Half Irish

By Pete Morin

When an immigrant Irish roofer plummets to his death from a South Boston building, lawyer Paul Forte steps in to settle the man’s presumably meager estate, as a favor to his friend, Dublin reporter Finola McGee. A routine probate matter, he thought, until he discovers the penthouse condo, the top-of-the-line Harley and credit card statements reflecting a fondness for Las Vegas. 

In Ireland, Finola’s human interest story about the tragedy prompts several Irish widows to inform her of similar accidents in the States. In each case, the laborers had been beneficiaries of CRAIC, an Irish “charity” run by ex-politician Finbarr Murphy; their lives had been insured for substantial amounts; and their widows did not receive what they were due. 

When insidious political forces (and a little blackmail) impel her editor to silence her, Finola smells another big story. She is convinced CRAIC is another word for scam. 

As Paul and Finola team up once again to plumb the depths of Irish treachery, secrets are divulged, privileges violated, punches thrown, loyalties shredded and bombs ignited; but it takes a meddling amateur to unmask the saboteur.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pete Morin
• Release date: Nov 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781517461225

Pete Morin

In my adult life, I’ve been a trial attorney, a politician, a bureaucrat, a lobbyist, and (I like to think) an observant witness to human behavior. I’ve tried to combine all of them in my debut novel, Diary of a Small Fish. My creative writing began at the University of Vermont in the mid-1970’s, where I was very fortunate to have studied under award winning authors David Huddle and T. Alan Broughton. Following college, I pursued a wide-ranging career in law and politics in which I served three terms in the Massachusetts Legislature and two years as general counsel of the MBTA. In what some friends peg a mid-life crisis, I returned to writing fiction in 2007.I now split my time between fiction and law. My short fiction has appeared in NEEDLE, A Magazine of Noir, Words With Jam, 100 Stories for Haiti, and Words to Music. I republished many of them in a collection titled Uneasy Living. When I’m not writing crime fiction or practicing law, I play blues guitar in Boston bars, enjoy food and wine with my wife of 28 years, Elizabeth, and our two adult children. On increasingly rare occasions, I play a round of golf. We live in a money pit on the seacoast south of Boston, in an area once known as the Irish Riviera. I am very lucky to be represented by Christine Witthohn of Book Cents Literary Agency.

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HALF IRISH

Pete Morin and Susanne O’Leary

Copyright

Copyright © 2015 Pete Morin and Susanne O’Leary

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no portion of this book may be reproduced, used, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by J.D. Smith Design

Dedication

To men and women of Irish heritage, the world over.

1

Falling Debris

South Boston, Massachusetts, March 19

A faded green Chevy Impala shimmied along East 1st Street, dodging the potholes caused by a long, brutal winter of heavy trucks rumbling to and from the Conley Freight Terminal. The driver sucked on a joint, passed it to the back seat and exhaled expansively.

What’re we gonna do for shits and giggles tonight, gentlemen?

What we always do, said the co-pilot. Get stoned, get drunk, play video games.

Same shit, different day, said the voice in the back seat, his hand emerging to pass the joint to the co-pilot. The co-pilot focused on the joint, pinched it away, sucked on it and bogarted.

I’m bored to distraction, said the driver. He glanced away from the road to take custody of the spliff. I need some fuckin’ excitement or I’m gonna die of fuckin’ boredom.

The dreary monotony of the moment ended with a deafening crunch. The Impala bucked, the windshield imploded, the car lurched to a stop, and its occupants scrambled out.

The body of a man lay implanted in the Impala’s hood, his head resting in a perfect circular dent in the pebbled windshield. The body was dressed in layers of heavy clothing, blue jeans and work boots. Around his waist, a tool belt still held its implements.

Jesus, said the driver.

The co-pilot gawked, still holding the reefer. Nice tool belt, he said.

2

A Solicitor

Tallagh, Dublin, Ireland, March 19

Finbarr Murphy twirled his Mercedes to the kerb, switched off the engine and checked his appearance in the mirror. He smoothed his gleaming thatch of wavy black hair, ran his tongue over his teeth, checking for crumbs from the digestive biscuit he had nibbled at the last house, and straightened his tie. One more house before he could go back to his temporary office at the back of his local pub. A pint would be nice after all the tea and biscuits. That was the downside of this job. Endless cups of tea and assorted cakes.

It had been a good day. Several donations and three direct debit sign-ups. He hadn’t lost his touch from the canvassing days. But it was time to get going and knock on that door. It was quiet around here this time of day, just after lunch. Perfect time to go visiting. Later, the street would be teeming with schoolchildren and hassled mothers unloading shopping and toddlers from their cars.

