Black Diamond (27 page)

I prayed to God that I'd roused his curiosity, because his curiosity was the only defense I had against the beating of my life. Sweeney was eyeing me like a bug under a microscope.

“And just how might you do that?”

I played my last card. “That's between you and me. You let this thug loose on me, and you'll kill the only goose that can fill your pockets with golden eggs.”

A fractured metaphor, but Sweeney remained silent in thought. Possibly a good sign. At least I was still in one piece.

“It's a simple matter of trust, Mr. Sweeney. I came into this hornet's nest alone and unarmed to show that you can trust me. Now I need a little trust on your part. When you and I are alone, we'll do business like you never imagined. It's your decision.”

I went back to the busy work of straightening my sweater and pulling the flannel collar over the neck of the sweater. I could feel every eye scanning me, particularly those of Martin Sweeney. The superintendent was right. He was clearly the brains of the outfit.

Ten years passed in the next ten seconds. Sweeney's eyes never left me. I had no clue as to which way he'd go. Finally, after every
nerve in my body was strained to exhaustion, he gave a nod of his head toward the door. The three behind me moved slowly back through the door and down the stairs.

McGuire was still standing three steps ahead of me looking daggers into my eyes. I saw Sweeney give him a slight nod of the head. McGuire moved close beside me toward the door. His eyes were riveted on mine when he approached to pass. There was a flame of rage in those eyes that burned into my soul.

As he passed close by my side, I looked over at Sweeney to break the heat. I was about to speak, when a paralyzing pain shot through my back and buckled my knees. My legs dropped out beneath me, and I crumbled to the floor. It was only the ravaging pain radiating through all my limbs that kept me from losing consciousness.

In a second and a half, I passed from shock and pain, through confusion, to stark terror that I'd been paralyzed. I couldn't move a muscle to ward off whatever was coming next. I finally realized that McGuire had caught me with a blow of his fist that came from the ground up. He scored a direct hit on my kidney and laid me low.

He stood there looking down at me and grinning. He enjoyed the triumph for a full ten seconds before turning and moving slowly toward the door. That's when it came over me like an avalanche. The pain and even terror could not hold back the torrent of exploding fury. There was no conscious thought in my head. Pure instinct took control.

I grabbed the leg of the chair next to me. I used it to pull myself up into the highest crouching position I could manage. With every mite of strength left in me, I lifted the chair and hurled it at the back of McGuire. It hit the wall beside him with a force that shattered the chair.

McGuire turned, stunned. When he realized what had happened, he came for me in a fit of rage.

Sweeney caught him in his tracks with a word.

“Mugsy!” McGuire froze like a dog at the command, “Stay!”

I was teetering on rubber legs. If McGuire came at me again, I was defenseless. I looked at Sweeney. He gave the command like a drill sergeant. “Mugsy! Back off! Get out of here!”

Rage was still trumping my pain. I shouted at the top of my lungs, “Leave him! Let him hear this, Sweeney. If one of those apes, or you, Sweeney, ever so much as breathe on me again, you'd better kill me. If you let me live, I'll take down every one of you.”

I was shaking like a leaf from pain and rage. It was the only way those words would ever have left my mouth. I was suddenly seized with enough consciousness of reality to be absolutely certain that they'd be the last words I'd say on this earth. My next words were for God alone while I had seconds for one last prayer.

Strangely enough, I felt a quietness pass through my body and mind. It left me in a state of calm. My only determination was to remain on my feet. Whatever came, I'd face the two of them standing up.

Sweeney waved McGuire out of the room. McGuire was slow to do it, but he obeyed the command. When we were alone, Sweeney walked to the chair McGuire had been sitting in and brought it over to me.

“Sit down, Yank. You're a skinny runt by Irish standards, but I'll give you this. You've got some steel about you. I could use ten like you. I'll hear what you have to say.”

I grabbed the back of the chair, but I refused to sit. I wanted to speak to him eye to eye.

I took a number of deep breaths to get control of my slowly returning bodily functions. When I could stand on my legs without support, I looked at Sweeney.

