The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery

  Contents

  Part One: Belfast, Northern Ireland Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Two: Charlestown, Massachusetts Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Three: Belfast, Northern Ireland Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Landmarks

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Also by the Author

  Other Books by Tom MacDonald

  The Charlestown Connection

  Beyond The Bridge

  Copyright ©2015 Tom MacDonald

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and incidents, either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9967332-2-9

  Also available in:

  Hardcover: 978-0-9967332-0-5

  Softcover: 978-0-9967332-1-2

  Published in the United States of America by

  Sparhawk Press

  Braintree, Massachusetts

  Interior artwork ©Heidi Hurley

  Cover concept by Joanne Coughlin

  Book design by Robin Wrighton

  ebook adaptation by Kevin Callahan / BNGO Books

  This book is dedicated to my father

  Thomas J. MacDonald

  June 25, 1931 - September 15, 2014

  In gratitude to Saint Padre Pio

  The great healer

  Acknowledgements

  It all starts with my wife, Maribeth, whose loving support and ruthless story analysis are unmatched. Without Maribeth, none of this happens.

  A special thank you goes to Heidi Hurley, the talented artist who drew the illustrations, al a comic noir. Heidi’s creative diligence brought the pictures to fruition and to life. Heidi translated my sketchy ideas into first-rate sketches, and she was quick to make modifications on the fly. Another special thanks goes to Robin Wrighton, who designed the cover and formatted the text and sketches for print. The collaboration with Robin was easy and professional, and her ideas and suggestions were always on the mark. Thank you to Joanne Coughlin for her contributions to the book cover.

  I am grateful to the following story consultants: Dick Murphy, whose Charlestown sensibilities and literary intuition bring an element of realism and believability to setting and dialogue in this fictional tale; Chris Hobin, whose ability to deconstruct a scene, diagnose the pieces, and reassemble the parts, enhanced the clarity on each page; John Malkowski, Rhodes Scholar extraordinaire, whose proficiency in grammar constructs and word usage are unrivaled; Colin McKenzie, my talented nephew, whose insights to story structure and character development are expert.

  I thank Kate Victory Hannisian of Blue Pencil Consulting for applying her editing skills to the manuscript.

  Also…

  Joe Hobin, Joe Matthews, Michael McKenzie, Carman Ortiz, Sharon Hanson, Maureen Preskenis, Cookie Giodarno, Tom Coots, Paul Martin, Rene Menard, Richard Murphy, and Al MacPherson.

  I am grateful to Scott & Tara Savitz and Dennis & Sharon Hanson for buying character names for charity. Their proceeds went to Harvest on Vine emergency food pantry in Charlestown, Mass. The same goes for Kenny Bowen, who bought a character name. Kenny’s proceeds went to the Stonehill College football program.

  Lastly, I’d like to recognize the following master grammarians, who honed their craft in parochial school, with a smiling nun tapping a ruler in her hand: Patricia MacDonald, my mother; Frank Carney, my uncle; Olly Beaulieu, my father’s classmate at Stonehill College, class of 1953.

  Thank You

  We are grateful to our friends and family for helping us launch Sparhawk Press through our Indiegogo drive.

  We couldn’t have done it without you!

  With Gratitude,

  Maribeth and Tom

  Tommy Amaral

  Eliot Andler

  Al and Diane Barese

  Patrick Barnes

  Clarence and Carol Bass

  Olly and Claire Beaulieu

  Debbie Biggins

  Jack and Marianne Boyce

  Dick Bowen

  Leo Breen

  Keith and June Buckley

  F.S. Burns

  Judy Burton

  Caffé Bella, Randolph, MA

  Grant Cambridge

  Peggy Caron

  Eileen Casey

  Michael Cawley

  Steven Codd

  Irene Costello

  Paul Cummins

  Jane Curran

  Mickey DeCosta

  Mary DeLorey

  Vernon Dent

  Francis X. Dooher

  Chris Dolan

  Ginny Doyle

  Dan Duff

  Effie’s Oatcakes

  Bryan Gillis

  Kathleen ‘Cookie’ Giordano

  Stephen Griffin

  Dr. Craig ‘Skeeter’ Gruskowski

  Dennis and Sharon Hanson

  Fred Hanson

  Bill and Carol Hayward

  H. David Hennessey

  Joyce Hogan

  Bob Irgens

  Tom Kadzis

  Rich ‘Ratt’ Kennedy

  Dave and Nancy Kormann

  Dave Lauria

  David Lear

  Pete and Donna LeCam

  Debbie Leppanen

  Diane MacDonald

  Patricia MacDonald

  Joan MacIsaac

  John Malkowski

  Frank McDermott

  John McDermott

  Tom McDermott

  Bob McGann

  Martin McGovern

  Richard McGuan

  John Moore, Navy Yard Bistro

  Tom Motley

  Dick Murphy

  Rich Murphy

  Billy Nelligan

  Jeff Nord

  Donna and Jim O’Brien

  Michael O’Connor

  Johnny Palmer

  Steve Partridge

  Kevin Patts

  PJ and Maureen Preskenis

  Bill Quinn

  Julie Quinn

  Chuck and Marilyn Race

  Florence ‘Lornie’ Rawls

  DeAnn Foran Smith

  Eve Spangler

  Bill Sullivan

  Deidre Sullivan

  Judy Sweeney

  Bette Task

  Diane Yee

  Prologue

  The radio crackled inside a police cruiser idling in front of Lauria Trattoria on Hanover Street in Boston’s North End. The dispatcher said, “Operation for Alpha-103.”

