Obit

by Anne Emery

  “Come on, Frankie. How bad can he be? He’s not in the — the Mafia or something, is he?”

  Francis and I exchanged a look. I had no idea how much he knew. Or, now, what his own involvement might have been.

  “He loves his mother,” Shirley said, “that much I know. But it wasn’t very nice what you said about your dad that time, Francis. These things have a way of coming back to haunt us. I know you didn’t mean it, but think how you’d feel if something really did happen to him. Wouldn’t you —”

  “Forget about it!” he snapped, cutting her off.

  I stayed for a few more minutes, then left the apartment with some unsettling impressions but no useful information.

  †

  I called Terry when I got back to the hotel. He sounded uncharacteristically tense. “What did you find out?”

  “It was a bust, Terry. I couldn’t find out anything. We got interrupted. His girlfriend arrived.”

  “How did he manage a girlfriend? He’s not the smoothest lizard in the lounge, if you know what I mean. What’s she like?”

  “She’s . . . wholesome. A country girl.”

  “Well! What was he like with her?”

  “Not bad, aside from needling her about her family. He was quite affectionate towards her. I’d say he really loves her. There was one thing, though, Terry, something very off-kilter that he said.”

  “What?”

  “He was going on about Brennan and some evening they’d spent together. He told me they had ‘a few laughs,’ and then he said: ‘That’s the kindest thing I can say about my brother while he’s still alive.’”

  “Jesus Christ! That fucking arsehole!”

  “That wasn’t all. I made a remark about the shooting. And Fran said maybe somebody just wanted to give them a scare. Them.”

  “Who? The family?”

  “No. In the context of the conversation, he meant Declan and Brennan.”

  “What? You mean the shooter was after both of them?”

  “I didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “That goddamn — then what happened?”

  “That, unfortunately, is when Shirley arrived.”

  “Shirley.”

  “The girlfriend. And that was it.”

  “We’re going over there. Tomorrow.”

  †

  It was late the next afternoon by the time Terry was free to pay a visit to Fran’s basement apartment. We met outside, knocked and heard Fran’s voice in reply: “Come in darlin’, it’s open. And I’ve got something for you!”

  Terry blasted the door open and charged in, with me right behind him. Francis was standing before us, a dumbfounded look on his now clean-shaven face. He was holding out a huge, raggedy bouquet of flowers and grasses.

  “That’s not what I expected to see sticking up in my face when I walked in,” Terry stated.

  “Flowers. The latest and most creative way to disappoint your family.”

  “They look like a bunch of weeds.”

  “They’re wildflowers. I thought she’d like them.”

  “They stink, for Christ’s sake. Prob’ly full of bugs. Turf ’em out the window. Where in the hell did you dig them up?”

  “You wouldn’t fucking believe what I went through to get this stuff. I rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn. Climbed up into a big honking motorbus headed for Jersey thinking I’d get off when we left civilization and pick the wildflowers lining the highways. But there was hardly anything there. Maybe the time of year, I don’t know. So then I had to wait out there like the last man alive till another great bus came by, then I —”

  Terry interrupted him: “That’s not what we came to talk about, Romeo.”

  “No? I thought you stopped by to check out my girlfriend. She’ll be —”

  “Shut up and listen. The police found your prints.”

  “Where?”

  “On a big, long, heavily laden box from Ireland.”

  Francis blinked once and looked away, then went into action with his flowers, searching intently for a vessel in which to display them.

  “Put those goddamn stinkweeds down and talk to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  But he did, and all three of us knew it. Terry spoke again: “So far nobody else in the family knows about this. So start talking. When were you in Ireland?”

  “Late last fall, leading up to Christmas. Before I went south.”

  Terry was about to ask another quesstion when we heard a knock on the door. “That’ll be herself. Come in, Shirl.”

  Shirley walked in and came to a sudden halt when she saw the three of us. “Oh, hello! Hi, Monty. And this is?”

  “This is my brother.”

  “Oh! Which one are you?”

  “I’m the cute one,” Terry replied, “with the left-handed guitar.”

  The look she gave him was blank. Francis shook his head as if to say: Don’t bother, she doesn’t get it.

  He introduced them, and Terry gave her a distracted smile. Her eyes went to the kitchen table and lighted on the flowers. She opened her mouth to speak but Terry said: “Listen, sweetheart, we need a few minutes here. Why don’t you — here, take my keys and sit in the car while you’re waiting. Listen to the radio.” He gave her the keys, described the car and its location, and she left, looking once over her shoulder as she went out.

  “Sit down, Francis.”

  “We’ll all sit down,” I suggested, and positioned myself on the red milk crate. They each took a chair and Terry started again.

  “Tell us about the box.”

  Terry had insisted on doing the talking. I urged him to resist the temptation to ask leading questions, about the gun for instance; if you want someone’s story, don’t plant your own. I could see Francis weighing the advantages of brazening it out, or admitting what we seemed to know anyway.

  “And just why am I being interrogated by my little brother, Terrence?”

  Terry rose and towered over Francis. “Why me? Would you rather Brennan? Or do you think it’s nobody’s concern at all, that you’re the one —”

  “Terry, let’s keep our heads, all right?” I reached out and gave him a gentle shove into his seat.

