Death at Christy Burke's (11 page)

They all ordered drinks. Monty got up, introduced himself, and expressed his appreciation for the opportunity to perform. He announced that he would be doing a few numbers by a fellow by the name of Muddy Waters. This met with approval from the people scattered throughout the pub, so the name must have been well known. Monty’s first song was “You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had.” It was hard to think of Monty as a respected barrister and solicitor while he was singing this earthy music. Michael particularly enjoyed a sad song called “St. James Infirmary.” Things got down and dirty after that, when Monty launched into “Hoochie Coochie Man.”

Michael realized he had been gazing at Kitty while the blues wailed on in the pub. What a lovable face she had, full of mischief and fun. She could look very serious too at times, very thoughtful. She must have been a pretty girl in her day and she was pretty now. Mid-fifties, he knew. A good fifteen years or so younger than Michael himself. His mind wandered to a place he rarely allowed it to go. What would his life be like now if he had not given himself, body and soul, to the celibate priesthood of the Catholic Church? What would it be like if he were a “regular guy” and had met Kitty Curran, and she had not become a nun . . .
Go on out of that, O’Flaherty; this is your last whiskey of the night!

He looked over and saw Brennan’s eyes on him. Now
there
was a man who knew a thing or two about the world of women. A fine priest he was; Michael wasn’t judging him. Brennan had come to the priesthood a very worldly young man, unlike Michael; hard to give it up once it becomes a habit. But Brennan had undergone a profound religious experience recently after an episode of unchaste behaviour, and he seemed to have embarked on a new life of priestly purity. God had handled the Brennan Burke situation masterfully, in Michael’s opinion. Michael sent a little
mea culpa
to the Man Above, for being so presumptuous as to pass judgement on His actions. Brennan had gone on a road trip to Italy with Monty and had fallen into the arms of a woman when he was there, breaking his priestly vows. This wasn’t the first time but, to be fair to Brennan, he had had very few of these lapses in the quarter century he had been a priest. And the guilt that was invisible to others, thanks to Brennan’s cool exterior, was evident to Michael when they had become well acquainted. When Brennan came home to Halifax after his Roman holiday, he was haunted by his sinful actions and seemed fearful that he had put his priesthood in jeopardy. A talented musician, Brennan had been composing a new setting of the Mass, the
Missa Doctoris Angelici
, dedicated to St. Thomas Aquinas. After the Italian adventure, he seemed to have lost his ability to write music. But God had a surprise in store for him. Instead of punishing him, and taking away his musical gift, He did the opposite. He showered upon Brennan His love and grace, and enabled him to compose music of unearthly beauty, as if to say, “There. That is what I have given you. What have you given Me?” That was the way to handle Brennan Burke. Michael had come upon him on his knees, arms straight out as if on the cross, in silent prayer and repentance, when he thought he was alone before the altar at St. Bernadette’s. His knees must have been black and blue for weeks, so much time did he spend kneeling and thanking God and promising never to fail Him again! Michael had faith in Brennan. Well, time would tell.

As for Monty, he was the object of admiring gazes from young ladies all around the pub. A good-looking lad, no question. Talented as well. Michael had heard the blues from time to time, of course, but this was the first time he had ever attended a blues session. A
gig.
And it wasn’t half bad. But it made you think and feel a certain way. About life. About women, if you weren’t careful. Michael’s mind veered away from the kind of thoughts that would be inappropriate, to say the least, for a man with four decades invested in the priesthood.