  Officer Paul Simpson, broad-shouldered and blond-haired, sitting in the passenger seat of a two-m
an squad car, pressed the button on his collar mic and answered with a cop’s certainty. “Alpha-103 responding.”

  “Alpha-103, we received a call reporting that a man has been shot. The location of the incident is Saint Jude Thaddeus Church, 55 Vine Street, Charlestown.”

  “Alpha-103, we’re on our way.” Simpson punched the siren and turned to his partner. “Hit it, Steve-o.”

  “You got it.”

  Officer Steve Partridge, long-limbed and sandy-haired, shifted into drive and sped over the Charlestown Bridge into City Square. He raced past Kormann & Schuhwerk’s Brat House, a known cop hangout, and swerved under the Tobin Bridge onto Vine Street. He slowed the vehicle, killed the siren, and pulled into an unlit lot behind Saint Jude Thaddeus Church, a small parish abutting the projects. Partridge shifted into park and shined a spotlight down an arched alleyway. A sign on the wall read “Joe Boyce Food Pantry.” A chain-link fence barricaded the far end of the alley. There was no way out. He aimed the light lower, and the cone-shaped beam cut through the fog and illuminated the bodies of two motionless men lying flat on the blacktop.

  “Looks bad,” Simpson said.

  “Mucho bad,” Partridge agreed, and radioed for an ambulance.

  The cops got out of the car and drew their weapons, listening for danger, hearing nothing but the traffic on the Tobin Bridge. They inched toward the bodies, taking every precaution they’d been trained to take, proceeding like the professionals they had learned to become. They assessed the scene, all seemed tranquil. Partridge studied one of the downed men.

  “No ambulance needed for this guy. His head is cratered.” Partridge holstered his Glock pistol and shined a flashlight on the area. “Look at the blood on the rock next to him. I’ll radio for Homicide.”

  Simpson examined the other body. “This one’s alive, but the bus better get here soon. He’s bleeding like a bastard, bullet wounds.”

  “Bullet wounds,” Partridge said. “The yuppies will freak when they hear this. One man shot, another with his head caved in, all within blocks of their luxury condos.”

  “It’s almost enough to make you feel bad for them,” Simpson deadpanned.

  Partridge joined Simpson and looked at the hemorrhaging gunshot victim. “Hey, I know this guy. I gave him a ride once to see Hanson.”

  Simpson gloved his hands. “Superintendent Hanson?”

  “Yup, Wyatt Earp himself.”

  “If Hanson wanted to see this guy, he must have clout.” Simpson studied the body more closely. “No wonder he’s alive, look at the size of the son of a bitch. You’d need a moose rifle to put him down.”

  “A Remington 700 would get the job done,” Partridge said.

  “A Remington 700?” Simpson checked the wounds as he spoke. “You hunt?”

  “Every fall at a lakeside camp in Maine, up there in uncharted territory,” Partridge said. “You should join me next time. We can drink some beers, smoke cigars, do a little male bonding.”

  “Male bonding?” Simpson grunted. “Like hippity hop to the barbershop?”

  “Forget it, Simmie.” Partridge shook his head. “I’ll get the crime-scene tape.”

  Part One

  Belfast, Northern Ireland

  Chapter One

  I.

  O’Byrne hobbled along the Falls Road, head down, gait slow, limping like a balding Irish Frankenstein. At the Garden of Remembrance he made the sign of the cross and kissed the plaque of the Tullyverry Four: Madden, Casey, Francis, McBrine. Four brave soldiers martyred for freedom. O’Byrne blessed himself again and trudged ahead. He went into Slattery’s Pub and sat at the bar away from the windows, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. One can never be too careful, even in times of declared peace. Old gray Slattery himself rapped his knuckles on the scarred mahogany surface, a judge calling for order.

  “What’ll you be drinking today, O’Byrne?”

  “A glass of Guinness would suit me fine,” he said.

  “’Tis a fitting choice on this gloomy afternoon.” Slattery poured a pint from the tap and placed it on the bar in front of him. O’Byrne sipped the black beer and licked the froth from his mouth. Though the pub was mostly empty, Slattery leaned in closely and whispered, “Liam called earlier.” He wiped the bar as he spoke, barely moving his thin blue lips. “He’ll be in the back room tonight at ten o’clock.”

  “Ten o’clock.” O’Byrne sighed. “And I suppose he wants me to be there.”

  “I’m afraid attendance is mandatory.”

  “Aye, like Easter Mass.” O’Byrne’s stomach churned, churning the way it had in the Long Kesh blanket protests, when the IRA inmates refused prison uniforms, wearing blankets instead. He touched the gun in his waistband, and his stomach settled down. O’Byrne muttered to himself. “Proud to be a blanket man.”

