.

  O’Connor stared at the woman’s breasts, which threatened to overflow the tight red top. O’Connor saw himself standing on a precipice looking out over the abyss. “I could use some companionship,” he mumbled, feeling his determination crumbling once again.

  “Oh sure, sugar,” the black-haired woman purred. “I can provide you with lots of companionship as long as you can provide me with cash.”

  “I can pay you. Let’s go somewhere warmer,” replied O’Connor.

  “All right, big fella.” The woman turned and steered O’Connor toward a dim doorway. “We can head right in here and you can tell me what you need and I’ll tell you what I need.” The pair walked through the doorway and up a dingy flight of stairs.

  O’Connor failed to notice the big man in the shadows of an alcove beside the doorway. Although she did not reveal his whereabouts, the woman knew the other man was there. He was one of the higher-ups in the organization for which she worked. He had been asking around about a man fitting the description of this john, so she was not surprised when he silently stepped into the light and watched her take the man upstairs to conduct their business.

  Timmy O’Neill watched for several seconds as the woman led O’Connor up the stairs. Then he shook his head and walked to his car. When he was inside his Lexus and had the heat going, O’Neill took tapped some numbers on his cell phone. A few seconds later, a deep voice answered. “Yes?”

  “O’Neill. Griffin’s parish priest just headed upstairs to do business with one of my girls.”

  “Really?” asked Tomás da Silva. “I’m shocked—a man of the cloth.”