Michael

It was cloudy and dull when Michael awoke the next morning in the priests’ house in Stoneybatter. He turned on the television to see if he could find a weather forecast. Ah. An electrical storm. He’d be sure to carry an umbrella. He was about to switch off the TV when a news item came on about the missing American preacher, the Reverend Merle Odom. The man’s tearful wife, flanked by supporters, stood before a bank of microphones and spoke in a strong South Carolina accent. She pleaded with persons unknown to release her husband unharmed. The scene switched to the most famous face in Ulster, the Reverend Ian Paisley, thundering that the visiting evangelist was obviously a victim of the IRA. And if the Royal Ulster Constabulary could not protect the people of Belfast and their guests, others would step in to fill the gap. An RUC spokesman urged calm and stated that there was no evidence that Merle Odom had been captured or harmed by the Provisional IRA or any other group. The police were working around the clock to find the man and restore him to his family. Michael felt helpless watching the crisis unfold; he wondered what his fellow minister was going through, wherever he was. Fathers Burke and Killeen had warned Michael against making statements on behalf of the missing man, or making any kind of gesture of support. They were obviously less than optimistic about the outcome for the American, but Michael clung to a sliver of hope. He said a prayer for the minister and his wife.

He decided to spend the day in a manner suited to his vocation. He caught Leo Killeen before Leo left for the day and offered to hear confessions and say Mass at the Church of the Holy Family, the Aughrim Street church. He enjoyed meeting the parishioners in the magnificent old building, and came away feeling he had assisted several of them with their troubles.

On his way back to the house, Michael debated with himself about going over to Christy Burke’s for a pint and a bit of companionship. And perhaps a bit of sleuthing while he was on the scene. He had met the regular clientele, though he had to admit he was unable to form even a preliminary opinion as to which of them, if any, might have been the inspiration for the graffiti on Christy’s walls. But there had been other names mentioned as well. What were they? What had Kevin McDonough told them that night at the Brazen Head? Michael wondered how much investigating Brennan was doing. Well, whatever he was doing, he had asked for Michael’s help, and Michael was more than happy to assist. So he had better start keeping track. A notebook. That would be just the thing. He made a detour on the way home to buy a little black book and a couple of ballpoint pens. When he got to his room, he wrote down everything he had learned so far. The act of writing prompted his memory, and he came up with the name McAvity. The man had a nickname. Nursey? Nurse McAvity. Kevin had identified him as a former patron of Christy Burke’s who had taken his limited business elsewhere because he felt uncomfortable among the heavy drinkers at Christy’s. What was his local now? Michael couldn’t recall.

He picked up the phone and called Brennan. “The Bleeding Horse,” Brennan remembered, and said the fellow’s name was Bill.

“That’s it,” Michael said. “He may have some useful information. He’d have been sober all the time in there. That would have given him an advantage the others didn’t have.”

“Why don’t you see if you can track him down then, Michael?”

“Me?”

“Sure. If he’s going to open up at all, it would be to a kindly gentleman like yourself, not one of the Burkes from the drinking establishment that made him feel like
persona non grata
.”

“You’re assigning me the task then?”

“Make it your own. I’ll be expecting a full report.”

So that was how Michael ended up on a mission to the Bleeding Horse in Camden Street. He and Brennan remembered from their conversation with Kevin that McAvity used to arrive at Christy’s exactly at five forty-five. If he was that regular in his habits then, he probably was now. So Michael timed his trip to arrive just before six o’clock. Umbrella in hand, he set off in a southerly direction for Nurse’s new local. The weather had cleared, and it was sunny out. No, here was a drop of rain. But, yes, the sun was still shining. The sun shower did nothing to put Michael off his stride; he always enjoyed walking through the city, and he was used to the sudden changes in weather and the odd combination of sunny skies and falling rain.

The Bleeding Horse was an enormous pub in a two-storey building of its own, with exposed brick and wood beams inside. There was a second-floor gallery behind a railing that looked distinctly ecclesiastical. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time fittings had made their way from a church to a guzzling den. The pub offered a range of seating, from stools to banquettes to long and short benches, in large open spaces or in tiny snugs. A sign warned the patrons to beware of pickpockets and loose women. Michael took note.

He waited till the barman had a free second, then asked him whether Mr. McAvity might be on the premises. The bartender confirmed that he was indeed in house, and he gave a discreet nod in the direction of a man sitting alone at one of the copper-topped tables on the first floor. Michael ordered a Guinness, then approached the table where McAvity sat with a half pint and a copy of the
Irish Times
. He appeared to be in his early sixties, slightly built with thinning grey curls and wire-framed glasses.

