Black Diamond (13 page)

Ten turned back to me. “Well, do you think you're up to the walk back to the gym?”

“I can handle it, Ten. Would you mind telling me what you said to him in Irish?”

Ten rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling. “ Oh I just said, “Now Patrick, wouldn't it be a better thing for you to pick up what's left of your paycheck and bring it home to Kathleen?”

He walked down the bar to the door to the greetings by name of every man in the room. Before I followed, I asked the man who was standing next to Patrick, “What did he really say?” It brought belly laughs from everyone at the bar within hearing.

“What he said, Yank, if you want a literal translation, was ‘Patrick, if you're not runnin' that pay home to Kathleen by the time
I count to two, I'll shove that whiskey so far up your arse you can gargle with it.'”

I couldn't help asking, “Is Kathleen Ten's sister or something?”

“Not at all. She's just a woman in the neighborhood who'd have nothin' on the table if Patrick pissed it away on the sauce.”

I heard a voice from the door. “Michael, are you comin'? We've business.”

I was on my way to the well wishes of all the men at the bar, who, to a man, simply called me “Yank.” It was good spirited, though to a born Red Sox fan, the name “Yank,” short for “Yankee,” was a bit jarring.

Ten popped the caps on two Killian Red ales and passed one across the weathered desk in his office at the back of the gym. The groan of the wooden chair when he leaned back testified to the steel in every ounce of the man's frame.

“Tell it to me, Michael.”

I answered with everything that bore on my search for Erin, and why the trail had led me to Dublin without a clue as to where to begin the search.

He soaked it in without a word. When I finished, he rocked forward in the chair and rested his elbows on the desk. I was taken back by the similarity of his manner to that of my senior partner.

“I'm sorry for your pain, Michael. We've got good men in this country. It's those years of the Troubles that's hardened some of them till I'm ashamed to admit they're Irish.”

“I don't know where to start here, Ten. I have one name. Seamus McGuiness. Killarney Street.”

His eyebrows went up a notch.

“And what have you heard of him, lad?”

“Practically nothing. I got the name from a man in the States, Vince Scully, who may or may not have been in on the kidnapping depending on whether or not you'd bet a cent on his truthfulness.”

“What did he tell you about McGuiness?”

“I asked him about a lead to find Erin's body for her mother's sake. He gave me McGuiness's name. That's it. What can you tell me about him?”

“Ha!” He was up on his feet and pacing. “I can tell you this. If you went strollin' down Killarney Street askin' questions about Seamus McGuiness, you'd come back with your head under your arm. If at all.”

He sat on the edge of the desk on my side, looking down at me.

“It's best you know you're in turbulent waters. The peace is on us, and we all love it. But there's still a layer of violence in some places just below the surface. You're a clever fella, but you don't look to me like your American—what's his name, Rambo.”

I stood up to be eye-to-eye with him.

“You've got that right. I'm no Rambo.” I added, “Unfortunately, that's irrelevant. I can't go back without word of the little girl. I've got to give her mother at least that.”

“Or die tryin'. Is that it?”

“I'd rather not. But I can't quit either.”

He broke the moment with a laugh and a shake of his head on the way back to his chair. He was grinning when he spoke. “Dammit, Michael. What do they feed you over there? You're a scrawny beanpole of a lawyer. You can't run a block without gaspin' for air. And you want to take on the toughest fighters three decades of war could turn out. You're either soft in the head—or—maybe tough-headed when the chips are down.” The grin was gone. “Either way, there's no point in being suicidal.”

“I hope you're about to suggest an alternative.”

He ran his hands through a shock of white curly hair and sat back down.

“Maybe. I can go places and ask questions that you can't. Not and live.”

“Would you do it?”

“Go back to your hotel, Michael. Have a pint or two tonight and get some sleep. You look like you need it. I'll call you there tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Ten. I don't think—”

“I'm not finished. For the sake and the love of God, don't go Ramboin' around on your own. Do you hear?”

