Black Diamond (26 page)

A number of thoughts were vying for first place in my mind. Topmost was Tommy's idea of catching the first thing rolling to Dublin Airport. Attractive, but not in the cards. The second thought was that I'd been blessed—if that's the word—with an entrée into the dragon's den that neither Billy Coyne nor Superintendent Phelan could even dream of. Lucky me.

With some urging, Tommy gave me a good notion of the physical layout of McShannon's Pub. Now I needed a ticket that might buy my way both in and out with no scars.

I rode back up to my room to make a couple of calls. It would be coming up on eleven-thirty a.m. in Cambridge—the one in Massachusetts. That would put my old Harvard classmate, Harry Wong, in his office at MIT, contemplating a bowl of Schezuan noodles for lunch at the Quing Dao Restaurant on Mass. Ave. Harry is a creature of habit.

Harry and I met ten years previously when we formed a mutual defense alliance on our house wrestling team at Harvard College during our freshman year. We were the oddballs, and therefore the targets of the rest of the team. Harry came over as a boy from a city in northern China. He had some early connections with the tong in Boston's Chinatown. He had managed to put that part of his life behind him when he decided to focus fulltime on gaining admission to Harvard.

My background with a dicey little Puerto Rican gang in Jamaica Plain made us a matched pair of misfits on the house wrestling team from the outset. Our popularity with our straight, white, preppy teammates was not exactly fostered by the fact that in those days, I still carried enough street smarts and attitude to pin anyone on the team—with one exception. Harry.

After graduation, our paths diverged. Harry collected an alphabet full of graduate degrees and became part of a brain trust at MIT. I went to law school. The thing that held us together was a standing invitation for Thanksgiving dinner at my mother's home. Again setting our own traditions, we feasted annually on
pollo guisado con pasteles,
so tasty it would have given the Pilgrims a Puerto Rican accent. Harry always supplied Schezuan fried rice, spicy hot enough to cook your tongue on the way down. Fortunately, the three of us had inherited asbestos mouths.

Harry was surprised at the call off-season, but there was precedent. On two earlier occasions, when only Harry could play a role that would enable me to pull off a maneuver that was leagues over my head, he had come through like the Lone Ranger.

I cut quickly to the chase. “Harry, we're a natural team. I need my old partner one more time.”

“Oh crap, Michael. What is it this time?”

“I'd be less than honest if I didn't say there's a modicum of danger involved. Just enough to make it interesting.”

“Why me? Don't you have other friends dumb enough to put their asses in a bear trap for you?”

“I did. They've all been killed. I'm down to you. Besides, you're the Chinese Lone Ranger, remember?”

I could hear the barest grin in his voice in spite of himself. “So what is it? How bad is this one going to be?”

“Piece of cake, Harry.”

“I've heard that before. Who am I going to be this time?”

“You'll like this. You Asians are supposed to be big on gambling. You're going to be the head of a wagering syndicate that has a network of contacts with every bookie operation in the United States. Italian Mafia. The Russians. Anyone that operates a book. You're going to agree to place just one bet with all of them. That's it.”

“You do come up with some intriguing crap. On just what you said, I can think of six ways of getting killed.”

“Not to worry. Here's the good news. I only need you to fly into Dublin. You play one scene before a very select audience. I'll have you back at your little mouse maze at MIT in two days tops.”

“What audience?”

“You can catch the nine o'clock plane for Dublin tonight. You'll do your act tomorrow night. I'll drop you at the airport for the flight home the next morning. What could be easier?”

“I must have missed your answer. What audience?”

“A nice crowd of Irish gentlemen. I'll introduce you tomorrow afternoon. When your plane gets in, catch a cab to the Gresham Hotel. You'll have a reservation under the name—I don't know. You pick it.”

I could hear sighs and groans and pages flipping in what I assumed was an appointments calendar.

“Why couldn't you call me for a Ping-Pong tournament or something.”

“I don't play Ping-Pong.”

