The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery Page 5

  And then they shove him out.

  He is airborne, falling toward earth, flailing his arms, and his screams awaken neighbors. But unbeknownst to O’Byrne, the pilot has dropped the copter to a foot above ground. And when O’Byrne lands, he lands softly on the grass, physically unharmed but psychologically shattered, and the scorn of their laughter never leaves his ears.

  Morning came and O’Byrne walked to Slattery’s Pub to meet Liam McGrew. Slattery nodded toward the back room. O’Byrne went in and found Liam sitting at the same round table he always sat at, his blackthorn walking stick at his side, a satisfied smirk on his face.

  “You did well, soldier, very well indeed.” Liam cleared his throat. “Have ye the goods with you?”

  O’Byrne slid the manila envelope across the table. Liam removed the sheet and unfolded it. The sorry fool nearly drooled on the $100,000 bills while staring at them, and then he giggled. O’Byrne watched Liam and something occurred to him. Liam never mentioned Alroy’s name, never showed an ounce of concern for his grandson, his so-called flesh and blood. O’Byrne thought further and decided to leave well enough alone. At least Liam didn’t blame him for Alroy’s disappearance.

  “Any word on Alroy yet?” O’Byrne asked, fishing.

  “Alroy will be fine, just fine.” Liam inhaled through his mouth, never taking his eyes off the money. “McAfee is awaiting his return as surely as we are sitting here. The boy will soon be back from his carnal affair, full of manly knowledge. Ah, for the love of youth. Who knew the lad had it in him?”

  “Did Mac call?”

  “Mac will call when Alroy gets back and not a moment sooner,” Liam said. “All is fine, O’Byrne. The boy is having a wee fling, so let him enjoy it.”

  II.

  Each day at noontime, which was 6:00 a.m. on the East Coast of America, O’Byrne logged on to the computer and read the Boston dailies. On the third day he saw it, a newspaper item he feared he might see: a composite sketch of a man’s face. The caption read, “Do You Recognize This Person?” The person in the sketch was Alroy McGrew.

  “Feck!”

  O’Byrne pressed C4 on his disposable cell phone, but no one picked up. He pressed C4 again and this time McAfee answered.

  O’Byrne said, “Did you see the newspapers?”

  “Huh?” McAfee grumbled, sounding whiskey sick.

  “There’s a picture of Alroy in the paper.” O’Byrne waited, but McAfee didn’t respond. “Alroy is probably dead, Mac.”

  “Dead?” Mac cleared his throat. “What do I do?”

  “Don’t do a bloody thing until I call back.” O’Byrne hung up.

  Using his regular cell phone he called Jackie Tracy, the Charlestown gun dealer who had sold O’Byrne the Walther PPS. Jackie picked up. O’Byrne made no attempt to exchange pleasantries.

  “We have a problem, Jackie,” O’Byrne said. “In today’s Boston Globe there’s a sketch of a man, and in all likelihood the man is dead.”

  “I saw it,” Jackie said. “And you’re right, the man is dead. What’s the problem?”

  “The kid in the sketch is Alroy McGrew.”

  “Is he related to our friend?”

  “His grandson,” O’Byrne said.

  “His grandson?” Jackie Tracy sighed. “You’re not going to like this, O’Byrne, and neither will Liam. The kid was killed by Dermot Sparhawk.”

  “Dermot Sparhawk?”

  “Your boy wandered into the projects and shot Sparhawk, and Sparhawk retaliated.” Jackie sipped something, maybe coffee. “He picked up a rock and killed him. What was the kid thinking?”

  “Alroy was never much on thinking,” O’Byrne said. “I didn’t want him in Boston in the first place, but it was out of my hands.” O’Byrne couldn’t believe it. Dermot Sparhawk had killed Alroy McGrew. Liam would go wild when he heard this. “You won’t like what I’m about to say, Jackie, not a bit.”

  “It can’t be any worse,” Jackie paused. “Can it?”

  “Alroy shot Sparhawk with the gun you gave me, the Walther PPS,” O’Byrne said.

  “What?”

  “I was careless.” O’Byrne could see the whole thing unraveling. The money-fair heist, the shooting of Sparhawk, the killing of Alroy, it could all lead back to Belfast. “Is the gun a problem?”