No problem. It was my every wish.

I walked the eight blocks back to the Gresham Hotel on O'Connell Street. A quick change of clothes, a catch-up call to Mr. Devlin, and I was back downstairs by about nine p.m. for what I realized was my first meal of the day. The Gresham earns every one of its four stars in every corner, but nowhere more deservingly than in the upscale Writer's Bar. I slid onto a seat at the classic bar in the elevated section that looks out onto Dublin's lifeline, upper O'Connell Street.

The cushy luxury of coasting into a sirloin beef baguette, in the fine company of a draft Guinness with its micro frothy little head, and absolutely nothing on my mind but a long night of rejuvenating unconsciousness had me near comatose. I could look out on the ebb and flow of tourists, businessmen, laborers—the entire amalgam that gave O'Connell Street its pulse—without one disruptive thought.

For some inexplicable reason, I fastened on a pair of twentysomething young men crossing the street. The uninvited notion that I might have seen the pair around Sullivan's Gym earlier nudged my mind out of neutral.

They seemed somewhat out of their element when they came in the front entrance of the Gresham, and disturbingly out of place when they came into the posh Writer's Bar. I could see in the mirror behind the bar that they were scanning the crowd. Alarms went off when they seemed to focus on me and take a direct line in my direction. Some self-preservative notion said it was time to take defensive action.

When they walked up to the bar on either side of me, I forcibly suppressed the urge to bolt screaming into the lobby. I simply raised the Guinness to my lips and slowly sucked in the snowy foam on top.

“Mr. Knight.”

The one on my right was the spokesman. I kept looking at the Guinness.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen?”

“It's a message. From Mr. Sullivan.”

That did it. I pressed the button I had my finger on in the left pocket of my sport coat.

“And the message is?”

“He wants to see you. Somethin' come up. We'll take ya.”

“Excellent. I'd be pleased to see him. And where are we off to?”

“Like I said. We'll show ya.”

“The pleasure will be mine, gentlemen, as soon as I finish this delightful pint. Would you care to join me?”

The one on the left raised his hand to signal the bartender, but the one on the right grabbed his arm in mid-motion. “Another time, perhaps. We don't want to keep him waitin'.”

The one on the right got a grip on my elbow and started moving me off the bar seat. With one jerk of the elbow I smashed his fingers into the bar. He winced, but made no sound.

“I'm terribly sorry. I must have slipped. I think I mentioned it once. When I've enjoyed every drop of this delightful stout, I'm in your pleasant company. Please, have a seat.”

He was flummoxed. The Writer's Bar was not the place for a tussle with someone better dressed than he was. He compromised by leaning against the bar. The one on the left took the seat. I forced a tone of voice that suggested to our fellow bar mates that we'd just all gathered for a friendly nightcap. I needed another five minutes.

“That's better, gentlemen. I don't think we've met. You know my name. And yours?”

One look from the one on the right silenced the one on the left.

“I'm Pat. This here's Tom.”

“Pat and Tom. Good solid names. And you say Mr. Sullivan sent you to fetch me?”

“Yeah. We'd better move. He's not one to be kept waitin'.”

“No. I got that impression. Nor is he one to see a good Guinness go to waste.”

I sipped on the stout while I made inane conversation for another
five minutes. Pat, the brighter of the two by half, was getting antsier by the second. Before he reached the exploding point, I called for the check, signed it, and slid off the bar seat.

With one on each side, we walked in lockstep out the front entrance into the bustle of O'Connell Street. The three of us were as close packed as sardines as we turned right and kept formation through the walkers. We turned right again on Cathal and zigzagged onto Brugha Street. With every block, the number of pedestrians diminished, along with my confidence in survival. I kept up a running commentary of street names that sounded like a tour director. My companions had long since lapsed into total silence.

By the time we approached Gardner Street, we were the sole bit of life on a street that could have used a great deal more illumination. I felt like a lobster that's backed into a trap and can't back out. Both arms were in a grip that felt like a vice.

