Obit

by Anne Emery

  She looked us over and decided we were low risk. Must have been the Mormon suits. “Come in then. I’ll see what I can do.”

  She led us to the living room of her ground-floor apartment. Every item had its place, and that place was at right angles to something else. A two-seater couch was flanked by two arm chairs at ninety-degree angles. The seating arrangement faced a mantelpiece with the fireplace bricked up. Magazines were lined up at each end of a veneered coffee table.

  We sat, like twin suitors, on the tiny couch. I felt I should be twirling a hat in my hand.

  “Tea?”

  “Lovely. Thank you,” Brennan replied with courtesy.

  We were silent while Beth worked in the kitchen. She returned and poured us tea in dainty china cups. She set down a plate of Bourbon chocolate biscuits on the coffee table, six in all.

  “Barry McDermot. I don’t remember anyone by that name. Barry Casey I remember. He used to come around when I was little.”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me, Mrs. Dowd,” I began.

  “Beth,” she said.

  “Beth. Is your father still —”

  “Alive? I wouldn’t know. Though they do say alcohol is a preservative. He may be pickled somewhere.”

  “You lost touch with your dad, then.”

  “He’s the one who lost touch. With reality and with us. I haven’t seen him since the late 1950s. Neither has anyone else in the family. But I did hear of a sighting maybe ten years ago. In a Salvation Army shelter for indigenous, no, what is it? Indigent? Indigent men. We were all indigent in this family, after our main breadwinner hit bottom. Oh, well. We did manage to get by. In a way.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Beth, what a shame,” Brennan put in. “Had he been troubled by alcoholism all through your childhood?”

  “My older sister tells me he was drunk nearly all the time when we were really young. During my formative years he was great. Sober, funny, responsible, hard-working. A man who loved to read. He was a great one for reciting poetry. Who was it, Keats? Was he Irish, or — who’s the other guy?”

  “Yeats?” Brennan supplied. “Yeah. Apparently they called Dad ‘the professor’ at work. Wonder what they’d call him now.”

  “Where was it your father worked, Beth?” I asked.

  “When he worked, he was a port watchman on the Brooklyn waterfront. But he lost that job. Not surprisingly.”

  “For drinking, you mean?”

  “Chances are. But I think something happened. I don’t know what. My sister got married and by the time the bills came in, the ‘professor’ was out of a job. I remember my mother begging him to go and ask for his job back so they could pay the family bills. I kept hoping she would shut up because Mary and Gianni were coming in the front door; I was mortified that Gianni might hear. Mom was saying: ‘There are drunks on the payroll all over this city, but you can’t expect to get a job anywhere after that.’ Whatever ‘that’ meant. I’m not sure. It was a long time ago. I tuned them out after that. And then he was gone. Poor Mom. She should have been glad to get rid of him, but she just wasn’t the same after he finally vamoosed. What a shrew she turned into. I’m sorry to be rambling on like this. You were asking about other friends of his. I’m sure we didn’t know most of them, probably just other drunks. I remember Mr. Casey, nice man. I think he was from the church too. Ted O’Neill and his wife. They had eleven kids. Who else?”

  “Did he ever mention a Cathal Murphy?” She shook her head. “Declan Burke?”

  “I don’t remember that name. Is he a relative of yours, Brennan?”

  “My father. But he hasn’t been able to help us.”

  “My mother might have known, but she died years ago. I haven’t been of much use. But if I think of anyone who may be able to help, I’ll call. Where can I reach you?”

  “I’m at the Park Central Hotel. Collins. We appreciate your time, Beth. Thanks.”

  We went over what we had heard as we drove back to Sunnyside. Worked on the waterfront and lost his job as the result of an incident in the summer of 1952.

  †

  Patrick was at the house when we got there, so we filled him in on our chat with Beth Dowd. For some unvoiced, communal reason we had all eschewed the harder stuff and were sitting in the family room drinking ginger ale. Brennan was puffing on a cigarette.

