Billingsgate Shoal (29 page)

"I remember that. They later turned up in
Northern Ireland, by way of Holland."

As the major nodded, my thoughts returned to my
strange assailant inthe barn, the one with the peat from County
Donegal still on his boots. The Irish Connection. And yet he'd been
hiding too. . . '

"If you gentlemen will follow me, I will show
you why the government is so anxious for the return of these missing
pieces," said the major in an official tone as he plucked the
pig-ugly little gun from its fancy case. He pushed in a small button
above the back of the handgrip and drew out the metal stock, the end
of which he braced against his shoulder. He shoved a clip up the
handle, pulled back the knob on the gun's top surface, and requested
that a fresh target be reeled out on the wire. By this time we were
surrounded by the other policemen, who gazed at the contraption with
curiosity and awe. When the target reached the far end of the range,
having been cranked out there on a pulley like a clothesline, the
major darted underneath the shooting bench, raised the machine pistol
to his shoulder, and fired.

The range exploded in noise. I felt as if I were
inside a boiler being riveted. The soldier had two of his left-hand
fingers inside a small canvas strap that hung down from the barrel.
He pulled down on this as he released the two bursts, but the small
gun bucked up nevertheless, spewing .45-caliber slugs so fast it made
one solid wall of noise. He swung his torso back and forth quickly
during the bursts. The shredded target fell apart. He had cut it in
two.

"Sombitch!" said a trooper.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," whistled another.

Downey released the clip; it clanked down on the
floor at his feet.

"Empty," he said. "That's a major
disadvantage of the Ingram. At eleven, hundred a minute, the cyclic
rate is so high that a thirty-round clip empties in under one and a
half seconds. But now I'm going to demonstrate the Ingram's great
advantage? He took the metal tube from the case and twisted it onto
the barrel that projected from the body by only about two inches,
threaded. He shoved a second clip into the piece, ducked under t-he
bench as before, and pulled the trigger.

What emerged this time was one of the strangest
noises I've ever heard. It was like the faint sound of a buffalo
stampede or like sheet metal being ripped behind a thick felt
curtain. And behind this noise was another: a thin whistle of almost
electronic purity. It made almost no noise whatsoever. But yet the
slugs still poured forth. We saw the target's top half sliced to
ribbons. Also, we heard the only loud noise there was: that of thirty
lead slugs, each as thick as the tip of my little finger, thunking
into the metal wall. That sound was loud—as loud as two
jackhammers. But the tiny weird gun, for all its kicking and bucking,
was almost totally silent.

"Well Gawdammn!"

Downey wore a self-satisfied smile, pleased at having
so impressed his audience. It was almost a smirk. I decided I didn't
much care for the major.

"I'm sure most of you are aware of silencers,
and how they reduce muzzle velocity almost to the point of
uselessness. But this"—and he rapped the metal tube with his
hand—"is designed so that it actually increases the energy of
the fired rounds. Don't ask me how 'cause I don't know. But it does.
So there you have it: a silent machine gun that can be carried under
a coat."

"Unbelievable," said O'Hearn. "Jesus,
I hate to think what they'd mean in the wrong hands."

"Which, having been stolen, they are,"
replied Joe.

We made our way up to Joe's office. I plunked down
into a chair and listened to my ears ringing. I told him I had no
idea the funny-looking little pistol was so deadly. I thought it was
just a cheap pistol. . .a junky version of the army .45 auto sidearm.

"Nope. The reason your description caused such a
flurry is because every major police bureau in the country has had a
circular from the army, sitting on their desks for these last eight
weeks. The Ingram machine pistols, departed from Schenectady, turn up
in western Massachusetts. They are heading east then, probably on
their way to Ireland.,And incidentally we have no idea who your
midnight companion could be. Neither do the Boston Police."

"Is that surveillance team going to pick up the
young brat—Buzarski's son-in-law?"