  “Hell, yeah, it’s a problem, but how big a problem remains to be seen.” With a muffled laugh, Jackie said, “You know something? This might turn out okay.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe it won’t be a problem at all,” Jackie said. “The Sparhawk shooting could be a godsend, depending on how it plays out.”

  “I fail to see the upside.”

  “A cop got shot with that gun––remember I told you about the cop in Hyde Park? Now Sparhawk was shot with the same gun. This will be interesting.”

  “I still don’t see the upside, Jackie.”

  “I’m speculating, playing out the scenarios in my head. Alroy, Sparhawk, the gun, everything might be okay.”

  “You lost me,” O’Byrne said. “Can you find out what the police think about the Sparhawk incident?”

  “I plan to learn everything I can,” Jackie said. “I’ll call you when I know what’s going on.”

  III.

  Two hours later Jackie Tracy called O’Byrne back.

  “You’ve got yourself a big fat problem, O’Byrne. Your boy Alroy had a $5000 bill in his pocket. The feds are all over it, so are the locals.”

  “This is a problem.”

  “If they identify Alroy McGrew, you’re finished, and so is Liam. I can see only one hope for you.”

  “And what hope is that?” O’Byrne asked.

  “The police still haven’t identified Alroy,” Jackie said. “If they can’t identify him, they won’t look at Belfast.”

  “Ah.”

  “There’s another thing working for you,” Jackie continued. “The police made an arrest in that bank job I was telling you about, the one over there in Hyde Park where the cop got shot.”

  “And that’s good how?” O’Byrne asked.

  “They arrested a Charlestown man for it and he’s not talking,” Jackie said, “which is good for you guys.”

  “And why is that good for us, Jackie?”

  “It has to do with ballistics. The police compared the slugs from Sparhawk with the slug from the cop and obviously they matched, so the cops think a member of the Charlestown crew shot Sparhawk.” Jackie stopped. “But no one’s talking. The cops think it’s the code of silence, but it’s not. The Townie they arrested really doesn’t know Alroy. How could he possibly know him?”

  “What about the $5,000 bill?” O’Byrne asked.

  “I’ll get to that,” Jackie said. “Alroy had no identification on him, so the cops are assuming he’s a member of the Charlestown crew. And since Alroy had the $5,000 bill, the cops are also assuming that all the incidents are connected: the Hyde Park bank robbery, the cop shooting, the money-fair heist, the Sparhawk shooting, the Alroy slaying. They think it’s a Charlestown thing. And since they think it’s a Charlestown thing, you Belfast guys are off the hook.”

  “As long as the police don’t identify Alroy, we should be in the clear,” O’Byrne surmised. “Thanks, Jackie.”

  “Sure thing.” Jackie hung up.

  IV.

  Alroy was dead at the hands of Dermot Sparhawk, a man Liam McGrew despised. How to tell Liam this news? It wouldn’t be easy. O’Byrne contemplated the killing and the law of unintended consequences. Liam’s rants had incited Alroy to kill Sparhawk, but it backfired, and now Alroy was dead, killed by Dermot Sparhawk. The irony of it.

  O’Byrne walked into Slattery’s Pub and ordered a Guinness stout on draught and a double Jameson neat. He didn’t futz around, he drank. And when he finished the first pair, he ordered another pair, and drank them
down, and he did it again. At five o’clock, three hours after O’Byrne first sat on the stool, Liam McGrew came into the bar rolling his oxygen tank behind him.

  “We need to talk, Liam,” O’Byrne said.

  “Why the grim face?” Liam smiled and slapped O’Byrne’s back. “You fetched home a fortune.”

  “I’ll tell you in the back room.” They went out back, and after closing the door firmly, O’Byrne said, “Alroy is dead.”

  “What did you say?”

  “He was killed in Boston.”

  “No, he can’t be dead.” Liam dropped his walking stick. “Killed how?”

  “Dermot Sparhawk fractured his skull with a rock, killing him instantly.”

  “Sparhawk!”

  Liam leaned down to crank the knob, but he was too late. He crashed to the floor. The tank tipped over and smashed the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted from his nostrils and into the plastic nasal openings. The air tube flooded red, as if Liam were donating blood. O’Byrne called an ambulance and waited beside Liam McGrew.

