Irish Eyes (31 page)

I held my empty glass up and jiggled the ice cubes. “Bishop, dammit,” I hollered. “I need another Jack and water. This time, sprinkle a little bourbon over it, would you?”

Bishop brought the drink and slapped it down on the counter.

“Now make me another one,” I said. “It’s hot in here.”

Bishop looked at Mackey, hesitated, then made another double. He put it on the bar beside the first one. “That’s it now, Garrity,” he said. “You’re wasted. I’m not gonna be responsible for what happens when you leave here.”

“You were saying?” Mackey said casually.

“I was saying your fallen hero, Sean Ragan, is a fuckin’ criminal.”

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“And you’re ugly,” I said loudly. “But tomorrow morning I’ll be sober and you’ll still look like a damn walrus. In the meantime, I’ve got a suggestion for you. You know that twenty-two the robber left at the liquor store?”

“What about it?”

“Whyn’t you show it to a little guy down in Hapeville? His name’s Earl Witherspoon. Owns a bar called Earl’s Pearl. He had a big pool tournament down there last weekend, hired an
off-duty Atlanta cop as a bouncer. The cop’s name was Sean Ragan. Tuesday night, Witherspoon went to his ATM machine to make a big cash deposit. Only guess what? He was ambushed by a masked gunman. Witherspoon tried to get cute and draw down on the guy with a little twenty-two he had hidden in his boot. What he didn’t know was that the gunman had a partner. Witherspoon got a concussion, and the bad guys got four thousand dollars and Witherspoon’s little Saturday-night special.

“Sean Ragan was one of the bad guys,” I said, sloshing the whiskey on the counter. “And the next night, he was in that liquor store, dividing up the take with Viatkos and maybe some others, when Bucky blundered in there and realized what was going on. Ragan shot Bucky. But he screwed up and left the gun. Saturday night, his buddies had Ragan killed. Today, when Deecie Styles resurfaced, they were waiting and watching. They killed her too.”

“Fuck you,” Mackey said, stalking away.

“Hey, Mackey,” I called after him. “It don’t matter whether or not you believe me. Hell, maybe you’re in on this thing too. You’re Irish, right? One of the clowns in this holdup ring wears an FBI Academy ring. I hear you’re a grad yourself. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve already talked to the FBI. And they are very, very interested in what that videotape shows.”

Mackey looked over his shoulder at me. “Get your ass out of here, Garrity, before I have you arrested for drunk and disorderly.”

I looked down the bar, at all the cops who’d been unabashedly listening to my conversation with Mackey.

“You believe that guy?” I asked. “Who wants to buy a girl a drink?”

Nobody spoke up. They just stared down at the bar, like I was suddenly invisible.

“Bishop, dammit, I need another Jack and water,” I bawled. “I get thirsty when I’m around all these cops. Anyway, you know I’m Irish. And you know how us Irish like to drink.”

A hand clapped on my shoulder. I looked up into the faintly bemused face of John Boylan.

“And what’s that supposed to mean, Miss Callahan Garrity?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” I waved a hand at the people standing at the bar, waiting on their drink orders. Their green jackets were a blur. I called out the names of the ones I recognized.

“Boylan, Kehoe, Donnelly. And there’s Dugan over there. Oh, yeah, Killearn, and Gallagher. And Hanlon! Hey, Corky,” I called, blowing him a kiss. “How you doin’ down there?”

A bleary-eyed Corky Hanlon raised his glass to me in a mock salute. “Never better, darlin’, now that I’ve seen you. And how’s that boyfriend you were tellin’ me about? Is he ready to make an honest woman of you yet?”

“The hell with him,” I said. “Let me buy you a drink, Corky. Hell, why don’t I buy a drink for the whole house?”

Boylan’s face darkened. “No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t want nothin’ you’re buying. So why don’t you take your act somewhere else?”

“It’s a free country,” I proclaimed. “And I like it here. So I’m staying.” I tossed back the rest of my drink.

Corky tugged at my arm. “Not to sound like an old maid or nothing, Julia, but don’t you think maybe you’ve had enough now?”

I brushed his hand away. “Aw, Corky, I thought I left my mother at home tonight. Come on, be a sport and let me buy a drink for the house.”

He shook his head, shrugged. “It’s your money.”

I slapped my American Express card down on the bar. “My plastic, you mean.”

Bishop began taking orders.