“Excuse me,” Michael said. “Mr. McAvity?”

The man looked up. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. McAvity. My name is Michael O’Flaherty and I won’t pretend I am here by accident.”

McAvity registered the Roman collar then, looked a bit alarmed, and asked, “Father? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, not at all. I just dropped in, hoping to find you here, and I’ll tell you why. I’m a friend of the Burke family, Finn and his nephew, Brennan, and I’m over visiting from Canada. You may have heard that there has been some vandalism at Christy Burke’s.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“Well, Finn’s concerned about it, afraid someone may be targeting his clientele, but he, well, he doesn’t want to make waves by asking too many questions. Doesn’t want to upset his patrons. But I’m not from here. I don’t have any patrons! So I’ve been asking a few questions, on the QT, hoping we might get to the bottom of this thing, and bring an end to it. Would you mind if I joined you for a bit?”

“No, have a seat, Father, by all means.”

“Call me Michael, if you prefer.”

“All right then, Michael. And I’m Bill.”

“This is quite the operation,” Michael remarked, looking around the pub.

“That it is,” McAvity agreed. “Some of the plotting for ninety-eight took place right in this building.” He meant the rebellion of 1798, so the pub had a long history. “And James Joyce was said to have misbehaved here in his day.”

“Imagine that! Is this your local now, Bill?”

“It is, and it was. I used to come here, then I sort of tagged along with a friend to Christy Burke’s, and I went there for a few years. But I like it here, so I came back.”

“How did you like it at Christy’s?”

“I didn’t appreciate the way I was treated there, Michael, to tell you the truth.”

“Oh? By the management, you mean?”

“No, I’m not talking about Finn Burke. A fine publican, and you’ll hear no complaint about him from me. No, it was some of the gentlemen who frequent the premises there that made me feel unwelcome. I suspect you may have heard the name they call me there.”

“Yes, I did hear it. If a man is subjected to name calling because he doesn’t overindulge in drink, that man has my full sympathy, Bill. Nothing wrong with staying sober and keeping a clear head about you!”

“My thinking exactly, Michael. Thank you.”

“Would your aversion to drink be a reaction perhaps to past troubles with the bottle?”

In Michael’s circle of acquaintances growing up in New Brunswick, the only people who didn’t drink were alcoholics, fellows who were trying to get off the stuff! There was one exception, Michael recalled, who was apparently considered such an oddity that his parents invariably referred to him, every single time his name came up, as “Mark Donnelly, doesn’t take a drink.” A bit like Nurse McAvity here, perhaps.

“I’m not a drinker,” Bill said. “Never have been. The fact that certain people at Christy Burke’s found that incomprehensible, or endlessly amusing, finally drove me out of the place. Did you know that over twenty percent of adults in this country don’t drink at all? That’s a higher percentage of abstainers than in most of the countries of western Europe.”

This was news to Michael. “I’d never heard that, Bill.”

“No. Everyone thinks of Irish people as drinkers. That’s because so many of those who do drink, drink too much. Excessive drinking, binge drinking. But you rarely hear about the segment of our population that is always sober! In my case, I don’t like the way alcohol makes me feel, and I don’t particularly enjoy the taste. But my wife works evenings, and I don’t like to be alone. So I come to a pub.”

“When did you make the switch back here to the Bleeding Horse, Bill?”

“It would have been two years ago, a little more.”

“So what do you do? What line of work are you in?”

“I’m a mechanic and I have my own business. McAvity Auto Service. I live in the city centre but my shop is out in Rathcoole.”

“How long have you had the business?”

“Oh, thirty years now. You can always count on cars to rust or break down, so I’ll never be out of work!”

“True enough.”

“They still bring their cars out to me.”

“They . . .”