  V.

  The next day O’Byrne visited Liam at Musgrave Park Hospital, where Liam was convalescing from a broken nose, but the hospital was more concerned with his pulmonary condition than his snout. A respirator aided his breathing. Monitors tracked his pulse and blood pressure and oxygen levels. His cheeks showed yellow bruising that would soon turn purple and black. O’Byrne rested his hand on Liam’s bony shoulder.

  “I’m sick about Alroy.”

  Liam leaned up and rasped, “Call McAfee. Tell him to kill Sparhawk.” He slumped down to the pillow. “That’s an order.”

  Revenge, that’s what got Alroy killed in the first place. But O’Byrne didn’t debate Liam on the issue. He said he would make the call. O’Byrne didn’t like it, putting a hit on Dermot Sparhawk. Executing Liam’s orders no longer appealed to him. Earning Liam’s praise for acting the obedient soldier seemed childish now.

  VI.

  O’Byrne carried two pints of Guinness to an empty table in Slattery’s Pub. He drank one down, got out the disposable cell phone, and pressed C4. McAfee mumbled into the phone, most likely on a rum toot.

  “Mac, it’s me,” O’Byrne said. “Liam wants Sparhawk killed.”

  “Why?” Mac asked.

  “Sparhawk killed Alroy,” O’Byrne told him.

  “He killed Alroy?” Mac’s voice came to life. “Where can I find Sparhawk?”

  O’Byrne gave him the address, which he found, simply enough, on the Internet. He hung up and signaled Slattery for a double whiskey, drank it in a gulp, and waved the empty glass for another.

  What had he done?

  He prayed to Saint Angus MacNisse of Connor. Praying to a saint in a pub? Praying to a saint after ordering a man killed? He prayed to Kathleen, his wife of holy virtue, his only love. What had he done? Liam had ordered the hit, but O’Byrne had made the call. O’Byrne fingered Dermot Sparhawk for Liam McGrew.

  Feeling like a lackey, he drank more whiskey. Why did he feel so guilty? He didn’t even know Dermot Sparhawk, never met the man in his life. O’Byrne was following orders. Like a priest who takes a vow of obedience, O’Byrne didn’t question his superiors. You can’t be a renegade within a renegade group like the IRA, not a breathing one at least, and you don’t question orders, no sir, you execute them. He went to the bar and asked for another drink and told Slattery to keep them coming. Slattery looked at him askance but smartly poured the booze.

  O’Byrne awoke in his flat at midnight, still groggy from the binge, but coherent enough to judge his actions. He’d been out for five hours, maybe longer, scuttered on Bushmills. Despite the flood of liquor he’d consumed, the guilt remained with him, except now it was worse. What to do about Dermot Sparhawk?

  He crawled out of bed and went to the toilet but didn’t throw up. At the sink he filled the kettle and waited for the water to boil. He brewed a cup with three teabags, hoping to snap out of it with a caffeine blitz. He drank it black and the fogginess began to lift. Midnight in Belfast meant 6:00 p.m. in Boston. He called Jackie Tracy in Charlestown.

  “Jackie, it’s O’Byrne.”

  “Two calls in ten minutes from the IRA, it must be my lucky day.”

  “Right, indeed, your lucky day.” Another IRA man had called Jackie Tracy? O’Byrne’s mind scrambled for an answer, and an answer soon came. Liam must have called him. “Could you understand him with his wheezing and coughing?”

  “Not well, but yeah, I understood him.”

  “Did you take care of that thing he was calling about?” O’Byrne fished.

  Jackie didn’t answer right away and the delay unnerved O’Byrne, and then Jackie said, “What’s going on?”

  Jackie must have seen through O’Byrne’s charade. How to handle it? But before O’Byrne responded, Jackie said, “You know me better than that. Of course I took care of it. It was a minor request. Everything is set.”

  “Good, that’s very good.”

  “Are you okay?” Jackie asked. “You don’t sound yourself.”

  “I have to tell you something.” O’Byrne’s mouth overruled his brain. His conscience came to the surface. “Liam put a hit on Dermot Sparhawk.”