“Neither do I. But all I could lose is a game. All right. I could stall for an hour and I'd wind up saying yes anyway. I'll be Qian AnYong. I survived with that name last time.”

That was the easy one. The next call was to Colin Fitzpatrick. His appointments secretary, Ms. Paxton, must have been stunned out of her gourd that Mr. Fitzpatrick actually joined me for a sandwich in the Public Garden. With that track record, she buzzed his line with no chatter. Within fifteen seconds, he was on the line, taking down my phone number for a callback on a more secure phone.

I caught it on the first ring.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

“Mr. Knight.”

“It's showtime, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I have very little to say. Later today I'm meeting the head of that gang of thugs that's been draining you and your buddies. I'm going to do my best to solve both of our problems. Within the next hour, I've got to know that you're willing to deposit twenty-six thousand dollars in my personal bank account. That's the equivalent today of twenty thousand euros. With it, we've got an outside chance. Without it, I probably won't live to see tomorrow's sunrise. That probably sounds dramatic. It happens to be true. And right at this moment, I've got nothing to offer you for the money but the truth.”

I could hear him dropping the level of his voice.

“Actually, you do have something else. I've done a good bit of cautious checking on you and your senior partner. Mr. Devlin is apparently an icon of integrity in this city. You should have told me he was your partner at the outset.”

“I didn't know it would—”

“Allow me to finish. Apparently you also have something of a reputation for backing your word to the hilt. You're an interesting pair.”

“Does that mean—?”

“It means I'm not going to jeopardize your life for an amount of money I pay these people every month.”

The last duck just found his place in the row.

I made one last call to complete the stacking of the deck. It was a bit after noon in Massachusetts. Alberto Ibanez would be doing his loosening up exercises in the jockeys' room at Suffolk Downs before the first race.

I got him on his cell phone and kept it in Spanish for added security.

“
Hola,
Alberto.”

He went into hush mode and mumbled, “
Hola. Que pasa
?”

I could hear him hustle to a vacant corner of the room. What I said then could be loosely translated as follows:

“Alberto, I'm in Ireland. I'm doing some shopping. I want to bring you back a nice wool scarf. Like I promised. What color would you like?”

There was silence. I gave it five seconds.

“Alberto, this is the third store I've tried. This salesman has very little patience. I need an answer. What color will go with the rest of your outfit?”

His voice came down another ten decibels.

“I like Irish wool. How about a green one?”

“Excellent. You're sure it'll go with what you'll be wearing?”

“
Sí, Amigo
. Perfect match.”

I had an hour before meeting Sweeney. It was just time to catch a bowl of Irish lamb stew at O'Brien's by Trinity College to feed the mice that were gnawing holes in my stomach lining. My last stop
was at Arnott's on Henry Street for a pair of Docker pants, a flannel shirt, and a huge Irish wool sweater, all of which I donned before leaving the store. With a hearty lamb stew inside, and a typical pub crawler's outfit outside, I was as ready to face the head of the worst thugs Ireland ever produced as I'd ever be in this life.

McShannon's Pub in the heart of the Temple Bar section was rocking on its foundation. Four singers with guitars were belting out Thomas Moore's rebel song, “The Minstrel Boy,” at the top of their lungs, but you couldn't hear a sound out of their mouths. At least fifty well-lubricated patrons were belting it out with them with a fervor that would make you wonder how English rule lasted as long as it did.

I wedged my way to the bar and finally caught the eye of one of the bartenders who was singing along with the best of them. When the final note was sung, and the sound level dropped from deafening to merely thunderous, I mouthed two words to the bartender. “Martin Sweeney.”

I saw him shoot a look at a table of five hefty men at the rear of the pub. Their bulky sweaters seemed to cover some serious muscles and Heaven knows what other weapons. The bartender caught the eye of one of them and pointed to me.

They talked with each other for a few seconds before one of the five got up and worked his way through the crowd. He cupped a hand beside his mouth and shouted in my left ear.

“Who are ya?”

I lied at the top of my lungs. “Friend of Kieran Dowd.”

