Night Of The Blackbird (12 page)

“Moody bastard,” Moira murmured to herself, then turned to the others.

They went to work. Lights and sound levels were set. Eamon stood at his taps, while Moira settled onto a bar stool in front of him. Eamon gave a great recitation, explaining the differences between lagers and ales and stouts. Customers began to filter in, making it all work perfectly. Chrissie, shy at first, got into the act. Seamus and Liam arrived and talked about the heart of the pub, how it was a place like home, a haven where you came to be with friends. “A beer…a beer you buy anywhere,” Liam told the camera. “But a place where a man belongs, with friends to argue and agree, where the bartender always knows what you're drinking, now that's not so easy to come by.”

Moira was stunned to find herself having fun as she began to move around the room to speak with customers. She put the kids on camera again, coloring at their table. Jeff Dolan had come in to set up early for the night, and she caught him teasing the kids while they laughed and crawled all over him. Jeff was the one to tell the video camera, “A pub is far more than a bar. A pub offers family fare, meals for the kids, good warm food, as well as ale. Well, now, I grant you, until recent times there existed many a pub in Ireland where the men had their place, and the women, well, they had their place, as well, but not on the same side with the men. I'd be willing to bet such a place or two still exists in the old country. But nowadays, I know I can come here alone—when I'm not working, of course—and I know I can come with kids, relatives, more. There's a dartboard in the back, and I was teaching my nephew just last week how to play. We always have the games on—I'm a big Patriots fan myself. The point is, you can get a good beer, but also a whole lot more. The true Irish pub is the heart of the neighborhood. Kelly's has a lot of heart, even here in America, and that's a fact.”

Josh, who'd been following Moira with the camera, switched off the tape. Moira smiled with delight and kissed Jeff on the cheek. “That was wonderful.”

He blushed. “I'm glad. Thank God you didn't warn me. I'd have been awful.”

“I'm glad we didn't warn you either,” Josh told him. “This is going to be one of the best pieces we've done. Moira, I'm going over to talk with Michael and the sound guy. I want to make sure we're good with what we've got.” She nodded, and Josh walked away.

Jeff seemed really pleased. “Seems to me you've got enough tape for a ten-hour show,” he told her.

She shook her head. “We'll be editing everything we've got, taking out pauses, the amazing long spaces you get once you look over the video. Cutting and slicing shots…you'll see.”

“You mean you're still going to be taping in here?” he queried.

“Sure, why not? Hey, I didn't know Josh was going to come in last night and tape while Colleen and I were onstage, but it might be good stuff. I haven't looked it over yet. That's how you get a lot that's really good for a show like this. Spontaneous pieces, you know.”

“I don't think it's such a good idea,” Jeff said.

“Why not?”

He hesitated, gazing toward the equipment he'd been setting up.

“What happens,” he asked her, “when you get someone on tape who doesn't want to be seen on camera?”

“Jeff, we do what the big guys like Disney do. We put up signs warning people that there are cameras going.”

“And you think everyone reads signs?”

“We ask for releases from anyone we feature,” she told him, then frowned. “Jeff, I'm not sure what you're so worried about. So far, I've come across an incredible group of hams. They all want to be on camera.”

“Yes, but…”

She shook her head, smiling. “Jeff, you're not into any…I mean, there are no drugs being passed around in my dad's place, right?”

“Moira, I've been clean as a whistle for over five years. Ask your dad—I barely have a beer or two now and then.”

“I wasn't accusing you, Jeff….”

“I'm just a little worried about you, Moira, all right? Be careful what you get on camera. I don't think your own brother is going to want everything going on in here videotaped.”

“My brother!” Despite her surprised tone, she'd had her own uneasy suspicions regarding her brother's activities since overhearing his conversation with Siobhan.

“Yeah, yeah, you know, he's an attorney. Has to be careful.”

“Jeff, this is a friendly little travel show!”

“Right. I know. Just watch what you're filming. For me, okay? This place is important to me. I admit to being a wild child. Well, hell, you were there, you know. I was on drugs, off drugs. I went through a spell of being a tough guy on the streets and I tried to raise money to send arms overseas. I spent a night or two in jail. Your dad kept faith in me when my own folks were ready to call it quits. You be careful. Just be careful.”

He didn't wait for an answer, just ran his fingers through his unruly dark hair and turned to the band equipment.

She wanted to quiz him further, but she couldn't because Michael came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. His aftershave smelled good. The texture of his cheek against hers as he leaned down was pleasant and alluring. She felt warmed and was glad for the moment.

“Want to slip away somewhere?” he asked huskily.

“I do.”

“I mean, really away. We don't want to find out that Josh has decided to film Saint Patrick's Day mating rituals or anything like that.”

She laughed aloud, turning to face him. “He wouldn't dare.”

“Let's sneak away to the hotel.”

“Let's.”

Moira started across the pub to tell her father she was leaving. It wasn't busy at the moment. Chrissie was tending to the three women at bar, and Eamon was poring over a newspaper.

Moira was surprised to feel a little bit like a guilty kid as she approached her dad. She wasn't sure what she was going to say. She was well over twenty-one, of course, but she knew she was going to make up a story about needing something or going to scout locales or some such thing. What woman, no matter how old, would ever want to admit to her father that she was getting a little bit desperate to get away from her family for just a few minutes of…quality time with the new man in her life?

“Dad…” she began.

“They haven't found a thing,” Eamon said, looking up.

“Pardon?”