When our little parade started to make a right turn into an alley that was black as the pit of Hades, my legs stopped moving. I knew I had made a fatal mistake of confidence and vowed never again to take a smart-ass approach to a dangerous situation, assuming there would be an ever again.

The grips tightened, and I felt myself being dragged into the alley. Twenty feet inside, I heard a distinctive click and caught sight of one tiny glint of light. I said the last prayer I thought I'd ever say on this earth as I realized that the tiny beam of light was reflected off the blade of a knife.

I tightened every muscle I could control, not knowing where the blade would enter. The rigidity made the blow I felt the more stunning when I hit the pavement in a dead drop.

My eyes were closed and my ears were ringing. I lay still, fighting off the effects of shock. Slowly it broke through my mental shell that I had never felt the sting of the knife. My next sense was that there was a massive bulk lying still beside me. That was followed by the revelation that I could move, and the best direction was away from that mass beside me. I somehow got to my feet, off balance because
of the darkness. I was aware of scuffling around me. I wanted to run to the miniscule bit of light back at the opening of the alley, but the attempt to run only tumbled me over another mass at my feet.

My total confusion lasted a half second before an arm around my shoulder led and half carried me over whatever was on the ground to the mouth of the alley.

We came out of the alley into the dim light of McDermott Street as I was beginning to get my legs under me. I heard a familiar voice beside me that I knew was either Saint Peter at the Gates or Ten Sullivan. It turned out to be the latter.

“Dear Lord, Michael. You do attract a seedy lot.”

I realized I was still taking breaths as if they were my last. Somehow I got out the words.

“God love you, Ten Sullivan. I know I do. What happened?”

“You're a clever Yank. I was still at the gym when you called.”

“Thank God. I dialed the number you gave me when I saw those two come into the Writer's Bar just in case. When I knew I was in trouble, I kept the phone in my pocket and hit the call button.”

“How did you know those two weren't from me?”

I cracked the first smile of the rest of my life.

“They called you ‘Mr. Sullivan'. I figured if they were your boys, it would be Ten.”

“And you'd be right.”

“How'd you get here, Ten? I never saw you from the time we left the hotel.”

“You led us. I took a few of the boys with me. You were smart enough to leave the phone on and give us a running itinerary. By the time you got into that alley, I had my boys ahead of you and behind you.”

“And thank God. Who were those thugs?”

“Don't worry. They'll not bother you again.”

“Were they connected with McGuiness?”

“That's for me to worry about. I told you I'd make inquiries.”

“Not to be ungrateful, but are your inquiries going to keep the flies away in the future?”

He smiled. “Leave it to me, Michael. I've done all right by you so far.”

I refrained from saying that my coming closer to the eternal crossover than I ever hoped to was not “doing all right.”

I woke up at eight the following morning with a number of previously unknown muscles rebelling and the distinct impression that for me, the Emerald Isle's reputation for gracious hospitality had its exceptions.

Two favorable hints of a better day ahead were my first glimpse of sunshine since I'd arrived in Ireland and a buffet breakfast that would bring joy to a lumberjack at the Gallery Restaurant in the hotel. I took note that two relatively normal meals in a row, could be habit forming.

I was into my fourth cup of coffee when I got the call from Ten. He told me to watch for a blue MINI Cooper in front of the hotel. This time, the driver would be from him.

“Where am I going, Ten?”

“It's not the most pleasant of errands you'll be on, Michael. But you knew that. I wish I could undo it all for you. At least I asked the questions and got the answers that you couldn't. That's as far as I can take it. I can't give you justice. Just information.”

What miniscule hope I had left in the tank that somehow I'd find Erin alive drained out the bottom. It caused a silence that Ten read rightly.

“I'm sorry, Michael.”

“You did what you could. I'd still be floundering.”

“Talk to Feeney. He knows you're comin'. I'll be at the gym.”