  “Well,” Patrick was saying, “maybe Beth has given us something to go on but it would be helpful to get some firsthand information about our father’s activities back then. If only —”

  “We did meet one of his old cronies,” Brennan told him. “You haven’t heard about our night at the White Gardenia. Ever hear of Patrizio ‘Paddy’ Corialli?”

  “Sounds familiar. Known to the authorities, is that the man?”

  “I’d say so. Our da had some sort of association with Corialli —”

  “No!” Patrick interrupted.

  “Yes. Spent time at his club. And Declan put a foot wrong with ‘the family’ somehow.”

  “I wonder if they sent someone around to straighten your father out. That could explain why a man showed up the time —” I was about to make reference to Sandra’s story about a man who accused Declan of something. Theft? Whatever the case, it wasn’t up to me to let Patrick in on the ill-fated night at the opera. He shot me a curious look, but waited for me to continue. “Didn’t Corialli say Declan had made up for whatever he’d done?”

  “At someone else’s expense, perhaps,” Patrick suggested.

  “Who knows?” Brennan said. “We don’t have enough information.”

  “Did any other names come up, anyone we can track down?” Patrick asked.

  Brennan shook his head. I thought back over the conversation. “The only name that came up was some blonde siren who sang at the place. What was it, Brennan, Edie? Evie, I think.”

  “What was the story on her?”

  “Nothing, really. Just that she had a great voice and was a looker.”

  “I wonder if she’d have anything to add. She might at least be able to give us some names of people Declan knew at that club,” Patrick mused.

  “I doubt it,” his brother answered. “She would have been singing, not eavesdropping. And we don’t know who she is anyway. It was decades ago.”

  “Corialli did say she’s in New York for a concert, or a tour or something,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, well —”

  “Wouldn’t it be grand,” I said, in a bad brogue, “if yer oul da himself would display for us the renowned Celtic gift for storytelling and give it to us from start to finish. Save us from havin’ to suss out all these witnesses to the life of the man when he’s right here among us himself, God save him.”

  “Ah, damn his eyes,” Patrick answered in the same tone. Then, more seriously: “Of course we have to look at this in light of his longtime membership — and indoctrination — in an organization that executes informers. Worst thing you can be, apart perhaps from being a member of a Brit-funded paramilitary group, is an informer. Loose talk was historically the bane of the Republican movement. Have you ever seen any excerpts from the IRA’s Green Book?”

  We shook our heads no.

  “Fascinating document. So fascinating that I’ve always wanted to study it professionally, and study the membership as well. It’s very well written, for the most part. And it warns away any recruits who might be joining up out of romantic notions and a desire for adventure. No romance to be found here, it says. It acknowledges mistakes made by the Army in the past — bombings gone wrong — and how they rebound against the movement. It gives volunteers detailed warnings of what they can expect by way of physical and psychological torture if captured. The book of course stresses the vital importance of security. Don’t tell your family, your friends, your girlfriend that you’re in the ’RA. Drink-induced loose talk is suicide.

  “Even if the death sentence has lapsed, it would still gall a man like Declan to be considered an informer. I suspect that — regardless of his feelin
gs about the IRA and his treatment at its hands — he prides himself to this day on maintaining his silence about anything connected with its activities. Or his activities on its behalf. If the shooting was a Republican operation, his natural inclination would be to tell the police nothing. And if it arose out of his dealings with some other organization, I think he’d take the same approach. All this combined with his own natural reticence —”

  “Reticence!” Brennan exclaimed. “I prefer to call it —”

  “I came as soon as I heard,” a sardonic voice announced behind me.

  “Francis!” Brennan looked up in surprise.

  Patrick rose and embraced the newcomer. “Fran! Good to see you.”

  “Hi Pat. Hey Brennan, how’s God?”

  “Asking for you.”

  “Oh, yeah? What did you tell Him? To strike me down with a bolt of lightning?”

  “I implored Him to take you by your little hand and lead you home.”

  “Fuck off. Where’s the old man?”

  “Out,” answered Brennan.

  “He’s got an appointment with his doctor,” Patrick explained. “So where have you been living, Fran?”

  “Mexico. Place called Tlapa. Ever hear of it?”

  “No,” answered Patrick.