“On that poor girl, murdered the other day. The police have been questioning half the city, and they haven't found out anything. She was at a bar the night she died, a high-priced place. I guess she was what they call an escort these days, a high-priced girl herself. Everyone remembers her sitting at the bar by herself. No one remembers who she left with. They haven't been able to connect her murder with any others in the city.”

“Dad, unfortunately, it often takes months, even years, for the police to crack down on a killer,” Moira said. “And sometimes, as you know, people get away with murder.”

“I don't like it,” Eamon said.

“Of course not, Dad, it's tragic.”

Michael was behind Moira. “Eamon, I can tell you're afraid for your daughters, and I'm making no judgments, but it's true that a call girl takes her chances. Your daughters would never be in such a position.”

“It just bothers me, in the bones,” her father said.

“I'll be safe in the city. I'm always with Michael or Josh, Dad,” Moira said. There was her opening. “And as to that—”

Just then Colleen came in from the office behind the bar and straight up behind her father. “Hey, it's time for dinner,” Colleen said.

“Dinner?” Moira repeated blankly.

“Dinner. Remember that stuff we cooked all day for your program? Well, Mum has it in her head that we're all going to gather around and eat it. You know. Dinner.”

“Now?” Moira said.

“Six o'clock seems like a pretty good time for dinner to me,” someone said from behind Moira.

She turned. Danny was back. Golden eyes on her speculatively. He seemed to know she'd been about to leave. With Michael. And he obviously found her situation amusing.

Colleen leaned over the bar to whisper to her, “Don't you dare walk out on dinner after all the effort Mum went to get it right for your show!”

“She'd kill me, huh?”

“
I'd
kill you,” Colleen assured her.

She was going to have to explain to Michael. No, she wasn't. She felt his hands at her waist. “Dinner sounds great,” he said softly.

She turned into his arms, meeting his eyes. “You're really too good,” she told him.

He shook his head. “You're worth any wait, Moira.”

She touched his cheek. Then, aware that she was still being watched by Danny, she took Michael's hand and said softly, “Let's go on up.”

Upstairs, the delicious scent of her mother's Irish bacon and cabbage dinner filled the air. The kids were already in their chairs, and Siobhan was helping them butter their Irish soda bread. It was a wonderful scene; Moira immediately thought she should be filming again.

“No cameras when we sit down to dinner,” her mother announced firmly, as if she had read her mind.

“No cameras,” she quickly agreed.

No cameras.

She suddenly remembered how worried Jeff had been about her continuing to tape in the pub.

Why?

What was he afraid she would catch on camera?

 

America was an amazing place. From his hotel room high above New York City, Jacob Brolin looked at the hive of activity below him. His windows overlooked both the street below and the park, and he could see people moving. They were faceless figures from his distance, some obviously taking in the sights, others walking as if they were in a rush to return home from whatever they'd been doing. Tourists stopped and haggled with the carriage drivers on the street. He'd been gratified earlier to see that the horses all seemed to be in fine shape. No scrawny, ill-fed nags pulled the people along the streets and through the park. Many of the horses wore blankets in the chill of mid-March, and some were festooned with flowers. One, almost directly below him, seemed to be wearing a hat. Many of the drivers were Irish; they had watched and cheered when he had checked into the hotel. Aye, he was glad to see how well-kept the horses were. It was strange, he thought, or maybe not so strange. Many a man like himself had witnessed terrible violence against human beings yet found himself torn by the plight of an animal. But the horses were kept in fine shape, and that was good.

“Mr. Brolin?”

He turned from the window. Peter O'Malley, one of his aides, had tapped on the door connecting the parlor with the bedroom. O'Malley was one big son of a bitch. Six-four if he was an inch. Close to three hundred pounds of hard muscle. He wore a suit, and wore it well. Brolin thought few people would realize that a wee bit of the man's bulk was the bulletproof vest he wore beneath his jacket.

“Peter?”

“The call has come.”

“Thank you. I'll take it in here.”

He picked up the phone and identified himself. The caller spoke in Gaelic. He listened gravely, then spoke with soft determination.

“I'll not cancel. I'll be there tomorrow afternoon.”

After a brief exchange, he hung up the phone and walked to the window. This time, however, he closed his eyes.

1973. He had taken a different road. It had seemed the only choice. He'd been running with Jenna McCleary, and things had gone badly awry. The battle had taken to the street. Bullets had been flying as they ran.

“We have to split,” Jenna had said.

He'd nodded. Split, disappear right into the midst of it. Where to hide but in plain sight? So he had agreed.

He'd gone into the first pub and ordered an ale. He wasn't sure what path Jenna had taken; all he knew was that, later that night, she'd been picked up.

He'd heard about it. About the way she'd been questioned. How the official in charge had sent her back with soldiers who had just lost a chum. Shot down in the street when they'd been running. Maybe Jenna had pulled the trigger that particular round. Maybe he had. Jenna had paid. She had been young, beautiful and taught vengeance since she'd been a wee babe.

She hadn't been beautiful when they'd finished with her. There had been a plan, of course; they'd never simply deserted their own. But by the time they stopped the convoy transporting her from holding cell to prison, something had been dead within her already. When the bomb had exploded in front of the car and they'd gone to release her, she hadn't run. She had just stood there, knowing that the bullets would fly again.

He had watched her fall. Watched the motion as the bullet had struck, watched her jerk, spin and hit the earth. And he had seen her face clearly for a moment. Seen the hopelessness, seen the death in her eyes before they had glazed over. He had stood in the street, and it was surely a miracle that he hadn't been struck. And in those moments, he had suddenly known that they had all killed her. They had all of them, every one of them, killed her as surely as if they had shot her down themselves.