by Con Lehane
chapter twenty-five
My joy, however—as has been my lifelong experience with joy—was short-lived. We went from the retreat house to the Donohues’. Figuring there might be a cop-to-cop thing here, I wanted to see if it might be better if Pat approached Sheehan with this new information on Barney’s whereabouts the day MacAlister and Tierney were killed. I hoped if we told Sheehan the truth about Barney’s immigration status and the retreat house he would let the illegal immigrant thing go and lay off Barney since he wasn’t a murderer.
When we got there, I saw Barney leave the Donohue house and jump into a car-service Lincoln. I didn’t know if it was his IRA buddy or not; they were gone before we got close. I wouldn’t have thought anything of Barney being there, either, and no bells would have rung later if it hadn’t been for one thing.
It took Ntango nearly ten minutes to find a parking space, so by the time we knocked on the door, Mary was leaving herself. She said Pat was working days and would be home around four. Then she asked if I’d seen Barney and how was he. It didn’t seem right to tell her I’d just seen him leaving her house, so I didn’t. What she said struck me as strange, but I didn’t dwell on it, at least not then.
The picture got cloudier that night when I got to work and came upon Sam Jones. His demeanor was more serious than I’d ever seen it. “I got some news you ain’t gonna like.”
I stopped in my tracks, my coat half on and half off. It was as if I knew what was coming. Not that I knew the facts of anything Sam might tell me, just that I knew some truth was missing from my understanding of things and knew now that that truth was about to come at me.
“You see those Christmas decorations gone from the lobby and the front of the hotel?”
Perplexed for a second by the syntax of Sam’s question, I didn’t answer.
“You ’member when they got here?”
I didn’t.
“The mornin’ MacAlister got offed.”
“So?” My brain didn’t know what was coming, but my body heard danger knocking on the door.
“Jason, the security guy I told you about, remembered they were here. He jacked them up when they came back this morning to take the stuff down. They told him they saw a wild-looking woman come steaming out of the hotel through the service door off the lobby that morning.”
My thoughts tumbled over one another, as I tried to catch up with what this meant. I must have known on one level and not known on another—but I felt an intense sense of loss, without knowing what for, just that something was gone for good.
“Those guys didn’t know about no murder,” Sam said. “They don’t want no problems.” He looked at me with that practiced look poker players have when they figure out you’re bluffing—a not unkind superiority. “Everyone don’t read the Daily News, you know.” I could read sympathy in Sam’s eyes, “Jason don’t know that it means much, either. It’s you and me know it means somethin’.”
I stared at him. “You’re telling me a woman killed MacAlister?”
“I’m tellin’ you what I told you. Those guys ain’t lying. What they got to be lyin’ for?” Sam watched me stare at him for another minute or so. “You comin’ to work or what?”
In a daze, I went to the liquor room, hung up my coat, got on my bar jacket. Sam was ready to leave when I got back to the bar.
“What does it mean?” I asked him, hoping for an explanation other than what was running through my mind.
“What you think it means, brother?” said Sam, cocking his head to one side, his expression somewhere between sympathy and rebuke.
In a daze, I went through the motions of tending bar that night. Neither Mary nor Betsy was on the schedule. I don’t remember who was, or whether it was busy or slow. In my mind, I kept replaying all that had happened since the fateful night Mary slapped MacAlister with her cocktail tray and Francois threw his apron on the bar.
The woman coming out of MacAlister’s office could have been anyone, I told myself. For sure, it wasn’t Betsy, since she was with me. That was the bright side. The dark side, I didn’t want to think about. I told myself again it could have been anyone: a jilted lover, an ex-wife, a disgruntled former employee. It didn’t have to be someone from the strike—we were disgruntled current employees—but I had a foreboding, and I needed to run down a hunch that I had if I was to have any peace of mind, if I was to get rid of the picture of Eliot and his shit-stained slacks. One thing was clear: If it was a woman who killed MacAlister, it wasn’t Eliot who did. His last ride in the trunk of his shiny Cadillac was looking like a case of mistaken identity—another spaldeen down the sewer grate.
The next afternoon, I went up to the North Bronx, the last stop on the D train, and began my trek. New Yorkers say New York is a small town, and that’s true, though more accurately it’s a series of small towns; that is, we New Yorkers each have our own small town. Bainbridge was Barney’s, as it was Pat and Mary Donohue’s. In a small town, if you talk to enough neighbors for long enough, you often find out most of what there is to know about somebody. In this case, it wouldn’t be the neighbors. It would be the bars I visited and the bartenders and barflies who could tell me what I wanted to know.
I stopped in a few places the first afternoon and picked up a couple of tidbits of information. The most interesting was that Pat Donohue was from Cavan but not Mary. The bartender in the Old Shillelagh himself was from Cavan and knew Pat from home and would have known of Mary had she been from Cavan, too. Asking questions, finding out things, is a slow process. You need to be around when someone has something to tell you. The Irish are a garrulous lot, and if there’s one thing the Irish know, as my mother often told me, it’s who’s related to whom, going back generations and extending outwards to second and third cousins.