  “Yes,” answered Brennan. “I know one of the —”

  “You would.”

  “How did you get the news?” Patrick asked him. “Nobody knew where you were.”

  “We get the papers, for Christ’s sake. We’re not completely beyond the pale down there.”

  Francis Burke was the only one in the family who sounded like a typical New Yorker; I wondered whether it was put on for effect. He was shorter than his brothers, and thin, with hazel eyes and unruly dark hair to his shoulders. Boyish good looks were marred by an expression of petulance.

  Patrick made the introductions. “Fran, this is Monty Collins, a friend of Brennan’s from Halifax.”

  “How are you doing? Another soldier of Christ?”

  “Afraid not.”

  He shook my hand indifferently.

  “Are you going to stay with us for awhile, Francis?” Brennan inquired.

  “I doubt it. Do my paternal duty and then split.”

  “Filial,” Brennan corrected.

  “What?”

  “Filial duty.”

  “You haven’t changed any.” He flopped down on the couch and closed his eyes. “It took me two fucking days to get here on standby. I could use a drink.”

  Patrick got up. “What can I get you?”

  “Got any tequila?”

  “Not bloody likely,” Brennan put in.

  “How about a shot of Irish? Or a beer?” Pat offered.

  “Gimme a brew. Thank you, Patrick. Well? How’s the old coot? Out of danger?”

  “The shot missed his heart.”

  “Guess the shooter didn’t have the latest precision guidance system. It’s not easy to hit such a small, hard, barely there —”

  “Can it, Francis,” Brennan interjected. We heard the front door opening, and Declan Burke’s voice demanding to know who had piled all the shite in the doorway for him to trip over. “Ah. Here he is now.”

  “Hey, I’ve managed to piss him off already and he hasn’t even seen me yet.”

  Declan came down and squinted into the dimly lit room. “There’s a great lump of a knapsack up there. Have you boys taken up outdoor camping, or something? You’d be a fine pair out in the —”

  “Hello, Da. How are you?”

  “Francis!”

  Francis got up and moved towards his father. He gave him a tentative embrace, avoiding contact with his wounded chest. Declan released him and looked him over. “How’s the lad? This is a surprise. One of many over the past week. When did you get into town?”

  “I just landed. How are you feeling?”

  “Brilliant. Where have you been?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Your mother was worried. Why didn’t you let her know where you were?”

  “The mail’s unreliable. Takes weeks to get anything back and forth.”

  “Next time avail yourself of the telephone, why don’t you. Reverse the charges.”

  “At it already. My boy Francis? He’s the one who can’t afford to make a phone call.”

  Declan sat heavily in an armchair. “Would you get me something to drink, Patrick? Just a soda. So. Francis. Are you home for good now?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I have a life, believe it or not. And it doesn’t revolve around the great metropolis of Sunnyside, Queens.”

  “Tell us about it. Your life. Thanks, Pat.”

  “You wouldn’t be interested.”

  “I just asked.”

  “Maybe Fran will fill us in later, Da. He’s worn out from the trip. Took him two days to get here. Why don’t you flop down on one of the beds, Fran, and have a rest.”

  “I don’t need a nap, Paddy. Though maybe you could put me on the couch and get to the root of my attitude problem. I’m such a —”

  Brennan spoke over him. “Ready to head out, Monty?” I had no idea we were headed anywhere, but Brennan obviously wanted to get clear of the house, so I nodded. He turned to the others. “See you fellows later. Dec, you look a little peaky. Get Patrick to give you something and take it easy for the day. And try to avoid any undue aggravation. If you can.”

  “Would O’Malley’s be a good idea right now?” I said to him when we got outside.

  “O’Malley’s is imperative right now.”

  After a brief session at the bar, I returned to the hotel. That evening, Maura and I took Normie to Times Square, got treats, and revelled in all the activity. There was a telephone message from Brennan back at the hotel, so I called him.

  “Ever hear of Vi Dibney?”

  “Of course. My parents had her records. My father was a sucker for show tunes.”

  “Well, guess what?”

  “What? Wait, I know. She’s the same —”

  “Right. She’s in town on a concert tour and she used to go by the name Evie.”

