by James R Benn
"I've got to stay on top of these boys. I've got more produce coming in every day, and it's got to be sorted out, weighed, and parceled out for your army. You've brought a lot of hungry lads with you, haven't you?" He laughed before I could answer. "All right, let's get out of the way before the trucks arrive. I can feel the rain, can you?"
As if on cue, the gray clouds let loose, and Jenkins trundled his squat body forward, tucking his clipboard inside his oilskin. He pushed open the office door and stood aside, shaking the water off as if he were a big, friendly dog.
"Take off your coat, Mr. Boyle, come into my office, and rest yourself. Frances, wet the tea, will you?"
Frances took my coat without a word but gave me a hard stare up and down as if she were judging the value of this Yank she had to make tea for. She hung it on a peg near the door then went around her desk and plugged in an electric kettle. I followed Jenkins down a narrow hallway and into his office, the warmth hitting me as I entered. A small coal stove stood against the wall, and he opened it, shoveled in a bit from a bucket, and rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.
"Ah, that's better, isn't it?" He sniffed and brushed the back of his hand across his nose, sat in an armchair in front of the stove, and motioned for me to take the other one. A narrow table pushed against the opposite wall served as his desk. A newspaper, a telephone, and a few stray pieces of paper were all that were on it. Jenkins looked like he spent most of his time outside. In this room, he probably sat in front of the fire more than at that table. He was constantly in motion-fidgeting, talking, moving, and generally seeming amused at everything around him. So it was a shock to see him finally settle down, look me straight in the eye, and say, "So, what is it you want?"
There was a lot I wanted to know but it all boiled down to one thing. In that moment, I decided Andrew Jenkins was a man who hid himself behind his bluster, a cunning man who could lull people into not taking him seriously, and find an edge, an advantage, by doing so. In business, politics, and perhaps in war.
"I want to know if you stole those BARs," I said, warming my hands in front of the stove, as he had. It was a trick my dad had taught me. A con man had told him he gained people's confidence by mimicking their movements in small ways, things they wouldn't pick up on. He claimed it put people at ease since they'd unconsciously identify with you. I didn't know if that was true or not, but I began doing it during interrogations, and it did seem to help calm things down. I rubbed my hands together, then set them on my knees, as Jenkins had done.
"Ha! You're not one for beatin' around the bush, are you, Mr. Boyle from America?"
"I'm a lieutenant, although I'd prefer the rank of mister."
"Lieutenant is it? Well, excuse me, Mr. Lieutenant Boyle. I'm sorry you don't like the army life but that's not a care of mine. Now tell me why you think I stole them guns."
"Your truck and a dead IRA man."
"What kind of mingin' fool would use his own vehicle with his name plastered on each side to rob the very army that's payin' him good money every day for legal goods, I ask you? And I'd be a worse eejit to waste a pound on a dead Fenian, now wouldn't I?"
"A very smart mingin' fool, whatever that means. I thought you people spoke English."
"Ha!" Jenkins said, his laugh sharp and short. "That's a good one, it is. I say the very same thing sometimes, especially when you Yanks get to talkin' with that chewin' gum in your craws. There was a fellow from a place in New York the other day-Brooklyn, he said it was- and I couldn't understand half of what he was tellin' me. Ha!"
"So you didn't?"
"Didn't what?"
"Steal the guns."
"Now that's an example of a waste of good breath to ask that question. If I did, you know I'd never admit it to you, just because you asked. So I'd say, No, I didn't steal them guns, and I'm offended you asked. And if I didn't, I'd say the exact same thing, maybe with a touch more of the righteous indignation. So what can you learn from that question? Nothing. Ask me another, one that won't waste my time and the good air in your lungs."
"Are you the head of the Red Hand?"
"Ach! There you go again. Do you suppose whoever is the leader of that fearsome pack of defenders of the faith would admit to it, do you?"
"My mistake," I said. Jenkins leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on one hand. I leaned back as well, and set my chin in my hand, deep in thought. "OK. Here's one. Do you know Captain Hiriam Heck?"