My guide looked back at the table and gave a nod. The other four men left the table and climbed a flight of stairs behind them. My host and escort cocked his head toward the stairs. I followed close behind, as he ran interference through the crowd.

The bend in the stairs cut the noise level to a point at which I could feel myself recovering the sense of hearing. I followed him up the last half of the flight of stairs and through the door at the top.

Four steps inside the dimly lit room, I realized that I was ringed by the five men, each of whom had at least three inches and fifty pounds on me. There was one chair in the center of the room and another against the wall straight ahead. The man who sat in the chair by the wall took command.

“So who the hell are ya, Yank. What do ya want with me? Make it quick.”

I said nothing. I simply made deliberate, slow moves in slipping the bulky sweater over my head and dropped it on the floor. I unbuttoned the flannel shirt, peeled it off, and dropped it on the floor over the sweater. I was down to bare skin from the waist up. When I unfastened the belt buckle on my Docker pants, four of the men broke out in an amused grin. The one standing to my left kept a frosty, uncommitted poker face.

The one in the chair in front of me broke the silence.

“I don't know who you think you're playin' to, Yank, but I think you're in the wrong part of town.”

I still said nothing. I shook off my loafers and slipped off my Docker pants. I felt like a peeled shrimp on a buffet table. By this time, four of them had broken into open laughter. Even the fifth to my left cracked a smile.

I stood as straight as my embarrassing circumstance would allow, happy to be wearing clean underwear and praying that it would stay that way.

I steadied my voice in a low octave and addressed the group. “Gentlemen, there's a point to all this. Do I have your attention?” That was a rhetorical question. I had every eye in the room, and now every ear.

“I invite you to look closely only for the purpose of seeing that I have no hidden weapons. No guns, no knives. I have no wires, no recording devices. Nothing. You'll also notice that I don't have enough muscle structure to give any of you a run for your money. Agreed?”

They just looked.

“Then, gentlemen, this is the point. I'll assume that I have your trust that I pose you absolutely no threat.”

That brought hearty laughs from all of them.

I spoke above the laughter. “Good. Then let me also assure you I'm not here to entertain you. I'm here to do business with Martin Sweeney. And no one else. So if four of you would be gracious enough to leave Mr. Sweeney and me alone, we'll get down to business. Mr. Sweeney, I think you'll find it well worth your time.”

That silenced the laughter and wiped away the smiles. I let the silence hang while I slowly redressed. The man in the chair in front of me continued as spokesman.

“What you say to me, you can say to my comrades. And you can start with your name.”

I finished fastening the last button on my shirt and buckling my belt before responding. I looked the speaker in front of me straight in the eye.

“No disrespect, friend, but I'm not speaking to you. I'm speaking to Mr. Sweeney. I thought I made that clear.”

The man in the chair stood up in a flash of temper. “You're lookin' at Martin Sweeney, and I'll have your name or there'll be blood spilt in this room.”

I slipped the sweater back over my head, partly to hide the ripple of nerves that was coursing through every inch of my body. I kept my voice low and as free of quivering as possible.

“Very frightening, my friend, but you need to unblock your ears. I'll speak to Mr. Sweeney and no one else. This is not a debate.”

I turned to the man standing to my left. I knew I was on the thinnest possible ice, but when the bartender first looked at the five men at the back table downstairs, he looked straight at him and none of the others. He was also the only one who took my little strip act seriously.

The face of the man in front of me flushed beet red. He took a
step toward me with his fists clenched. I braced for wherever his punches would land. My eyes were closed when the voice of the man to my left froze him in his tracks.

“Back off, Mugsy! He's entertained us so far. Let's see what else he has in mind.”

He looked back at me. “So, Yank without a name. What do you have to say for yourself, before Mr. McGuire here finishes what he had in mind?”

My body came unclenched enough to speak in a steady voice. I knew I had to make the sale of my life.

“I have just one purpose here, Mr. Sweeney. I'm going to make you and me richer than you ever dreamed. I'm the only one you'll ever meet that can do it. And I'll do it on your own scheme with Black Diamond.”