“I've come with an offer, Mr. Sweeney. I'm told you're the big shot around here. If that's true, let's talk.”

“Let's talk indeed. Follow me.”

He led me to the room next door. He opened it with a key and turned the lights on in an oak-paneled office that would have done any American law firm proud.

“Sit down, Yank.”

He pointed to a burgundy leather chair facing a walnut desk with a chair behind it not unlike Mr. Devlin's. He leaned back in the chair in a pose that reminded me of Mr. Devlin listening to one of my outlandish plans.

“There are not many have seen the inside of this office. Tell me something that deserves my interest.”

“I've said I have the means of using what you've set up with Black Diamond to make more money than you could ever imagine. Does that interest you?”

“Not yet. So far, it's a lot of Yankee braggin'. What's behind it?”

“Contacts. I have them, and you don't. You've set up Black Diamond with a dismal workout record that'll make him a long shot the next time he runs. He showed some speed in his first race, but that won't be noticed by the majority of bettors since he never finished the race under a jockey. Next time out, in the right race, he'll go off as a long shot. You and I'll know he's fast enough to outrun every other horse on the track. He can win in a walk. That's the part you control.”

“And you, Yank. What can you add?”

“Contacts to place bets at long odds with every gambling syndicate in America and Canada. They all go by the track odds. They don't communicate with each other. I can bet all the money you can get your hands on and collect from all of them at a long-shot price.”

The chair squeaked and groaned under his weight as he rocked back in thought. He looked at me sideways.

“It's big talk. I don't even know your name.”

“My name wouldn't mean anything to you anyway. I'll tell you what will mean something. Let me give you a demonstration. This is not my first time around the block. You put a thousand euros in my pocket before I leave here today. I'll be back here tomorrow with twenty thousand. That'll be yours. Call it an affirmation of trust.”

He rocked back laughing.

“Oh shite, Yank. You've got steel nuggets. Do you know who
you're trying to scam for a thousand euros?”

“I do, Mr. Sweeney. And it's no scam. Not on you anyway. The horse I bet it on will win. He should go away at twenty-to-one at the least. I'll be back in this office tomorrow at one o'clock with your twenty thousand. Plus something else. What can you lose? You're going to have me tailed from the time I leave here anyway, right? I'll make it easy. I'm staying at the Gresham. I'll be there tonight right through tomorrow morning.”

The laugh was gone. He was searching my eyes for any hint of deception.

“Give me one more thing, Yank. What's the horse?”

“All right, I'll tell you. No harm. Eighth race today at Suffolk Downs in Boston. Number five's going to win the race. Check it out yourself. It's five hours earlier there. The race should go off around four thirty Boston time—nine thirty here. Number five will win the race.”

“How do you know?”

“I'll say it one more time. I have contacts.”

He eyed me with a tentative look I couldn't analyze.

“You said you were bringing something else tomorrow. What else are you bringing?”

“I'm bringing the man who makes it all happen. I didn't say I could do it alone. I said I had contacts. You'll meet him tomorrow. He has to be in on it from the beginning or he's not interested. So far, you and I've been talking about chicken feed. The next time we play this game, it'll be for the kind of money that makes it worth the playing.”

“How much?”

“If we're not talking in the millions, I'll be on the next plane home, and we'll forget we met each other. I don't have time to waste.”

He grinned at me. I could sense that he was swaying toward the attraction of a windfall sizeable enough to make the plans Billy Coyne feared the most seem feasible.

“You're a piece of work, Yank. A thousand euros for twenty thousand at one tomorrow. Do I need to tell you that if it doesn't happen that way, we won't just forget we ever met each other? You'll find yourself planted in Irish soil. In a number of different locations. Are we clear on that?”

“Do I look worried?” The look of nonworry I managed could have pulled in an Academy Award.

“How do you know what horse'll win the race?”

“I said it before. This is not my first time around the block.”