  “Are you here as a witness, Monty, or a bodyguard?” Francis tried for a light tone but did not quite manage to carry it off.

  “The box, Fran. Get on with it.”

  His eyes darted to me again, then he said: “I met a guy in a bar. I’d seen him there a couple of times. One night we got talking. The subject of the old country came up.”

  “Who brought it up?” I forgot I was there as a witness/bodyguard. Old habits die hard.

  “Don’t remember, Monty. Anyway, this fellow said he knew of some artifacts that had been stolen by the British, or maybe they were found in an area controlled by the British Army in the north. The soldiers were looting the site and selling the stuff back in England.” He fell silent.

  “So?” his brother prompted.

  “He knew a guy who had access to the site. He and this guy came up with a plan to rescue the artifacts.”

  “What kind of artifacts?”

  “Old stone crosses, other carvings in stone. They wanted to bring the stuff over here.”

  “Why here? If this fellow in Ireland was such a good Samaritan and could get his hands on the stuff, why not take it to a museum in the Republic?”

  “Why do you think? I didn’t say it was an angel I met in the bar. These guys saw the opportunity to make a profit.”

  “What was in it for you?”

  Francis looked defensive. “A trip to Ireland, with them picking up part of the tab. He said there was no way anybody would be able to trace the stuff to me.”

  “And you believed him.”

  “Just because you’ve never uttered a word of truth in a bar, Terrence, doesn’t mean —”

  “That’s what bars are for. A place where you can go and lift a pint and tell lies all night long.”
/>   “I would not have believed him if he said he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart.”

  “Why didn’t he make the trip himself?”

  “He couldn’t. Some kind of history, criminal record, some fucking thing.”

  “And this is your story.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You weren’t smuggling guns, you were smuggling artifacts.”

  “What? People are smuggling guns into the United States these days? Last I heard there was no shortage of weapons in this country.”

  “Well, now there’s one more, isn’t there? The police found your fingerprints all over the box that contained the gun that was used to shoot our father. And you expect us to listen to this horseshit!”

  Francis was perfectly still. His face was the colour of oatmeal.

  Terry leaned into him. “Right. We know, you fucking psycho. If our mother weren’t alive — and thank God she still is, though it’s a wonder — I’d have the police here with me. But she is alive and she couldn’t survive having this made public. As if she hasn’t been through enough.”

  Francis finally found his voice. “How did they find the box?”

  “How did they find the box?” Terry shouted. “That’s all you can say?”

  “Terry, I swear to you! I had nothing to do with that gun. I just brought these artifacts over.”

  “Must have been one hell of a long, modern-looking cross in that crate.”

  “I didn’t see what was inside.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ. Now he didn’t even look in the box.”

  “I didn’t. When I picked the box up, I could barely lift it. And it was all strapped with packing tape. I didn’t open it.”

  “You just picked it up somewhere and lugged it to the airport. Didn’t you think to wear gloves to keep your prints off it?”

  “Gloves? It was sixty degrees out! I looked suspicious enough as it was.”

  “How long would this tale stand up in court, Monty?”

  I shook my head.

  “Monty!” Francis turned to me and pleaded: “It’s true, believe me. Help me get this sorted before they find out.”

  “The police are already —”

  “Bren and Declan. The family.”

  We were quiet for a few minutes, then Francis spoke again. “Maybe we can find this guy.”

  “Sure we can,” Terry replied. “Go into a bar, pick out a drunk. Look, it’s him! But, Jazes, with the drink taken, sure he can’t remember the conversation.”

  “I spent several nights drinking with him.”

  “Where?”

  “The bar was Vin Hennessy’s.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s here in Astoria. And this guy eats, drinks and sleeps there as far as I could tell. I’d know him if I saw him. I never knew his last name, but his first name is Colm.”

  “Don’t waste our time, you little louser.”

  “I’ll describe him for you. I’ll draw you a picture. We’ll split up and look for him.”

  “We’re not splitting up so you can leave the country.”

  “No, really. I’ll —”

  “Go ahead,” I interrupted, “draw him.”

  Francis got up and dug around until he came up with a sheet of paper and a pencil. He swirled the pencil around on the corner of the page to dull the tip, then began to draw. Terry could barely contain himself. “You’re lucky it’s me here today. You know that, don’t you?” Francis nodded in acknowledgement and kept working.

  I gaped at the results. Francis looked at me with hope. “You recognize him? You’ve seen this guy?”

  “No, but this sketch is amazing. How long have you been doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing portraits?”

  “I don’t do portraits! I just want to show you the guy’s face so we can —”

  “It’s too bad,” I mused. “You could have had a career as a forensic artist.”

  “Do you think? Maybe I still can.” The hope and pleading were in his eyes again.

  You’ll have plenty of opportunity to draw criminals’ faces where you’re going, I said to myself.

  We left Francis pale and sick-looking in his room. Terry warned him not to leave the country. Or was it a veiled plea to do just that?

