Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  Jamie shook his head. “Perhaps, but that’s not the point you’ve all been making. I understand I’m not myself and I haven’t been for some time now. I just don’t know how to get past it. I don’t know how to accept this. I’ve asked God for strength and all I get is weakness.”

  “You can’t give up,” Brigid insisted. “You always taught us that. Perseverance always pays off—or did that only apply to us kids?”

  Jamie took in the expectant stares of his daughters, and then nodded his head. “You’re right, Griffin women are always right.”

  “Got that right,” Eileen said.

  “All I can do is tell you I’ll try my best.”

  “That was something else you always told us, Dad,” Riona added.

  Jamie smiled sadly. “Now I’m getting schooled by my daughters, what will—”

  A loud pounding on the front door and the frantic ringing of their doorbell interrupted Jamie. “What the hell?” Jamie said, wobbling to his feet and to the door.

  Jamie unlocked the door, and Daphné Lopes pushed it open, a frantic look on her face. “Everybody out. Everybody out the back now.” She grabbed Jamie by the arm.

  Eileen and the girls jumped up at Daphné’s words, but Jamie pulled free. “Daphné. What the hell’s going on here?”

  “No time, Unc, no time. Outside, out back, now, now, now.” Daphné managed to get Eileen and the girls moving in the direction she wanted them to go, but Jamie refused to budge.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

  Daphné shot a quick look over her shoulder to make sure the others were heading outside. “We were on stakeout and this big dude drove out from Sedecla’s.”

  “Yeah, so?” Jamie asked.

  “So we followed him here and watched him sneak up to your front porch. As soon as he left, we rushed to see what he’d done.” Daphné took a deep breath to calm herself. “He put a bomb on the front porch, Uncle Jamie.”

  “A bomb?” Jamie exclaimed. “Jaysus Christ on a broken-down bicycle. I gotta call the bomb squad.” He reached for the phone, but stopped once he picked it up. Just as Daphné put her hand on Jamie’s shoulder, he realized something. “Where’s your sister?” he demanded. “Where’s Darcelle?”

  “No time for the bomb squad—the timer was set for only five minutes, and we’re down to half that by now. Dar’s trying to disarm the bomb.”

  Jamie threw the phone to the floor and broke free of Daphné, striding to the door and turning on the porch light.

  “Damnit, Unc.” yelled Darcelle, squinting and holding up a hand. “Now I can’t see.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jamie looked at the corner of the porch nearest the living room. Darcelle bent down over a small bundle. He gingerly stepped to stand by her, with Daphné right behind. Jamie could see a digital timer atop the bundle, which contained several pipe bombs. The timer display read 1:45 and was slowly ticking down. “Darcelle, let’s go. It’s not worth getting killed,” he said, reaching carefully down to touch her shoulder.

  “No,” Darcelle hissed with a shrug, knocking Jamie’s hand away. She had her Swiss Army Knife in her hand. It contained not only the blades, corkscrews and can openers that most Swiss Army knives featured, but an incredible array of extras, including pliers, scissors, tweezers, a screwdriver and a wrench with multiple bits, a wire stripper, a toothpick, a pen, a flashlight, and even a 32 GB USB flash drive. Darcelle hovered over two red wires that ran from the timer to the pipes with the scissors in hand. The timer readout had now reached 1:30. “I can do this.”

  “Dar, Uncle Jamie is right,” Daphné pleaded. “If we don’t get moving, this thing will kill us.”

  “The house can be replaced,” Jamie said, grabbing Darcelle’s shoulder more firmly this time.

  “No,” Darcelle shouted, startling Jamie and Daphné as she slapped away Jamie’s hand. “I can save your house and our lives, now let me be.” She turned back to the bomb, which was now counting down to one minute, fifteen seconds. “This is a simple bomb. The wires run from the timer,” she pointed, “to the fuse here on the pipes. Turning on the light actually helps now that I’ve got my vision back. I’ve looked all around this and there are no trips or other devices to set off the bomb, which makes sense, because the big dude had to carry it up here and put in place.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Daphné said. “Spare us the lesson—the timer’s down to a minute.”