It was a nonanswer, but he read enough into it to get me off the hook. Actually, Alberto had signaled me the last time I saw him at the track that the next fixed race was on Friday, the eighth race. My phone conversation with him earlier that afternoon told me that number five was fixed to win.

When I called Alberto that afternoon, he knew I wasn't buying him an Irish wool scarf. He picked it up as a coded excuse to mention a color. At every track, the saddlecloths worn under the saddles are color coded to make the post position numbers of the horses easier to spot. The saddlecloth of horse number one is always red, number two is white, number three is blue, number four is yellow, and, to the point, number five is green. When Alberto told me he wanted a green scarf, he was telling me that Paddy Boyle had the fix in for number five to win the eighth race. I saw no point in sharing that with Sweeney.

For another ten seconds, Sweeney just studied my face before something clicked and he came to a decision. He bent down and used a key to open a lower drawer on his desk. He straightened up with a bulk of bills bound together with a band that read 1,000 euros. He flipped it across the desk to me.

“Remember, Yank. I don't make idle threats.”

I pocketed the bundle of bills. I had one last word before going out the door.

“Neither do I, Mr. Sweeney.”

I walked slowly from McShannon's Pub through the Temple Bar section, along the Ashton Quay beside the Liffey River, across the O'Connell Bridge, and straight down O'Connell Street to the Gresham Hotel—all open public streets. I made it as easy as possible for whoever Sweeney had following me. My grandmother could have tailed me with no difficulty.

I spotted the two mugs Sweeney had put on the assignment every time I turned a corner. In passing through the crowds of revelers in the Temple Bar section, I slowed to a crawl so they wouldn't lose me. I wanted Sweeney to know exactly where I was every minute I was out of his sight—at least for the time being.

When I got back to my room, I made two calls. First I reached Colin Fitzpatrick in his office. His secretary, Ms. Paxton, was beginning to warm to the belief that I had some function in Mr. Fitzpatrick's life other than to annoy her. She put me through directly.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick, it's time. You wouldn't believe where I spent the afternoon, and I don't have time to tell you. In brief, I need to have the dollar equivalent of twenty thousand euros electronically transferred to an account I'll set up in the morning. I'll use the Ulster Bank down the street from the Hotel Gresham. I'll have them contact you with the numbers. I need to draw it out in cash tomorrow morning, ten o'clock Dublin time. Not to be dramatic, but what I said before about life or death could not possibly be more on the nose.”

He must have caught the sincerity in my voice. He agreed immediately. No questions. That was one down—a big one.

My second call was to Rick McDonough, Black Diamond's trainer. I could have called others for the same information, but I wanted to break the newly frozen ice with Rick.

The exchange of hello's left no doubt that there'd been no thaw since our last encounter.

“Listen, Rick, I'm going to ask you two favors—a small one and a rather large one.”

No answer.

“Let's take the large one first. There's much more than you know going on around Black Diamond. I wouldn't know where to begin to explain it. I'm so far over my head in it, I may never see daylight. But if I do come through this, I might get some answers to Danny's death. I'm going to try to make it up to you for the bind I put you in. I'm only asking for right now that you not come to any conclusions until I talk to you. For Miles and Danny's sakes if not for mine.”

There was no commitment, but there was a noticeable softening when he asked, “So what's the second?”

“That's the easy one, Rick. Who won the eighth race today?”

I knew he'd know off the top of his head. “Fancy Gal. She won it in a walk.”

“What number was she?”

I could feel my stomach muscles clench while he dug out the day's program. Even with a fixed race, nothing in this life is certain. I felt everything relax when he said the word, “Five.”

“Thanks, Rick. Take care of yourself.”

I was about to hang up, when I heard him say, “Hold on there, Mike.”

“I'm here.”

There was a pause, and I could visualize that old cowboy roughing up his hair as I'd seen a hundred times.

“Listen, Mike. You go easy, son. You got no worries with me.”

I felt a golf ball in my throat that stopped the words. I had
literally no idea what the next day might bring, and I didn't want to check out with a roughness between Rick and myself. For one thing, I'd have no idea how I'd explain it to Miles O'Connor.