"Sure, he's that stiff-necked Yank copper."
"He's no cop," I said. "Take it from me."
"Why should I? Are you a criminal yourself that you can sniff out the peelers?"
"No, I'm a cop, or was. In Boston."
"Ach, one of the Boston Irish," he said, and left it at that. "So what about Heck?"
"He'll probably be coming around here, maybe with the RUC. He's uncovered a plot to defraud the U.S. Army through phony invoices, kickbacks, that sort of thing."
"In time of war? That's a terrible thing, it is. Who's the villain?"
"You probably know him. Major Thomas Thornton."
"And I'm not surprised. He tried to extort me, the bastard. I told him I'd go straight to the police but he warned me off, said he'd swear that I offered him bribes. So I kept my mouth shut, I did. I'm glad someone finally found him out."
"Do you know a sergeant by the name of Brennan? Peter Brennan?"
"Brennan, Brennan, that sounds familiar," he said, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah, I do. Haven't seen him in a while, though. He used to be on duty at one of the kitchens at Ballykinler. I've made deliveries there myself. What's become of him?"
"He's returning to the front. Decided it was safer in Italy than around here."
"Sounds daft to me but there you have it."
"He was nervous every time he saw one of your trucks. Why would that be?"
"Who sent you here? The milk and vegetable police? I thought you were looking for Fenian killers, German agents, stolen guns, that sort of thing. Instead, you come to see me, a man you accuse of being part of the Red Hand, and ask me about cabbages and such. Is that how you protect the good citizens of Boston? Question working folk? They must love you over there. Ha!"
"No, that's not what I do," I said patiently. "What I need to know is if there's any connection between Brennan and the theft. He's been acting strange lately."
"There's a war on, they say," Jenkins said, looking away. There was more, but I could tell he needed coaxing.
"Listen," I said quietly and in a conspiratorial voice, "I don't have an argument with you about cabbages or parsnips. And I think you're smart enough not to worry about that. But I do need to know the real story about Brennan. I don't think he was involved with the weapons theft but he seems too happy for a guy headed back into combat."
"You seem on the up-and-up, boy. There might be something I could tell you but it would have to be between us. Repeat it and I'll call you a liar."
"If it doesn't have anything to do with the guns, then tell me and it goes no further."
Now it was Jenkins's turn to whisper. "Sergeant Brennan, he's one for the straight and narrow path, as long as it don't demand too much of him. So if he were to have noticed some… inconsistencies, let's say, with food deliveries, then he'd be one to trot off and report it. A real Boy Scout."
"Yeah, that's what he did."
"Well, if the fella he reported to was involved, then it would make sense, in terms of business, purely, to let it be known that he could have an accident or something if he squealed. Right?"
"Just business."
"Right. And that would work well enough, since Brennan would know what to keep his mouth shut about. But then your Red Jack comes along and stirs up the pot, and all of a sudden, everyone from DI Carrick to you yourself is asking about the theft. Throws everything out of balance."
"So you have him killed?"
"That'd be one way," he said, rubbing his chin and turning the thought over as if it had just occurred. "But that could caus
e problems too. Why not take advantage of the fact that Sergeant Brennan has taken a real dislike to our little island?"
"So Thornton gives him his transfer. What do you do?"
"Nothing, since this is conjectural, purely. But if I were to do something, it would be to speed the good sergeant on his way, with a last and good memory of Ireland."
"And how would you do that?"
"Cash, boy! Hard English currency," he said, and patted a canvas deposit bag with NORTHERN BANK, ARMAGH stenciled on it. "He has his transfer and a hundred pounds to remember us by. Or forget, I should say, since by taking the money, he becomes complicit. Something for everyone."
"Purely a business decision," I said.
"Aye, and a good investment at very low risk. There would be no reason for me to make the sergeant uneasy. He doesn't have to leave, but that's his choice."
"What about Eddie Mahoney?"
Jenkins said, leaning forward and pointing his finger at me, "That's a different matter. Mahoney came north lookin' for trouble. If he'd stayed at home and minded his own business, he'd be alive still. But he didn't, and paid the price. I don't know who killed him but you can't tell me an IRA man didn't deserve such an end."