  “No shit!”

  “No shit. Pat got out the entertainment pages and found that Vi Dibney was the only performer of the right vintage and physical appearance who’s doing a tour. Apparently she tours the east coast every year. Baltimore last night. Here in New York tomorrow night. Pat charmed an appointment out of her entourage. You and I are going to the office of her publicist or her agent. One of her ‘people.’ Tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at the hotel.”

  †

  And so we arrived at the midtown offices of Spencer and Talbot, publicists for Vi Dibney. After driving around the block three times to score a parking spot, we entered the towering glass building and rode up in the elevator. For the first time since we arrived in New York, Brennan looked well rested.

  Miss Dibney was seated on a faux Victorian sofa when the agent, Pru Spencer, ushered us inside. If she had been singing at the nightclub anywhere near the time we were interested in, she was in her late fifties or early sixties by now. She was attractive in an overdone way, too much makeup, too elaborate a hairstyle, too skinny for the flashy clothes that hung from her frame. The hair was a frothy blonde, the eyes green, the skin showed the ravages of too much tanning. She looked up at us from under thick black eyelashes and put out a bejewelled hand.

  “Gentlemen callers. How nice!”

  “Miss Dibney, I’m Brennan Burke and this is Montague Collins. Thank you for seeing us. We’ve something of a mystery on our hands and we’re hoping you’ll be able to help.”

  “How exciting!” She leaned forward and spoke with an air of intimacy. “Tell me more!”

  I cased the room while I stood there, checking out the framed photographs on the wall. Famous people grinning at other famous people. There were two pictures of Vi Dibney but none from the era we were investigating.

  “May we sit?” Brennan asked.r />
  “Of course, Brendan! You and Montgomery make yourselves at home.” We sat on a pair of squeaky new gold leather chairs. “Now, Brendan, this mystery. Where do I fit in?”

  “It’s Brennan, and Montague. Now, Miss —”

  “Oh, it’s Vi, please!” She gazed across at him with wide open eyes.

  “Fine, Vi. I believe you may have known my father some years ago. Declan Burke.”

  The name registered immediately. She was silent for two beats, then said brightly: “Declan! Of course I remember him. Such a sweet man!”

  “Sweet, is it? Are you sure you’ve got the right man?”

  Vi looked at her publicist, hovering in the doorway. “It’s all right, Pru. I’ll speak to these gentlemen in private.” The woman was about to protest, then smiled gamely and closed the door.

  “Declan, oh, yes. Did you say you’re his son?” She made a show of examining him. “You’re so tall, and so dark. You,” she said, turning to me, “are more like him in colouring. But you, Brennan, seem to have his quality of, what shall I call it? Ruthlessness, I guess the word is. I hope you’re not offended. His son! Well! Where does the time go? Tell me, how is dear Declan now?”

  “He’s been shot.”

  Her left hand flew to her heart. “I must go to him!”

  “No. You mustn’t.”

  She quickly masked a look of annoyance, and settled on a coquettish pout. Her lower lip went out and she asked: “Are you afraid my appearance on the scene might upset him?”

  “He’s already upset. The man’s been shot.”

  She was silent for a few moments, and then came back to life: “Does the fact that you’re here mean I could be implicated in some way, Brennan?” she asked, disingenuously.

  “Did you shoot him?”

  “Of course not! Brennan! How could you say such a thing? I haven’t even seen him.”

  “There you go then. You’re not implicated.”

  I spoke up. “So tell us, Vi, about your time at the White Gardenia when you knew Declan.”

  She splayed the fingers of her left hand out in front of her and brushed something off a lacquered pink nail. “Well of course Declan was in the club most nights. He was in charge of security. He never said much to me, though I often saw him talking with the other men who ran the place. The other owners were shameless flirts, shameless! A girl had to be firm! But I always found Declan very polite. And he could be intimidating. Not to me, but to anyone who tried to cause trouble in that club. Nice looking, I have to say! I was dating one of the waiters, a young man around my own age, but — I hope this won’t embarrass you, Brennan —” She laid one of her manicured hands on his knee.