Black Diamond (30 page)

“Yeah.”

This time there was no escort to the upper office. McGuire was not in sight, and the pub was virtually sleeping. I made my own way up the now familiar stairs and knocked on Sweeney's door. He was his gracious self.

“What?”

It sounded more like a command than a question. I took it as an invitation. I came in and stood across from him at his desk. I set a small sheaf of stapled papers in front of him. I had used the Gresham Hotel computer to print out a debt instrument with every
relevant legal term I could think of. Stripped of legal crap, it said that in exchange for adequate consideration, Mr. Sweeney assumed a legally binding debt to Mr. Qian's imaginary syndicate—to which I gave an impressive title—in the amount of three million euros.

“And the top of the morning to you too, Mr. Sweeney. By the way, do the Irish really say that?”

He looked at the paper and then up at me. “No. Only in American movies. What the hell is this?”

“That's your commitment to pay three million euros to Mr. Qian's syndicate—see right there—in the unlikely event that the horse in question loses the race.”

“What the hell good is this? I thought gambling contracts were illegal. How are you going to collect?”

“This is not a gambling contract. Did you see one word in there about a bet? This is a simple loan agreement, binding on both parties. The syndicate is advancing you credit for three million euros. How you use them is your business. The debt is to be repaid, by coincidence immediately after the race. You'll repay it out of your winnings on Black Diamond. The rest of the winnings, less commission, are, of course, yours. That said, Mr. Sweeney, I can assure you that collecting on this debt is not causing them sleepless nights. If you should welsh on this little obligation, you'll be paying it off in body parts.”

I gave that a second to sink in. “But why are we talking about that? The chances are overwhelming that you'll be on the receiving end of more money than you've seen in a lifetime.”

He pulled a pair of reading specs out of a desk drawer and began perusing the legal gobbledegook I'd crammed into it. It was a bit like fiction writing to draft a fictitious debt instrument for an imaginary obligation owed to a nonexistent syndicate. No problem. I doubt that he understood six words of the mishmash he was reading.

When the glasses came off, he pulled out a pen. I'd printed the signature line in bold to make it easy to find. It all apparently passed
his careful scrutiny. He scribbled a blotch of hen-scratchings in the right place, and I picked up the “legal document.”

Binding or not, and the operative word was “not,” I wanted the leverage I'd have over Sweeney if he thought he owed three million euros to an organization more conscienceless and bloody than his own.

I knew this was probably the last time I'd have Sweeney in a face-to-face chat. The so-called paperwork was all smoke and mirrors to produce the desired leverage. My second purpose in being there was to squeeze out one last bit of serious information. I went for nonchalance.

“I'm curious, Mr. Sweeney. Since we're now officially partners in all this, maybe you can clear something up for me. Our people have asked the same thing. I'll take it back to them.”

“What?”

“Black Diamond ran once before. It seemed like a perfect setup. And yet, you didn't let him win? Why not?”

The suspicion I was trying to avoid was creeping back into his slightly squinting eyes. I couldn't just back off and leave it that way. I had to go full into it.

“I'm asking because the people I represent can't afford any slipups this time. It's a matter of some concern. You understand. Why didn't you let him win, Mr. Sweeney?”

“I had my reasons. What the hell's that got to do with anything?”

“As you've mentioned a couple of times, you pull the strings on Black Diamond. A double cross this time could be a major concern to these people. I need some answers to take back to them.”

He just played with the pen on the desk.

“Let me assure you, we're now partners, Mr. Sweeney. As far as the authorities are concerned, we're all in the same boat. We sink or swim together. That being said, I can't go back without an answer. It affects future plans. Was the jockey a problem?”

He opened a drawer, threw the pen into it, and slammed it shut.

“The little bastard wouldn't play ball. He wouldn't take orders.”

“And I assume that it was important enough to have him lose on Black Diamond to apply some pressure. I remember reading about the kidnapping.”

He looked up at me with steel back in his eyes. I tried to keep a dispassionate attitude while my blood was reaching the boiling point.

“You can take this back to your syndicate. They're not playing with some slum street gang here either. No one steps out of line on us.”

“That kidnapping was a neat ploy. We could take some lessons from you too.”

“We had to show that little punk who he was dealing with.”

“But it didn't work. He was still going for the win at the eighth pole. He was taking the lead. You had to knock him out of the saddle to get the Diamond to lose.”

“The little bastard didn't know the price he'd pay. You don't mess with us. Tell that to your syndicate.”

“I'm impressed. I certainly will. They'll be asking this. How did you people manage to knock him out of the saddle?”

He just clammed up. I could see a wall go up. Before I went too far and invited a backlash, it was time to pull out.

“Someday when we know each other better, maybe you'll let me in on that one, Mr. Sweeney.”

I pocketed the paper Sweeney had signed, forced myself to shake hands with him, and left.

I walked the long way back to the hotel to get a grip on emotions that were seething just under the surface. I had just left that smug wart on the face of an otherwise decent society without telling him straight out what pain he had caused to a family that had deserved a life free of his despicable greed and self-serving violence.

I had to put out of my mind the faces of my forever friend Danny, of sweet Colleen, and of that little angel Danny would never
see blossom into a lady. It was the only way I could get some equilibrium.

Back in my hotel room, I actually enjoyed the pain I felt pulling the tape off my skin that held the recorder. I was fairly sure they wouldn't search me for it this time.

I played back the conversation I had just had with Sweeney. It was mildly satisfying to have on record by his own admission the fact that Erin's kidnapping was in fact committed by Sweeney's gang to force Danny to lose the race on Black Diamond.

The questions still hanging were why they wanted the Diamond to lose, and how they managed to knock my friend Danny off his back and over the rail to his death.