“The fellows at Christy’s. They say I can’t drink, but nobody says I can’t fix a motor. And they need the work, the cars and trucks those fellows drive. Jim O’Hearn, Frank Fanning. Well, Frank doesn’t drive. But he has an old banger that he maintains. Keeps it for a rainy day, he says. ‘Lots of days like that in Dublin,’ I used to tell him, and he’d say, ‘You keep it tuned up for me, then, Bill.’ He gets his son to run it out to me once a year. The son’s a piece of work, let me tell you. Doesn’t appreciate running that little errand for his da, not one bit. Lane Fanning doesn’t have
time
to help his father out. Too important. And it burns his arse to be seen in anything less than a brand new BMW. What if one of his posh friends from Ballsbridge catches sight of him?

“Who else from Christy’s? Not Finn himself, because his family runs Burke Transport. He has a fleet of lorries at his command, and they’re serviced out there on the Naas Road. Who else? Eddie Madigan. I saw him a couple of months ago and he said he was looking around for a little truck or a car; he’ll bring it out when it needs work. Sounded as if he was looking for something fairly new, though I don’t know how he’d afford it, him being out of a job. Old Joe Burns used to drive a big Toyota Hilux, but he’s pretty well off the road these days. His health is gone. I suppose his son has the truck now. Oh, and Tim Shanahan. He doesn’t have a car but his younger sister does. He borrows it when he needs it and brings it out here for servicing. Now there’s a fine man, and not one to be slagging others about their drinking habits.”

“I agree with you. Tim seems like a fine fellow indeed.”

“He has his troubles, to be sure. He’s not working but I don’t know the history there. He spent some time overseas, Africa or someplace, and they say he was never the same man when he came back.”

“Oh, what a shame.” Michael pictured the mild, bespectacled man and wondered what misfortune had befallen him. But he had questions about the others as well.

“When you said Frank Fanning doesn’t drive, what did you mean? Never learned? Though I suppose if he has a set of wheels, he must have driven it at some point.”

“Oh sure, he did. Then he just stopped. Driving about like everyone else, then one day he wasn’t driving.”

“What’s behind that?”

“Lost his licence is what I heard, for drink driving. Someone said he had a spot of trouble in the North, and never sat behind the wheel again after that. But I don’t know anything about it.”

“I see. What does Frank do for a living?”

“He works in a printing shop. Not full time, I don’t think. But enough to keep him in, well, drinking money.”

“Jimmy O’Hearn, now, what does he do?”

“I’m not really sure. Something to do with boats. I once heard it said that Jimmy or his family lost a fortune. Some investment or business operation, I don’t know.”

“Well! I wonder what that was about.”

“Whatever it was, he doesn’t make a habit of discussing it over the bar at Christy’s.”

“And did you say Eddie Madigan is out of work?”

“Out of work is putting it mildly. Got sacked from the Garda
Síochána. Now that would be bad enough for any man. But for a Madigan . . .” McAvity shook his head at the enormity of it. “Old Eddie, the grandfather, fought in the War of Independence. When the treaty was signed and the Irish Free State established, Old Eddie was an officer in the Dublin Metropolitan Police, and when the DMP was incorporated into the Garda Síochána in 1925, he was promoted to the rank of inspector. His son, John, made his career in the guards, too, as did our Eddie. John rose to the level of superintendent. The police history in Maureen’s family was nearly as illustrious. A grand wedding it was, Eddie and Maureen’s, with all the uniforms present. People joked that it was the best day to commit a crime in Dublin because every garda officer in the city was at the wedding.

“You can imagine what a scandal it was when Eddie was turfed from the guards for — supposedly — taking payoffs. Maureen’s family disowned him, she booted him out of the house, and the Madigans themselves have had little time for him ever since.”

“Who was paying him off?”

“They say it was drug dealers. I find it hard to believe, to tell you the truth. He’s a bit of a hard case, but I never would have thought that of the man.”

“Well, an allegation like that would put the kibosh on his career as a policeman.”

“It would indeed. Seems it’s one thing after another with the Madigans. I know there was bad blood between the Madigans and the Brogans. But that family of Brogans have all died out, the older generation at least. The young people wouldn’t care about whatever it was that went sour between them and the Madigans. They’ve moved across the sea to England. Only Brogan left is an oul one by the name of Irene. And she doesn’t leave her council flat.”