"Last we checked the barn was clean as a
whistle, so we've got no cause. We're just all hanging back in the
bush observing the place through heavy lenses. We're also going to go
after the
Rose
again."

I leaned back in the chair with my hands clasped
behind my head and stared at the ceiling. It was one of those
horrendous affairs with fiber panels with tiny holes in them. I had a
thought or two, but said nothing. So far Schilling had remained at
least one hop ahead of me. The only way to turn the tables was to put
myself in his place, to think the way he would think, do what he
would do, and intercept him.,

"Is Hannon putting a watch on your house?"

"Yep. And I'd like one put on The Breakers too.
If it can't be done by public cops I'll hire some. I'm pretty sure
he's found out by now that I have two homes. Of course the grim
warning of Angel is clear: I back off or maybe one of my family is
next."

"And are you going to back off?" 

"Absolutely. Wouldn't you? You saw what happened
to Danny Murdock. How'd you like your sister, Mary, to get the same?"

Joe shuddered.

"That's smart; let us handle it. I'm also going
to request extra protection in Concord for you, and we'll keep an eye
on the cottage too. Where you going?"

"I'm going for a run and a steam bath at the Y,
then home. And listen: if you're anxious to ever have a chance to
talk to the Newdecker brat, I'd do it mighty quick. When Jim
Schilling has squeezed the utility out of people they have a nasty
habit of vanishing in gruesome ways. I appreciate the help; come out
tonight and we'll hunt up some Chinese. The buffet special is on in
Lexington. I'll pay."

I left the building and drove over to the YMCU gym on
Boylston Street. I glanced at the watch: 11:45. Tommy Desmond would
be there. He never missed his noon workout.

I parked the car in a sleazy lot just on the edge of
the Combat Zone and gave the attendant five bucks.

I found Tommy working the speedbag. He circled the
tiny teardrop-shaped bag doing a slow foxtrot, pawing at it with his
mitts in small circles like a kid imitating a choo-choo train. The
bag bounced under the platform and spoke like a conga drum:
whackata-whackata-whackata-whackata, faster than the eye could
follow.

I told him I wanted to buy him lunch and talk. He
nodded. An hour later we were in J. J. Foley's bar and grill,
wrapping our faces around a couple of cheeseburgers and inhaling
beer.

"Liatis is in trouble again, Doc. You heah?"

"No. Same thing again? Bar fight?"

He nodded.

"Punk started it. As usual."

"And Liatis finished it."

"Uh huh. Four seconds. Cops aren't sure the
kid'll live though. It's serious this time. He could go to trial and
everything. Even all his friends on the force can't save him."

"Jesus. Chest kick?"

"Naw. Throat punch."

"He's got to quit getting bombed in those sleazy
bars, Tommy."

He nodded sagely and chewed.

Let me tell you: if you ever find yourself in one of
Boston's sleazy bars in the Combat Zone and a short, stocky man with
a drooping moustache and thick accent asks you what you think of the
Patriots' chances, or who you're voting for, or anything. . .your
best bet is to place your drink back on the bar, make hand signs as
if you're deaf and dumb, and back out of there smiling and bowing,
And take the next plane to Fresno.

When he asked me what it was I wanted to talk about I
mentioned NORAID, the IRA, arms smuggling in general, and my strange
nocturnal meeting in the Buzarski barn. Tommy's big blue eyes
changed. They took on a steely coolness, rather like the Vaughan
Lewis Glacier. They had a piercing, laserlike gleam of intense
feeling that could cut through a bank vault door. Sensing his change
in mood I made it emphatically clear that I didn't wish to pry into
his personal life or activities, or those of his friends and
acquaintances. I just wanted an idea if the man I had met was, in his
estimation, an IRA Provo.