When everybody had a glass in front of them, I raised mine above my head and whistled hard and shrill, the way my brothers taught me when I was a kid.

“Attention, please,” I bawled. “Your attention, please.”

There were catcalls and shouts of “Shut up!” and “Pipe down.”

Finally the front room quieted.

“I’d like to propose a toast to the memory of two good men,” I said.

“To Officer Sean Ragan, who is no longer with us, and Detective Bucky Deavers, who was gravely wounded in an armed robbery less than a week ago, not two miles from where we stand tonight.”

I swallowed hard and went on. “Tonight, Officer Ragan walks a new beat. Not here in Atlanta. Not even on this earth. No, tonight, he walks a beat in heaven. A place where he’ll never have to work overtime, or have drunks puke on his shoes, or have punk criminals call him a pig. So let’s toast Sean Ragan in heaven—and swear that we’ll all do everything we can to send his killers straight to hell when they’re caught.”

The room was deadly quiet for a moment, except for the silly clanging of the pinball machine in the hall by the men’s room.

Finally, John Boylan, the sour smile intact, raised his glass. “To departed friends,” he called.

“Hear, hear,” somebody else yelled.

And everybody drank, even poor little Alexis Ragan, who took one brave gulp out of the beer mug somebody set down before her.

S
hortly after one, I decided it was time to make my exit. Buying a round for the house had made me lots of new friends, most notably a couple of horny Broward County sheriff’s deputies, who insisted I sit with them and listen to all their drug interdiction stories. Tony and Gene seemed like harmless types, and before they’d let me leave, they both made me take their business cards “in case you ever want to come visit down in Lauderdale.”

Extricating myself, I walked unsteadily toward the door, and had almost made it when a skinny hairy arm snaked itself around my waist. It was Corky Hanlon.

“You can tell me to mind my own business, Julia,” he said, pronouncing it like “bidness,” “but your old man, if he were alive today, would thank me for telling you I’m thinkin’ you’re in no shape to be driving tonight. Why don’t you let me give you a ride home?”

“I’m as sober as you are, old man,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “Anyway, thanks for the offer, but it’s only a few blocks to the house, and I feel like walking. I’ll come back for the van
in the morning.” I said it loudly, so that everyone at the bar could hear.

Once outside, I felt all my barroom bravado slipping away. It was officially spring, but a bitter cold wind whipped bits of paper and dead leaves around the empty street in front of Manuel’s. I’d dressed for the part tonight: black jeans, black turtleneck sweater, and black commando boots. The outfit made me feel big and brash inside, but right now, after walking only a few yards, the toes of my new boots pinched and my ankles were screaming.

One foot in front of the other, I told myself, lurching along Highland Avenue toward home. Cars passed, and I flinched as the headlights of oncoming cars shone in my eyes, temporarily blinding me.

I shoved my hands in the jacket of the peacoat, glad of its bulk, gladder still for the heft of the Smith & Wesson as I curled the fingers of my right hand around its plastic grip.

After two blocks I was ready to call it quits, call a cab, anything. All those drinks Bishop had fixed me were having an unintended effect. Six eight-ounce glasses of iced tea won’t get you drunk, but they will threaten to drown you. I’d been guzzling all night, and my bladder felt ready to explode.

I minced along another block and was seriously entertaining thoughts of abandoning my inhibitions and ducking behind a friendly azalea to drop trou when I heard a car behind me start to slow down.

My shoulders stiffened and my hand tightened around the 9-mm, but I didn’t dare turn around. Keep walking, I told myself. Show no fear. And whatever you do, for God’s sake don’t wet your pants.

Now the car was pulling alongside me. I heard the hum of an electric window. “Julia Callahan,” a man’s voice bawled. My eyes darted to the right and I took my finger off the trigger.

Corky Hanlon leaned drunkenly out the window of a big old gray Chrysler.

“What the hell are you doin’, girl? You wanna get yourself killed, walking alone in this part of town? Your mama would
kick my sorry old ass if I let anything happen to you. Hop in and I’ll give you a ride home.”

I glanced around to see if any cars were approaching. Goddamn sweet, well-meaning old Corky Hanlon. I was less than a mile from home. He’d ruin everything if I didn’t get rid of him right this minute.

“I’m all right, Corky,” I said, keeping up my pace. “Really. I don’t need a ride. I’ve got my mace. And I’m almost home, anyway.”