  The digital display clicked from 1:00 to :59.

  “All I have to do is cut the two wires into the timer. Then we all back away nice and easy and let the bomb squad take care of the rest.” Darcelle looked back over her shoulder. “You two aren’t going to do the smart thing and head out back with the others?’

  Both Jamie and Daphné shook their heads slowly.

  Jamie took in a deep breath. “I hope you know what the hell you‘re doing, young lady.”

  “So do I, Unc,” Darcelle replied with a chuckle. She reached out with her scissors to cut the first wire. “So do I.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Monday before Christmas was a typical, snowy, December day in Boston. The sky was a foggy gray, with low clouds that looked like they could open up and send more snow down at any time. The only positive thing about the day’s weather was that it was warmer than it had been for the past week.

  Jamie looked out at the wintry day and sighed. In the immediate aftermath of the attempted bombing, he had briefly returned to his old self. He had still been exhausted and fought brutal headaches every day, but Jamie had been active and involved for the first time in weeks. The Explosive Ordnance Unit had arrived at their house shortly after Frank and Patrick Griffin. Bob Sullivan was on scene after the EOU had rendered the bomb safe. Once Daphné and Darcelle had related their night’s activities to all the officers present, two things had occurred. First, Sully had summoned Len Hamilton to the scene, since Jamie insisted that the incident was connected to the Raisin Killer case. Second, Jamie had endured a withering lecture from Frank Griffin, punctuated by remarks from Sully. Paddy Griffin and Len Hamilton had watched. Daphné and Darcelle pointed out that their “illegal activities” had most likely saved the lives of Jamie and his family, and had averted a devastating bomb from exploding. After several minutes of back-and-forth heated words, Eileen had whistled sharply, silencing everyone and demanding that they all leave immediately. She had told them they could come back in the morning, but she had enough and was not going to tolerate any more nonsense this evening.

  Now, eight days later, Jamie was worse off than he had been before the attempted bombing. He was unshaven—for the fourth day in a row and in his sweats—for the third day in a row—and had not showered—also for the third day in a row. Despite the family meeting the previous week, Jamie was depressed. Even he could no longer deny it to himself—he knew he was at the worst place he’d ever been in his life.

  * * * *

  Although Ceoil Scoil had closed at five o’clock in the darkling dusk, Eileen was still hard at work as seven o’clock encased the world in blackness. Eileen was working late, forcing herself to plod through the drudgery of tasks such as monthly invoicing, sales tax reports, and quarterly tax payments. The only light on in the shop was the light in her office at the back of the store. Blinds obscured the front windows, but from where she sat, Eileen could still see a slice of the street outside through the glass front door. As usual, music was playing—she was listening to “Woman of the House,” one of her favorite albums from one of her favorite groups, Cherish the Ladies.

  Every so often, Eileen would look up from her computer screen, and take a momentary break from the parade of numbers and routine tasks to curse softly at the latest letter from Samuel Properties that still sat atop her pile of “important stuff.” She stopped her data entry and picked up the letter for the umpteenth time. “Sugar plum fairies,” Eileen said in disgust. “What am I going to do?” This letter was a follow-up to th
e letter she had received back in November, reiterating the intent of the new owners to force current tenants to either purchase their space at the outrageous cost of $150 per square foot or vacate the premises by the beginning of February.

  “I don’t have that kind of damned money,” she said, using an actual swear word. “It’s completely unreasonable.” Her calls to Samuel Property had gotten her nowhere. Nor had she been able to garner much support from the other tenants. They were already planning to move, going out of business, or getting loans to purchase their stores. Lord, Eileen thought, I know you move in mysterious ways, but why did Jamie have to get sick now? If he still had his job, we might be able to swing a loan. Now—Eileen fought back tears and returned to her work. Fortunately, she was nearly finished—her thoughts scrabbling around the dilemma frayed her nerves.