  O’Byrne couldn’t believe the words he spoke. He didn’t decide to say them, they just came out. He had never revealed anything before, never left himself open. What was happening to him? Was it the prayers? Did Saint Angus MacNisse and Kathleen get word to God? Maybe God had intervened to save his soul.

  “I called in a hit on Sparhawk.”O’Byrne continued. “On Liam’s orders.”

  “I know Dermot Sparhawk, known him since he was a kid,” Jackie said. “The hit man you called, was his name Mac?”

  “Aye, McAfee,” O’Byrne answered.

  “Red hair, green eyes, pale face, quiet?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Liam told me to give Mac a gun, but he didn’t say why,” Jackie said. “If I knew it was to kill Sparhawk, I would have said no. Murder is where I draw the line. I have ethics, you know.”

  An ethical gunrunner?

  “You sell guns to the IRA, Jackie,” O’Byrne said, perplexed.

  “I sell them to freedom fighters, to soldiers in arms, not murderers.” Jackie paused. “I’ll admit that I sell guns to criminals, too. But they’re legitimate criminals, bank robbers and hold-up men, not murderers.”

  O’Byrne thought it over, and the idea of an ethical gunrunner didn’t strike him as absurd, not at all. The more O’Byrne thought about it, the more he could relate to it, the degrees of morality.

  “I always saw myself as a soldier,” O’Byrne said, and then he changed direction. “I want you to warn Sparhawk.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me to warn him,” Jackie said. “I’m going to give him a heads-up, but I’ll have to be careful.”

  “Yes, you must be careful.” O’Byrne agreed. “Be very careful, Jackie.”

  “If Liam finds out you told me to warn Sparhawk, you’re dead. You know that, don’t you? And I’m dead too if I follow through on it.”

  “Maybe Sparhawk can leave town for a while.” O’Byrne downed the rest of the tea. “Maybe he can clear out until this matter blows over.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Jackie didn’t sound convinced.

  The conversation died down, with both men turning silent. O’Byrne thought about what he had just done, contacting Jackie Tracy and asking him to warn Sparhawk that there was a hit on him. What had he done? Was he going soft in the head perhaps? But before O’Byrne could contemplate his newfound compassion, Jackie broke the silence.

  “What’s going on with you, O’Byrne?”

  “No more killings, Jackie. I’ve killed people, too many people if truth be told, but I killed them as a soldier. We stood for something back then.”

  “I thought you still did.”


  VII.

  During the day O’Byrne took refuge in the Clonard Monastery, where he knelt and prayed and begged for forgiveness. In the evening he stayed at home and slept, sometimes for twelve hours in a row. Each morning before leaving his Divis Street flat, O’Byrne would read the Boston newspapers online, searching for stories on Sparhawk’s murder. After two days had passed, he went to Musgrave Park Hospital to visit Liam McGrew. Liam waved him over when he entered the room.

  “Tis good of you to come by today,” he said.

  “How are you feeling?” O’Byrne asked him.

  “Better, much better indeed. I’ll be getting out of here tomorrow, should the doctors see fit.” He sat up. “Did you make that call to Boston?”

  “I talked to Mac straightaway,” O’Byrne answered.

  But Liam already knew this, of course, because he had called McAfee himself. He had also called Jackie Tracy and told Jackie to give Mac a gun. Liam’s question wasn’t a question at all. It was a test.

  “Very good, my friend.” Liam’s coloring had returned to his face, rendering the red blotch less jarring. “Sparhawk will soon be dead, and I will be able to die in peace, and Alroy’s murder will have been avenged.”

  They talked awhile longer, an informal conversation on the face of it, but guarded under the surface, fencing more than chatting. When O’Byrne left, an uneasy feeling came over him. Did Liam blame him for Alroy’s death?

  §

  The next morning O’Byrne checked the Boston papers. He read a story about a bus driver who’d been brutally beaten by a gang in Dudley Station. The driver, a woman who was a week from retirement, was rushed to Boston Medical Center where she was treated for cuts and contusions and then released. In Dorchester’s Bowdoin-Geneva neighborhood, the police arrested a ring of Cape Verdean heroin distributors after eighteen months of surveillance. In Brookline, an armed man fired into a group of mourners at a cemetery and escaped on foot. No casualties were reported. The gunman remained at large.