His replies were cool and clipped, though polite. No,
he thought. The IRA was infinitely more sophisticated than most
people thought. What I had bumped into sounded to him like a
half-assed outfit, though certainly a dangerous one. He advised me as
a friend to heed the man's warnings. But if he is IRA, he'l1 kill you
next time, Doc. Count on it. If not, he still might. But I know for a
fact that most of the guns used in the North are smuggled through New
York and New Orleans now—even though the money comes from here.
Also, they're getting more and more of their stuff from other
terrorist groups like the PLO. Hello, Joe!"

"Hi ya, Tommy. May God bless—"

His name was Joe Berry, and he wore thick horn-rimmed
glasses and had snow-white hair capped with a snap brim hat. His nose
was long and cherry red. Tommy bought him a beer and he sat down,
listening to Tommy telling me about the British domination and
exploitation of the Northern six counties.

"Fookin' Brits!" he piped.

The waitress had stopped by our booth an inordinate
number of times.

Her name was Mauneen—she told Tommy this. She was
very pretty. She was pretty all over, as a matter of fact. She
couldn't take her eyes off Tommy. She was looking at him the way a
cat looks at tuna fish. She leaned over to collect our plates,.
staring at Tommy dead level and moving the damp rag around on the
Formica as if she were working a Ouija board.

"Did you like it?"

"Excellent," I answered.

She didn't hear me; she was looking at Tommy.

Tommy's eyes were darting between her face and chest,
face and chest. He wore a huge smile.

"But Tommy," I said, "the guy gave me
back my gun. Tommy?"

". . .Oh from Cork, eh? Hey Joey, Maureen's from
Cork. Oh yeah. Hey, don't they make 'em pretty in Cork, eh?"

"And not only that, but the guns could be going
somewhere else. Like maybe South Africa, or even Quebec. Tommy?"

"And you're staying in Wollaston now are you?
Well, I live there too—oh yeah."

Several patrons were holding their empty bottles
aloft. The batman was glaring impatiently at Maureen.

"Uh Tommy, just one more, uh. . ." I began.

To hell with it. I gave Joey the money to pay for the
meal and began to slide out of the booth. He nodded and winked at me.

"Happens alla time to 'im. Like a fookin' broken
reoord—"

"Uh huh. I know. See you, Joe."

"Same to you. Watch yerself!"

I left J. J. Foley's and retrieved the car. At home,
Mary showed me one of the big Chinese pots.

"Angel's head's in there, Charlie. I want you to
dig a deep hole in the garden and bury it."

She had worked days on the pot.

"You sure?"

"Uh huh. And I'll tell you something else. I'm
never going to feel good until they're found. I could kill them
myself."

"Forget it, honey. They'll be caught; there's
enough people looking for them, now, including the United States
Army. When I get back let's go buy a puppy."

We returned in late afternoon with a cardboard carton
filled with strips of newspaper and a four pound composition of
sinew, wiry fur, big brown eyes, and needle teeth. Mary picked her up
out of the box at least a dozen times on our way home.

"We've got troubles now, Charlie," she
said, kissing the mutt on the side of her muzzle. She was smiling.

"Then let's name her that."

"What?"

"Troubles. You said, 'We've got troubles now.'
So let's name her Troubles."

"Where have you guys been?" asked Joe. He
was standing at the sideboard, having just made himself a generous
gin and tonic.

"Gee why don't you just come right in and make
yourself at home?" I asked.

"Thanks, I did already. That's why I was given a
key. What the hell's thar?"

So we spent the next half-hour with drinks and the
doggie. She pranced around the kitchen, sliding on the Spanish tile.
She looked into strange places and whined and yelped—scampered
back. We let the other two in, and Danny and Flack took to her
immediately. Joe and I sat watching the animals frolic. I looked up
and saw Mary pause at the window. She was looking at the newly spaded
patch of ground in the Japanese garden. It was right next to the
bronze lotus flower, the Asian symbol of immortality.

"C'mon hon. Time to forget. It's all part of the
Great Going On."

"Well what you call the Great Going On is sad. .
. and scary."