  The darkness outside the shop deepened the cloudy, moonless night. An occasional car passed by, but Ceoil Scoil was not in a high traffic area—most of the businesses around her shop were closed, with the exception of the pub down the block. Across the street, the view presented a few parked cars and a tall, vine-covered concrete wall that surrounded the Dorchester North Burying Ground. The dark shapes of trees in the cemetery, leafless branches swaying gently in the night breeze, were visible above the wall.

  Very little caught Eileen’s attention once the shop closed—especially when she was deep in concentration. As she worked, a dark figure exited a car parked up the street, out of sight from the shop. Looking around, scanning for occupants and seeing none, Tomás da Silva walked cautiously across the street to stand in front of the shop next to Ceoil Scoil. He again looked around—an occasional patron entered or exited the Irish bar, but it was almost all the way to Columbia Road, so patrons would not see da Silva standing in the shadows. da Silva crept alongside the building until he came to Ceoil Scoil. The window blinds were down, so he was able to walk right up to the door, then crouched down so as not to draw the attention of anyone inside the shop. He could see light from within, and from his vantage point, he could tell that the person inside was the woman, the wife of the meddlesome cop. da Silva gently placed the parcel he at the base of the shop’s front door. After positioning it to his satisfaction, he pressed a small button and the red LED lights of a digital timer began counting down from five minutes.

  da Silva walked back across the street and entered his car, started it, lit a cigarette, and then watched the storefront where he placed the bomb. He was well out of the blast zone, but he was not going to risk the bitch leaving or someone interfering before this bomb could do its intended work. Sedecla had not been happy that the previous attempt had failed, and da Silva was enraged that he had been embarrassed before his mistress. As he finished his cigarette, a violent explosion shattered the silent, black night. It consumed the entire store, blowing glass and debris into the air and across the street, lighting the entire street in the red glow of flames. da Silva smiled grimly, flicked his cigarette butt out the window, and drove away, leaving the blazing fire and wail of car alarms behind him.

  * * * *

  Jamie listlessly wandered from the living room window back to the sectional. It was three days before Christmas, but Jamie was not in a holiday mood. His daily activities, once a tightly scheduled gamut of exercise, work, and family, now consisted of sleep, television, occasional arguments with Eileen or his daughters, and then more sleep. Jamie, who had never taken any long-term prescription medication in his life, now had a handful of pills he took, both morning and night. Jamie couldn’t recall the last positive conversation he had with anyone—his discussions about the case with Louie, Daphné and Darcelle were becoming less frequent and tinged with despair of making any significant progress. Besides arguments with his wife and daughters, Jamie’s conversations with his father and older brother continued to be acrimonious, but now his mother and other siblings were ganging up on him. Even Father O’Connor had lectured him when the priest stopped by one Monday morning after Jamie had missed Sunday Mass for the second straight week.

  Worst of all, his falls had not stopped. In fact, they became more frequent and more serious. Jamie had slipped on the icy porch one morning and cracked several ribs. After that incident, Eileen and the girls had gone out and bought him an Irish Blackthorn walking stick. Now I walk around like some cripple, Jamie thought bitterly. I can’t work, I can’t do anything. I’m failing everyone I love and care about.

  * * * *

  Father Anthony O’Connor drove his old, beat-up Chevy Tracker along Dorchester Avenue, trolling the area frequented by ladies of the evening. It was a dark evening for the ladies and their customers—cold and moonless, made colder by the chill of a winter wind.

  Monday was the only night he had free this Christmas week—he had Christmas Eve and Christmas Masses, along with other prayer vigils and celebrations over the next three days. O’Connor cursed himself as he looked at the women, who looked brazenly back at him, boldly displaying their wares even in the cold winter night.

  Lord, please give me strength to turn away from temptation, he prayed. I am weak, and I know this is a sin, but I cannot find a way to stop.

  He was on his second pass along the red-light district when a woman caught his eye. O’Connor was a large man, and he preferred larger women with actual curves. A well-endowed, long-legged redhead with curly hair that reached her shoulders walked up to O’Connor’s car as he slowed to a stop beside her. She was dressed in a tight-fitting, low-cut sweater, with a white fur hat covering her head and ears, and a black leather bomber jacket that was partially zipped. Her short skirt showed off her long legs, which she protected as best she could with tights. She had on five-inch heels, which made her nearly as tall as O’Connor. The priest slid the passenger side window down and the woman bent to look in. She trained her large green eyes on the priest and asked, “What can I do for you, kind sir?”