Another car was coming up behind him now, only a few hundred yards away, slowing down. I felt my pulse racing. I had to get rid of Corky.

“Go on.” I waved with my right hand. “I’m fine.”

I looked over at him. He wasn’t smiling. “Get in the goddamn car, Julia,” he rasped. He brought a hand up from beneath the steering wheel, and I was staring into the barrel of a Smith & Wesson 9-mm, identical to the one in my pocket. Only Corky’s gun was pointed right at my chest, and mine was still in my pocket.

The car behind Corky’s slowly rolled forward. The headlights blinked rapidly; the driver was anxious to get around us. It was late, he wanted to get home.

“Get in,” Corky repeated. “Now.”

WOOOO. An ear-splitting blast of siren and a flash of blue lights. The gun in Corky’s hand jerked, and in that same second I dove for the pavement, a bullet whizzing past my ear. I heard a sharp ping as the shell hit the granite curb, then I rolled over on my stomach, half on and half off the road. Another shot rang out, and I covered my head with my hands. Then I heard the Chrysler’s engine roar, and as I lifted my head I saw it speed away, down Highland, its red taillights dimming in the distance.

Ignatius Rakoczy thought it was hilarious when I puked all over my combat boots.

“I thought you Irish could hold your liquor,” he said, helping me up from the weedy embankment.

“We can hold our liquor,” I retorted, “it’s a gallon of iced tea that makes me nauseous.”

He jerked his head in the direction the Chrysler had gone. “Who was that guy? Not Boylan. Not Viatkos, either. I saw them leave together. That’s why I was a little late. It took me a minute to realize they weren’t coming after you.”

“A little late? Another second or two and I would have been a little dead.” I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my peacoat. My knees felt very unsteady, so I grabbed for Rakoczy’s arm, and he steadied it around my waist.

“That was my brother’s Little League coach. One of my dad’s old drinking buddies. Corky Hanlon.”

He shook his head. “Don’t know the guy.”

“Me neither, apparently,” I said.

Rakoczy drove me to the Quik-Mart back at North and Highland, where I took a much-overdue pit stop in the unisex bathroom while he made the necessary phone calls.

Lloyd Mackey sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked city cruiser.

“Now do you believe me?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It wasn’t a question of believing or not believing. You had no proof. It’s all just guesses. The serial number on that twenty-two has been filed off. Earl Witherspoon can’t really prove he ever had possession of the gun, or that it was taken from him the night he was robbed.”

“Deecie Styles had her throat slit today because somebody was afraid of what she might know,” I said. “And Sean Ragan’s widow is going to raise her baby by herself. I didn’t make any of that up. And that’s a real bullet casing in the gutter over there, in case you were wondering.”

The car radio crackled and Mackey picked up the mike. He put out a lookout for Hanlon’s Chrysler, asked the dispatcher to send a crime scene unit to North Highland Avenue, where we were parked.

“You know where Corky Hanlon lives?” Mackey asked.

“He used to live in Sandy Springs,” I said. “In a yellow brick split level with a basketball goal in the driveway and a ten-year-old sedan in the garage. His wife’s name is Marie. His son’s name is Chuck. He’s a fireman. Corky was vice president
of the Holy Name Society at our church. Last week, he danced with me and sang ‘Irish Eyes’ in my ear. Tonight, he tried to kill me.”

“People change,” Mackey said.

“So I hear.”

Turned out, the Hanlons still lived in the same house in our old neighborhood. The garage door was closed. But a champagne-colored Cadillac was parked in the driveway, and there was no sign of the basketball net. Two unmarked cruisers sat at the curb, waiting.

Mackey sent the detectives around to the back of the house and posted himself in the shrubbery by the front door, just in case Corky decided to make a run for it. He agreed to let me talk to Marie Hanlon.

I rang the doorbell three or four times, and finally the porch light went on. I knew she was inside, peering through the fisheye in the door, wondering who the hell was out there at this time of night.

“Marie?” I called. “It’s me. Callahan Garrity. Can I talk to you, Marie?”

The door opened. She was shorter and wider than I remembered, but her hair was still dyed that improbable shade of strawberry blond, done up in big pink plastic rollers. She grabbed at the sash of a green terrycloth robe, bleary-eyed with sleep.

“Julia? Honey, what’s wrong?”

She had me there. Everything was wrong. So where should I start?

She knew. “It’s Corky, isn’t it? Something’s happened. Tell me.”