He relaxed back into his chair. "Now, mind you, I only say these things about your sergeant as pure conjecture. How I would have approached it, if it were my problem."
"I can't argue with you about Mahoney; he knew the chances he was taking," I said. I stuck my feet out in front of me, letting the heat from the stove warm my boots. "I came here from Brownlow House. Is it true that the Royal Black Knights have their headquarters there?"
"The Royal Black Knights of the British Commonwealth," Jenkins said stiffly. "That's no secret. Yes, they do."
"Are you a member?"
"No, I never bothered with it. I'm a member of an Orange Lodge, no need for another meeting to go to. The Black Knights is more for businessmen who wear a suit and tie, if you get my meaning. Mud on your shoes doesn't set well with that bunch. The manager of my bank, he's one," he said, crooking his thumb at the canvas Northern Bank bag.
"You also have to be purer than pure, don't you?"
"Aye, no connections with the Roman church, none atallatall. What do you want with the Royal Black Knights?"
"Nothing, just curious," I said. "Do you have any ideas about who stole the weapons from Ballykinler?"
"Why the IRA, of course. Who else?"
There was a knock at the door and Frances entered with a tray that held a pot of tea and two enamel cups in which dark tea steamed. She set the tray down on a small table between us and left without a word. We both added sugar.
"Ach, that's good," Jenkins said, smacking his lips. "Now tell me, who else but the Fenians would have stolen them guns?"
"I meant names; do you know any names?"
"I'm not one to hang about with IRA sympathizers. I wouldn't know the name of any of that rabble."
"You've heard of Red Jack Taggart?"
"Old Red Jack? Sure, his name is well known, bloody Bolshevik that he is. Or was, some say. They say he saw too many comrades put up against the wall for thinkin' different than the party line. What makes you bring up his name?"
"Because I saw him the other day, firing a BAR at me. He killed another American."
"So Red Jack's come north, has he then? Well, there's a name to put to that theft and killing." He slurped his tea.
"Not that you know much about the IRA," I said with sarcasm.
"You can't help but pick up a few things here and there," Jenkins said. "I go all over Ulster making pickups and deliveries. A man hears things."
"I know what you mean. Like I heard that Heck may want to look at your books."
"Yes, exactly! Not that my books aren't all in order but I do appreciate knowing when the police may come calling, so we can put the kettle on, you know."
"Wet the tea," I said.
"Now you're learning, Mr. Lieutenant Boyle. Not bad for a papist Boston Irish Yank."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should take it as a warning too, boy. A friendly warning. There's them who would not be so welcoming. You Americans from Boston forget where you came from. Those of us who have stayed have not lost our memories. Memories that go back hundreds of years."
"We're all on the same side in this war, aren't we?"
"You've a lot to learn. There's half a dozen sides to every question asked in Ulster, and don't forget it. Now drink your tea. I'm sure Frances didn't spit in your cup."
He grinned but I wasn't so sure and I held my hands around the cup for warmth and watched the dark, steaming tea for signs of Frances.
"Who told you I was coming?" I asked.
"Oh, I hear things. I heard a new Yank was nosing around looking for them guns, and his name was Boyle. That was the real news, that the Yanks sent a man with a name like Boyle. A Catholic." He pronounced it cat-o-lick.
"It takes a thief to catch a thief," I said, echoing what I'd already been told.
"That's a big pack of thieves you're after. You may need some help."
"If you hear anything about the weapons or Red Jack, I'd appreciate a word."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I warned you about Heck. Because fifty BARs in the hands of the IRA is a lot of firepower, and I doubt the stout defenders of the faith, good Protestant lads that they are, can stand up to that."
"Good reasons, them. All right, if I hear anything, I'll let you know. Just keep it quiet, where you got it from."