  Unseen by either of them, a shadow detached itself from a nearby alley and made its way toward the Tracker. Before the man had covered half the distance, another man, much taller, exited a car parked along the avenue and intercepted him, reaching to grasp the smaller man’s arm.

  “¡Joder,” the smaller man cursed, as he was turned around to face the larger man.

  “Quiet, Emilio,” ordered Timmy O’Neill.

  “O’Neill,” Emilio replied in shock. “I apologize. I did not realize it was you.”

  “Come over here,” O’Neill ordered, taking his lieutenant back to the shadows next to a closed shop. “What are you doing?”

  Emilio made a conciliatory gesture. “I am only following orders.”

  O’Neill glared at the man. “Whose orders?” he demanded.

  Emilio hesitated, looked at the angry, determined gaze of his superior, and then decided. “I received orders from the Qedesh.”

  “You spoke with the Qedesh?” O’Neill asked.

  “No, not directly. Her seneschal, da Silva came to visit me.”

  Timmy O’Neill’s jaws clenched and unclenched, and after a second, he continued. “What did Lucky order you to do, Emilio?”

  The smaller man spread his hands pleadingly, knowing that O’Neill would not like the answer. “He said the Qedesh wished the priest to be arrested the next time he picked up one of our girls.” Emilio Gonzalez was a patrolman in the Dorchester district. As such, O’Neill was his superior both in the Mazzimah and the police department. O’Neill had recruited him four years ago to be his second-in-command. While Gonzalez was no coward, a trip to view one of Sedecla’s “feeding sessions” had been more than enough to ensure his loyalty.

  Glancing at the Tracker, O’Neill could see that O’Connor and Tina, the red-head, were coming to terms. He patted Gonzalez on the shoulder and said, “I’ll take care of this, Emilio.”

  The smaller man became distressed at this. “Timmy, I am sorry, but da Silva was quite emphatic about the Qedesh’s orders—I am to do this, not you.”

  “Do not question me,” O’Neill grated har
shly, leaning down close. O’Neill softened his tone as he said, “You have done well, Emilio. I will speak with da Silva and the Qedesh after I take care of this. You will not be punished, I swear it.”

  He did not wait to hear a response. After a moment of internal struggle, Gonzalez shrugged and walked back to the storefront. He had backed off, but he waited to see what O’Neill was going to do.

  Father O’Connor felt an uncomfortable, but familiar mixture of lust, anticipation, and shame as the tall busty redhead slid smoothly into the passenger seat of the Tracker. “Where shall we go, miss?” he asked hungrily.

  Tina smiled and slowly stroked the priest’s inner thigh. “I got a place down the street where we can go and have some fun, big guy.”

  “Sounds good to me,” O’Connor replied thickly.

  Before he could put the car into gear, however, something slapped loudly against the window beside him. He jerked around at the noise and saw a police department badge pressed against the glass. O’Connor could not see the face of the man holding the badge—he was too tall. The cop removed the badge from the window, walked around the car, and then opened up the passenger door.

  “Get out, Tina,” the man ordered brusquely.

  The redhead started to protest. “Hey, whaddya—” She stopped abruptly when she saw who it was, nodded once, and then scrambled out of the car and back onto the cold sidewalk.

  To Father O’Connor’s horror and shame, after the man had walked around to the passenger door, Timmy O’Neill slid in and closed the door. He sighed deeply, and then turned in the seat to face O’Connor.

  “You should know better than this, Father,” O’Neill said in a gravelly, sad voice. “We got a real problem here. Let’s take a little drive.”

  * * * *

  Jamie slowly climbed up the stairs to his workout space/office on the third floor. He shuffled to the opposite end of the third floor, where he had a large wooden desk, printer stand, credenza, bookcases, and file cabinets. An older, tower-style computer and a 21-inch flat panel monitor dominated Jamie’s workspace.