If these same charming and talkative folks sense you’re prying, or think you might do harm to one of their own, they become closed-mouthed. If, on the other hand, you’re a narrowback like myself trying to track down your relations in the auld country, they’ll leave no gravestone unturned to help you out. Armed with this knowledge of the ways of the Irish, I wended me way through the exiles in the Bronx, under the guise of tracking down, in preparation for my trip to Ireland, my Cavan relations on me mother’s side and me da’s relations—forgive me, Pop—from Armagh on the other side.
The bartender at the pub across the street from the Old Shillelagh told me the best source for genealogy for Armagh would be the seamstress at the Irish gift shop on Bainbridge near 204th Street. From her, I found out that Mary Donohue’s maiden name was Hughes and that she hailed from Armagh.
“As did Barney,” I said.
“Aye,” she said. “Barney, of course.” She paused to look at me suspiciously.
“And did Mary Hughes sponsor Barney’s coming over to America?”
“Aye, she did.” But something clicked in her now. I could see the distrust rising. “And your father’s people, from where in Armagh were they?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I hadn’t thought that far ahead, and she saw through that.
“You’ll have a divil of a time finding yer relations if you don’t know the town or a townland or the name of a village.” She smelled a rat. I could tell by the way her tone had sharpened and her eyes tried to bore deeper into mine. “And what’s your interest in Mary Donohue, now? As generous and kind a woman as you’re ever likely to meet.”
No answer here was going to be good enough. This lady had figured out I was snooping, and nothing I said was going to dissuade her. I gave it a halfhearted try anyway. “Nothing really. I heard she might be from Armagh and might tell me something about it.”
“Sure, and couldn’t I tell you all you’d need to know about Armagh?”
“Yep, you sure could. But I’m going to be late for work if I don’t get going,” said I, backing toward the door.
There may be something about smiling Irish eyes stealing your heart away, but these angry and glaring ones, they’d rip it bloody and sh
attered right out of your chest. I beat it back to Manhattan with my tail between my legs.
Despite my misstep with the lady from Armagh, I believed I was closing in on what had happened. Mary Donohue called in sick for work that night, and Betsy covered for her. Betsy looked gorgeous as usual, watching me most of the night with those doe eyes of hers. It should have melted my heart, but life had toughened me up again. I wanted to tell her what I was thinking but couldn’t bring myself to, not only because I thought it would shock her and cause her unhappiness, but because it would do those things to me, too.
Late in the evening, near closing time, Betsy put her hand on top of mine when I reached across the service bar for a glass. She gathered me up with that sweetness of hers, drawing me in until she had me all wrapped up.
“All this has been so terrible, Brian.” Her eyes searched mine. “Last night I woke up before dawn terrified because I felt like I was being strangled.”
I patted her hand, remembering our trip to the West Side Market, pushing the stroller along Broadway, the feeling I had then of wanting to be part of something again, and how Betsy, as young as she was, seemed to effortlessly fit herself into my life. Yet I didn’t know that I would be right for her, or for anyone. After what had happened, what I had done, I didn’t like myself. I felt damaged, that there was something wrong with me and I would infect her with it.
In the end, after closing, sitting in the dark, we held hands for a moment. We didn’t talk much, and nothing felt as sweet as it was supposed to feel. So I sent her home in a car-service cab with a plan to see her and Katie on Sunday. When she left, I walked all the way home up Broadway, watching the cabs streaming back downtown with their dome lights on.
The next afternoon, I sat in the Old Shillelagh with a feeling of dread, waiting for Barney to show up. Earlier, I’d spoken to the bartender, whom I’d met a few times with Barney. We talked about old times, under the guise of my trying to get straight with him when exactly it was that Barney arrived in America and wasn’t it that he came over to Mary Donohue’s when he arrived.
“I believe you’re right,” said the bartender.
“From home together, I imagine,” I said.
“Home together?” he said. “Sure, I thought they were brother and sister.”
The face of the Donohues’ younger son, a spitting image of his uncle, rose up in front of me. Sometimes, you don’t see the simplest things right in front of your nose.
It wasn’t Barney who slid onto the bar stool next to mine. It was Pat Donohue, wearing his uniform. He ordered a Jameson and, without asking, one for me also.
“You’ve become the talk of the neighborhood,” he said after pouring a splash of water into his whiskey, taking a sip, and smacking his lips, “the narrowback with all the questions.”
I took a sip of my own whiskey straight. I’d found out and been found out, it seemed. I was nervous.
“More than twenty years a cop,” he said, “and it will be soon over. In that time, I never once pulled my gun.”
I wondered, without feeling any panic, if he would pull it now and shoot me.
He took another drink of whiskey. “So, and what did you discover with all your questioning, anything strange?” He turned to face me for the first time.
I told him the truth. “I was wrong to think Tom Eliot killed MacAlister and Tierney. Not only was I wrong. I was led astray by folks I trusted.”
Pat nodded. “And so you were,” he said, and finished off his whiskey.
“Your wife is Barney’s oldest sister, watching out for him still, I guess.”