  Not for the first time, I wondered how long it would take the New York papers to reach the remote area of Mexico where Francis claimed to have been. He had surfaced in New York within days of the shooting. How did he phrase it when the subject came up? Carefully, I thought. Was he keeping track of his stories?

  We got to Terry’s car and were both taken aback to see Fran’s girlfriend sitting in the passenger seat, bobbing her head to the music on the radio. We had forgotten her completely. She turned the radio off when she saw us, then got out of the car.

  “He’s all yours, sweetheart,” Terry told her.

  When we started up the car, a wailing country tune washed over us.

  †

  I drove to Astoria again that evening. Vin Hennessy’s bar wasn’t easy to find, eclipsed as it was by the bright lights and joyful music blaring out of the Greek restaurants and tavernas nearby. There was only a dim light coming from a side door, and I missed it on my first pass. Finally I found it, parked, and went in. But there was nobody who looked like Fran’s sketch, nobody even in his age group. There was a line of scowling old men along the bar, grousing with Vin, the ancient publican, and two tables of newly legal young drinkers. Nothing in between. I didn’t ask the bartender about Colm because I did not want to set anyone’s antennae quivering.

  My luck wasn’t any better the next day at lunchtime. I decided to risk talking to Vin, who was behind the bar again; had he even gone home? He must have been at least eighty.

  “Hi. Could you pour me a Guinness?”

  “Do you see a Guinness sign in here, avic?”

  “Right. A Murphy’s then.”

  “That’s better.” He performed the pouring ritual in silence.

  When I had my pint of stout, I took a sip and asked: “Is Colm around these days?”

  “Who?”

  “Colm. He used to come in here.”

  “Can’t say I know the name.” I shrugged. There was no point sitting around waiting for someone who might not even exist, so I drank my pint as quickly as was decent, and left the bar.

  †

  This was Maura and Normie’s last full day in New York. When I rejoined them in our suite, Normie had found the drinks coaster I had taken from the Between The Bridges Pub, with Francis Burke’s address scribbled on it. The address was of no interest to her but the coaster was, with its depiction of the two great bridges as a backdrop to the bar.

  “Which one is that?” she asked, pointing to the Gothic-arched towers.

  “That’s the Brooklyn Bridge, which some people called the Eighth Wonder of the World when they built it.”

  “When?”

  “Over a hundred years ago.”

  “Can we go see it?”

  “We can walk right across it if you like.”

  “Really? Let’s go!”

  “Why don’t we go at sunset? In the meantime, how would you like to spend the afternoon running around and seeing kids and dogs and street performers and all that?”

  “I want to do that! Where?”

  “Washington Square Park. It’s in Lower Manhattan. We’ll go from there to the bridge.”

  The three of us enjoyed the park. Then we walked across the water and were treated to a spectacular view of the East River and the skyscrapers of Manhattan, as the sun went down in a blaze of red and gold, and the lights came on all over New York.

  After that it was time for another look at Vin Hennessy’s bar. If nothing panned out, I would wait a day or two and try again. Unless I convinced myself in the meantime that “Colm” did not exist. It was nearly ten o’clock when I arrived at the pub. There was a larger and more varied crowd than there had been the night before. My attention w
as drawn to a big man being greeted by the bartender.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, Sully.”

  “A Morphy’s if you please, Vincent,” the man answered, in a broad Irish brogue. “I’ve been out of town. Merchandising trip.”

  “Ah.”

  “They’re fine and súgach over there,” Sully remarked, indicating a table of young women laughing and singing. “Think I can pick one of the young ones off before the night’s out?”

  “I’m going to cut them off, the lot of them,” the barman growled.

  “Give me the heads-up when you do.” Sully turned and scanned the room for a seat. He was wearing a sloppy sweatshirt that read “feck you” in Celtic script. His hair was a mass of red curls and he had a heavy beard, but he was easily recognizable from the sketch Francis had done. The same eyes and nose; Fran had captured his expression and even his attitude with uncanny skill. The only thing wrong was the name.

  “Sully,” I said to him. “I thought I might know you as Colm.”

  “If my mam had her way, you’d know me as Aloysius.”

  “That would be Mrs. Sullivan, I take it.”

  “It would. Do I know you?”

  “No, but you seem like a sociable kind of guy. Maybe you’d be willing to extend a helping hand to a stranger. My name’s Collins. Let’s talk privately, shall we?” I pointed to a table, sat down and waited for him to join me.

  He sat but his eyes, green and piercing, regarded me with suspicion. “What is it you think I can I do for you, Collins?” The Irish voice had taken on a rough edge.

  I said quietly: “I’ve taken a recent and sudden interest in Irish artifacts.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Right. Know where I can find any?”

  “There’s a lot of Irish craft stores around, so why come to me?” His eyes did a quick sweep of the bar.

  “I want things that haven’t been dusted off yet.”

  “That kind of thing is a minor sideline for me.”

  “Oh? What’s your main line of business?”

  “Cut the crap, Collins,” he said, without altering his tone of voice. “I know why you’re here.”

  “Is that so? Why am I here?”

  He took a quick look around the bar again, and lowered his voice almost to a whisper: “That little chickenshit is in trouble now, and he’s looking for someone to frame. But guess what? Not going to happen.”