"You can reach me-"
"I know where to find you, Mr. Lieutenant Boyle, any time of the day or night, don't you worry." He sipped his tea and stared at me with unblinking eyes. I didn't want to match that look; I don't think I could have. I set the tea down and held my hands out to the fire, close to the heat, as I felt the weight of centuries of hate bearing down on me. The hearty, friendly businessman's facade had cracked and in those dark, hooded eyes I saw the depths of the gulf that separated us. I saw my ancient enemy whom I'd been taught to fear, fight, and hate. It brought to mind a poem recited by a nun in religious class, an Irish poem she'd read with joy, about the differences between Irish Catholics and Protestants. I only remembered one line: The faith of Christ with the faith of Luther is like ashes in the snow.
I was now certain Frances had spat in my tea.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jenkins and I left together, he to drive to the bank to make a deposit and me to get back to Newcastle. It was slow going; the narrow roads were wet and crowded. Military convoys choked them, truckloads of GIs going to or from maneuvers, crammed shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed under their steel pots. They all looked alike in their sodden uniforms, faces hardly visible between turned-up collars and helmets canted against the rain blowing into the canvas-covered trucks.
This was how some generals saw them, squads and platoons of soldiers, a percentage certain to be casualties, all of them ready to be sacrificed for a promotion, none of them with a name or a face to remember in your dreams. Maybe that was why they made us march in step. It made it impossible for the individual to stand out. I'd seen plenty like that. General Fredendall in North Africa, who commanded II Corps and had his engineers dig underground shelters for his HQ seventy miles from the front. Uncle Ike blew his lid when he heard about that, and not long after sent George Patton to relieve him. I'd also had occasion to meet up with General Mark Clark a few times. He was the genius who decided there wouldn't be any bombardment at Salerno. Plenty of faceless GIs, including Brennan's pals, died because of it. But General Mark Clark was still there, spending as much time as ever making sure every press release 5th Army put out had his name alone on it. GIs had started to call him Markus Clarkus for his desire to take Rome, not so much from the Germans as before the British.
There were plenty of fine senior officers, men like Colonel Jim Gavin, whom I'd seen up close in Sicily, weeping over the graves of his men after the stand at Biazza Ridge. And U
ncle Ike himself. I didn't know anyone who agonized more over the price in lives this war had claimed, and who shouldered a heavier burden, short of a dogface with a fully loaded combat pack under fire. So why was I so hard on him? Thousands of miles from home, under the twin pressures of politics and death, what was wrong with enjoying a little affection? Kay worshipped him, and she knew what the deal was, I hoped. I couldn't see him ever leaving his wife. Kay had to know this was just one of those things. Didn't she? Didn't he?
What about Diana? What did she think about us? Just one of those wartime romances? The wild Irish boy and the aristocrat whose lives were thrown together, experiencing the passion of life amidst death. Who would expect them to last out the peace?
Diana and I wouldn't have ever laid eyes on each other if not for the war, and if I hadn't gotten her sister involved in a murder investigation that turned more deadly than I ever could have imagined. And Diana wouldn't have gone off with the British Expeditionary Force to France, barely surviving Dunkirk, if not for the war. It was death that bound us together, it seemed. Not the fear of death at all, but the thought of living through so much of it. How could love come out of that? Need perhaps; desire certainly. But love?
So what about Diana? For that matter, what about me?
I stopped at an intersection and waited while a column of deuce-and-a-half trucks rumbled by. The rain hadn't let up. It pelted the canvas cover like sudden bursts of machine-gun fire as I turned my thoughts to Jenkins and whether or not he'd pass information on to me. I had done him one favor, warning him about Heck, as an investment. But the picture of him with Slaine O'Brien was too good to waste, a major bargaining chip. If I put that on the table, it would be in a neutral location, somewhere public, not in a Protestant neighborhood, and I'd reserve it for when I needed something big in return.
Finally, the traffic eased and I took the turnoff to Clough, to drop in on Constable Simms. I'd planned on talking to him about Sam Burnham. I remembered Simms worked out of his home, so I stopped at the Lug o' the Tub to ask directions from Tom. I found him tossing peat onto a low fire, alone except for one old-timer in his well-worn suit jacket.