There was one last thing to do before packing for the flight home the next morning. As promised, I needed to fill Superintendent Phelan in on my adventures of the last few days. I knew he'd be more than interested, since I'd been able to go places off-limits for him in his official capacity. I also knew that he'd save me time when I got back to Boston by sharing the information with Billy Coyne.

I made a call to the number the superintendent had given me. Within ten minutes there was an unmarked car from the Dublin office at the side door of the Gresham to take me to his country office. Neither of us trusted the phones.

I reported my discussion with “our Mr. Casey” of the registry. I also played the tape of my last conversation with Sweeney. It gave the superintendent a double whammy, as it had me. He was as shocked as I was to get the notion that there was someone in the organization above Sweeney. Perhaps more shocked, since it suggested a flaw in his intelligence gathering. The real leader had managed to remain totally under his radar.

The second disquieting revelation was that this gang of thugs was as close as they appeared to be in attempting to raise the funds that would let them make their move across the ocean. He understood that they had nothing to gain from my imaginary scheme to wager on Black Diamond. Nevertheless, the fact that they were willing to put up three million euros of borrowed money right now to rake in the necessary winnings to launch their Boston operation
meant to him that they were much further along in their plans than he had been led to believe.

When I got back to the Gresham, I called our office in Boston. Just the sound of Julie's voice conjured images of a normal lawyer's practice. I could visualize weeks on end in which the most dangerous element of my day would be crossing Franklin Street during rush hour. I made a silent promise to myself that if this thing ever ended, I'd limit my practice to appealing parking tickets.

I arranged to have Julie book me onto the first flight out of Dublin Airport in the morning. Then I asked her to transfer me to himself, Mr. Devlin.

Mr. D. nearly came through the phone. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd assured him that I was still among the living. His relief at hearing that I'd be in the office the following afternoon defused the burst of pent-up frustration at my lack of communication.

I had nothing on my agenda until the flight the following morning. That meant I could go into great detail in filling him in. He reacted to most of my disclosures pretty much as I had. We both reached the conclusion that a sit-down with Billy Coyne was definitely in order. We planned it for the following evening over dinner in a private room at Locke-Ober's.

I was packed and into a cab at seven the next morning, bound for the Dublin Airport and home. There are some moments that are so etched into your memory bank that you know they'll be crisp and fresh and startling right through senility. One of those moments occurred when I stepped out of the cab onto the sidewalk at the departure terminal. Another passenger was heading in the same direction with a copy of the morning's
Irish Times
. I caught just enough of the headline to impel me to catch him by the arm and ask with some urgency to see the front page of his newspaper.

Thoughts began flooding my consciousness faster than I could
process them when I read the headline. “Reputed gangland figure found dead of multiple gunshot wounds. Martin Sweeney's body was discovered by the Gardai early this morning in an alleyway behind McShannon's Pub. The Garda Siochana reports that no immediate suspects have been identified, but that they have every intention—”

I got Superintendent Phelan on his cell phone. I figured to hell with security. There were other official-sounding voices in the background. He sounded frazzled, as if he were dealing with a number of people and issues at the same time.

“I'm sure you've seen it, Superintendent.”

“I've been dealing with it all night. Apparently it happened just before midnight.”

“Where does this leave us?”

He muted his voice.

“Perhaps there's a positive side. Thank God you turned up that information. This might give us a lead to who was above Sweeney in the chain of command. Where are you now?”

“Airport. I'm flying home. I assume you'll be in contact with Billy Coyne. We can stay in touch through him.”

“Fine. Have a safe trip, Michael. I really have to ring off. It's a bit hectic here.”

I was still processing information when I went through security. I bought an
Irish Times
to read the full report while I sat by the boarding gate. The details were vivid, but they added little to my understanding about the significance of Sweeney's murder. I'm sure that most of the citizens of Dublin took it in with their omelettes and blood sausage and chalked it up to thugs murdering thugs. I just let it ruminate.

Just about the same moment they called my flight for boarding, a flash of thought jolted me out of my seat. I grabbed my carry-on and bolted back through security to flag down a cab. I was back at the Gresham, to the surprise of my favorite concierge, forty minutes
later. I took him aside and spilled out every fact I could recall about the country church I'd been taken to in the middle of the night a week previously, the church where an elderly priest and nun had put little Erin back in my arms for safe keeping.

Thank God he knew the countryside of Ireland like I know Boston's Back Bay. He made an educated guess and called me a private driver. The concierge gave the directions, and I gave the driver a tip sizeable enough to add serious weight to his foot on the gas pedal.

Half an hour later, we pulled into the gravel courtyard outside of what looked like a church that must have been built in ancient times. I recognized nothing, since my last visit was in the middle of the night.

I remembered hearing with shock from my driver of that night, Paedar Kearney, that the elderly priest had been tortured and murdered. I used the knocker on the stone cottage beside the church in the hopes that the nun might have escaped the same fate and might still be there.

Five knocks, and I was about to give up hope, when I heard slow, uneven footsteps on the other side of the door. The old nun, who still wore the habit, opened the door and stood speechless to see me. She had been through a great deal, beginning with the harboring of a kidnapped child, followed by the vicious murder of the priest.

She looked around behind me cautiously before asking me in. Her first words were regarding little Erin. I began by pouring out the news of Erin's emotional reuniting with her mother and the fact that they were both alive and well. That raised her comfort level in talking to me. Being Irish, she insisted that we talk over tea and scones.

She was in tears when she recounted the treatment that the priest had suffered at the hands of the thugs who tortured him. I noticed that she moved around the kitchen with a limp that I didn't remember being there before. When I mentioned it, she waved it
off, saying it could have been much worse for her but for the fact that the priest convinced them that she knew nothing about the child.