“So you know the truth, Brian. My wife murdered two men in cold blood. Still fighting the bloody war in Ireland, still watching over her younger brother. That’s all there is to it, as simple as that. The both of them born into a war, not knowing there was another kind of life. Here in America, too. She never let go of it for a minute. Except, thank God, not for the kids. She spared them the hate that was their birthright.”
There wasn’t much Pat needed to tell me. Everything had fallen into place as soon as I realized that Mary Hughes Donohue was the sister who reared Barney Hughes aka Saunders—one of the first of the Irish women to join the IRA, a fierce protector of her own, not one who would let an unholy alliance of MacAlister and Tierney turn her brother over to the immigration authorities and have him sent back to Northern Ireland to face prison or death.
Pat had the good sense not to ask me what I was going to do now that I knew the truth. We sat together for a couple more shots, the spirits firing my anger and bitterness. He talked of his wife’s hard life when she was young, her time in prison, the fear she had for her brother if he was caught. I only half listened. I wanted to be alone. I thought about our torturing Eliot until he was scared for his life, reduced to blubbering, admitting to anything we wanted him to say, not an iota of dignity left. I was disgusted with myself for letting it happen, more than I was ashamed of being fool enough to help Barney plant the gun in his office.
Later that day, I stopped to see Pop on my way to Kevin’s basketball practice and told him everything.
“She killed MacAlister because he knew about whatever it was in Barney’s past that drove him from Ireland. She killed Tierney because it was he who told MacAlister and was out to get Barney. Knowing this, though I don’t know when he came to know it, Barney set up Eliot to protect his sister. He arranged things for me to believe it was Eliot and planted the gun to make sure there was no doubt about it.
“I should have known it was Mary or Barney because of the baby. Mary would know to leave the baby with me. The diapers and new clothes and all of that suggested a mother had taken the baby under her wing.”
Pop had seen a lot in his time. Nothing much shocked him. “So that’s how it ends,” he said. “What’s there to do now? You want this Donohue woman arrested. What for? Whatever’s eating away at you is probably much worse for her.”
“And Barney?”
“What about Barney?”
“He was my friend. He tricked me.”
“To protect his sister. You’ll have to decide about him yourself down the road.”
Basketball practice was great. The coach did need me after all. A cheerful, lighthearted guy, tough as nails with the kids but generous in his dealings with a dad who wanted to coach his son. Once practice got going, I lost my inhibitions. I even made eight of ten of my foul shots teaching shooting drills. The good thing was that in the intensity of the practice I could forget everything else.
Afterward, Kevin told me he’d read about Eliot’s murder in the paper. “That was those two guys who were after you who done it. Right?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible.”
“That guy had it coming. Right?”
“I don’t know if anyone has it coming. Dying’s too final for me to wish it on anyone.”
“Better him than you,” said Kevin philosophically.
“I’m glad you think so.”
Betsy and Katie came to visit the next day. Being with them brought me a measure of peace. I could feel Katie’s little arms wrapped around my neck long after she let go, and an almost embarrassing rush of joy when she’d reach from her mother’s arms toward me and come grab me around the neck again. Betsy turned my kitchen from a place to store beer bottles into a place where meals were made at least for the day. What with Kevin’s practice and Betsy’s visit, I didn’t set foot in a bar for two days, probably the longest stretch since I was sixteen. When I was left alone for any length of time, I did go over in my mind what had happened and what I might have done differently, but something was stirring in me, a kind of contentment I hardly recognized.
When Betsy was making ready to leave, I tried to say something about that contentment and what it might mean. “You can stay, you know,” I said finally. “You and Katie, as long as you like.” As soon as I saw Betsy’s confused and then sympathetic expression I wanted to kick myself.
“Oh, Brian,” she said. “That
’s so sweet of you to take me and Katie in. I should have known you would. But you have your life here. You’re so set in your ways, and it would spoil things to change you from what you are. Katie and I are going to be fine, and we’ll always be your friends.” She must have seen something in my expression, something that slipped through—the reason I never made any money at poker. “You’ll be all right, Brian, won’t you? You’re not sad, are you?” Her lip trembled; her eyes got misty. “You’re not going to be lonely without us?”
I caught up with myself then. Shook my head. “I’m fine. You guys are great. You don’t need me. I just wanted to offer. You know? I’m fine. I’ve got my hands full with Kevin.” Just then Otto hopped through the window and streaked across the floor. “And the cat.”
For we knew only too well:
Even the hatred of squalor
Makes the brow grow stern.
Even anger against injustice
Makes the voice grow harsh. Alas, we
Who wished to lay the foundations of kindness
Could not ourselves be kind.
—Bertolt Brecht
Author’s Note
The New York City that appears in these pages is filtered through the author’s imagination. I’ve taken liberties with streets and buildings, as well as sections of the city. For example, there are many hotels in Manhattan, but the old Savoy is not one of them. Bainbridge is a section of the north Bronx at the end of the D line, but it is a different place than the one described here: You’ll look in vain for the Old Shillelagh, an Irish butcher shop, or Christmas lights. Finally, there is a grand tradition of Irish cops in the NYPD, but none of them ever belonged to the Friendly Sons of Ireland, which as far as I know never existed.