  “What was that you said?” asked Slattery, ever the nosy one.

  “It was nothing.” O’Byrne moved his hand from the gun and palmed his smooth scalp. “I’ll be needing something stronger, Mr. Slattery. Be a good man and fix me a jigger of Jameson, the twelve-year-old.”

  Slattery reached high to the top shelf for the good stuff.

  “I don’t blame you at all, O’Byrne, not at all.” Slattery poured O’Byrne a glass and then poured himself one, too. He toasted, “May you never be without a drop.”

  O’Byrne finished the drinks and left the pub to address a matter.

  §

  He advanced to Saint Malachy’s Church on Alfred Street. With its turrets and gables and steeply pitched roofs, it looked more like a Tudor castle than a Catholic house of worship, as if the Protestants themselves had designed it. O’Byrne stepped inside the church and admired the vaulted ceilings. He listened to the peal of the great bell, the largest in Belfast, and perhaps the largest in all of Ulster, and it clanged the six o’clock Angelus. He walked up the side aisle and stopped at the statue of Saint Angus MacNisse of Connor, baptized by Saint Patrick himself, and he whispered a plea to the ceramic figure.

  “MacNisse, it’s me, O’Byrne from West Belfast. Are you listening? Aye, you’re listening, saints are obliged to listen. I know I’m not good enough to be talking to the Almighty directly, so I’m talking to you instead, no offense.” He looked over his shoulder and then back at the icon. “Liam sent word that he wants to see me. Aye, I know, it’s very bad to be sure. Can you help me, MacNisse? Can you get me out of this grand mess I’m in? A miracle of yours would be most charitable at this time, most charitable indeed.”

  O’Byrne waited. Nothing happened. He raised his massive head and shouted to the rafters on high, “I need you, MacNisse!”

  II.

  At ten o’clock O’Byrne entered the back room of Slattery’s Pub, a windowless cavern with low ceilings and worn floors. A lone bulb cast a dim beam, scarcely enough to chase the shadows. At a shaky round table in the center of the room sat Liam McGrew, a burgundy birthmark staining half his face, an oxygen tube pumping air into his nostrils, fuel to feed the fire. The only instinct that kept Liam alive, it was said, was an unmitigated rage and an unquenchable thirst for violence. And those who knew him best said that he would never die until he savored every atom of anger in his vacant soul.

  Resting next to Liam was his blackthorn walking stick, a symbol of power, a Gaelic gavel, though some in Belfast saw it as a crutch and nothing more. The stick leaned hard against the oaken chair, at the ready in case a wayward lad needed a swift lathering. A shillelagh shampoo with splinter conditioners, Liam would say.

  Liam McGrew cleared his throat of phlegm and in a wheezing burst said, “It is good of you to come by tonight, very good indeed. I rely heavily on you, O’Byrne, more heavily than a man has a right, hmm.” His voice grew hoarser with each forced utterance. His dewlaps shook as if adding vibrato. “I have the utmost gratitude for your loyalty, and the greatest trust in our comradeship.”


  “We go back a long ways, don’t we now, Liam?” O’Byrne said, hoping his casual reply might keep the conversation light and innocuous.

  “We do indeed, we do indeed. We’ve endured the Troubles together, you and I.” Liam turned the knob on his tank. “I require more oxygen this time of evening. I believe the Belfast air thins at night.” He regained his wind. “I see where you visited Saint Malachy’s earlier today.”

  “Yes, yes.” Was Liam following him? “I lit a candle for Kathleen.”

  “Ah, your lovely wife, Kathleen. A dreadful loss, most dreadful indeed. We must pray for the repose of her soul, for it is our duty to do so.” Liam bowed his head in apparent earnest, and then in a huffed cadence he spit out, “Now to business. We have a big job in Boston, bigger than the museum heist I’m told.”

  “Bigger, you say?” O’Byrne hadn’t been to Boston in two decades, which was fine with him after the way they cocked things up last time. “How much?”

  “Two million.” Liam rubbed his hands together. “Two, I say!”

  “Sterling or dollars?” asked O’Byrne, perhaps too eagerly. “I’m merely curious.”

  “Green American dollars. The exchange rate no longer favors us in these ghastly economic times. Still, it’s a great deal of money.” Liam took a lungful of air followed by a mouthful of drink. He poured a glass for O’Byrne and picked up where he left off. “It’s a simple job, fantastically straightforward, a task we can do in a snap.”

  “Working for Mr. H again?” O’Byrne asked.

  Liam nodded, saving his breath.

  Another deal with Mr. H. This was dire news indeed as far as O’Byrne was concerned. “You’re in no condition, Liam. You shouldn’t be making a trip to America, the shape you’re in.”

  “On that we must agree. Old age has caught up with me and left me in its cruel wake, so we’ll be needing a different approach this time, a new line of attack. That is why I called you here tonight, to tell you of my idea.” Another twist of the knob, another gasp for air. “This particular job calls for fresh blood, an infusion of youth, so I’ll be sending my grandson, Alroy. The time has come for Alroy to learn the family trade, to cut his eyeteeth so to speak.”