Finbarr checked that he had the ID card in the breast pocket of his navy blazer, took a few brochures and direct debit forms from the passenger seat, and slid out of the car. He opened the gate with care (lest the lady of the house would be watching from behind a curtain, always on stage), examined the contents of the tiny front garden with exaggerated interest, stopped at the red door, cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders and rang the doorbell.

After a brief lull, the door opened a crack and a woman’s face peered at him. He made a quick assessment before he beamed his practised smile. She looked to be in her sixties and reasonably well dressed. Someone who would be on a pension with benefits and a savings account. Promising.

Hello, he said. How are you this fine day?

The woman hesitated for a moment. Then she smiled and opened the door wider. But it’s Finbarr Murphy! What are you doing here? Is there another election?

He laughed. I wish. No, darlin’, I’m on another errand altogether. An errand of mercy. He showed her one of the brochures with the logo of the charity and the photo of a family in front of a pretty house in a sunny garden. I represent CRAIC, a charity that helps our lads build a better life in the U.S.

She looked at the brochure. Strange name for a charity. But couldn’t we all do with a bit of craic, right now? I’ve never heard of it, I have to say.

We’ve launched it recently, you see, since the crash in the labor market. CRAIC means the Committee for Relocating Afflicted Irish Construction workers. He leaned forward, as if to go inside. I could tell you more, if you’re interested. A very worthwhile cause, you know. Getting jobs for unemployed building workers. A new life for their families in America.

How does that work then?

You can either give us a donation, or sign up for a small sum to be paid by direct debit each month. He made sure to emphasise the word ‘small’. The money goes towards covering the cost of getting set up in the States, he continued.

What kind of cost? she asked.

Oh well, there’s quite a few, you see. Air fare, immigration lawyer, job training, licensing, even the job itself. We help with a large part of that and then the lads have to come up with the rest. Those things don’t come cheap, but at least we can help with some of it, plus the settling into a new home and getting a working visa. You can probably imagine that it takes a lot of the headache out of starting a new life.

The woman nodded. That sounds like a very good cause, all right. Both my sons are out of work at the moment. They were earning good money on that new estate near Blessington. Then one day they were told not to come to work and the whole project was abandoned. It’s a ghost town now, the houses only half-finished and fallin’ into disrepair. All because of greedy politicians. Present company excepted, she added demurely.

And those bastard bankers, Finbarr said with feeling.

Yes, them too. She backed away and opened the door wider still. But come in, I have just put on the kettle. I’d like to know more about this charity. My sons live with me at the moment. They’re looking for jobs but it’s very hard to find anything. And God knows, having two grown men in the house is no holiday.

Struck with momentary panic, Finbarr stuck his head in and peered around. Are the lads at home, then?

The woman laughed. Not at all. They went to collect the dole and then they’ll spend it in the pub. Won’t be coming home until at least ten o’clock tonight, roaring for their dinner. If they don’t get a job and move out soon, I swear I’ll kill them. She laughed. Not literally, but it’s getting on my nerves.

And your husband..?

Gone. She pointed at the ceiling. Her expression changed as she blessed herself. He’s in Heaven. Passed away ten years ago, God rest him. Wish he were here to help out with the lads, though.

I see. Finbarr breathed out and stepped into the hall. Must be very hard to cope with them. But maybe we can help? We have a few green cards opening up next month.

The woman’s eyes lit up, as if she had just realised he was offering her a ticket to freedom. That would be wonderful. Please, go into the sitting room and I’ll bring in the tea. I have just opened a packet of Jaffa Cakes too.

Finbarr rubbed his hands together. Delicious. Just what I need right now.

3

A New Client

Fort Point, South Boston, Massachusetts, March 20

With my feet up on the desk, I stared out my law office window at the Summer Street Bridge. Harried pedestrians tilted into a spitting east wind, clutching rain-soaked garments to their chins. Our local meteorologists had miscalculated the arrival time of another beloved Nor’easter. Rain switching over to sleet, then snow to greet the rush hour. On the first day of spring.

Gotta love New England. The weather never did much to soothe an aching spirit, and that was me. I wondered what the temperature was in California, and if Shannon missed me a fraction as much as I missed her. It was only a month, for crissakes, for one mural, for which she would be paid half what I make in a year. A light knock at my open door interrupted the beginning of a foul mood.

Mr. Forté, said our new receptionist, a frail, shy young lady named Carla.

It’s not Mister, Carla. It’s Paul.

She clasped the doorframe for support. I’m sorry Mr.— I mean Paul. There is a Sheila Mulroney on the telephone for you?

I ran the name through my mental Rolodex and came up empty. Doesn’t ring a bell. Did you ask her what it concerned?

Carla hesitated and moved from foot to foot. "Er…I haven’t quite gotten the hang of asking that one. She just said she was referred by your friend, Finooolah?"

Oh? I whipped my feet off the desk and sat upright. Thanks, Carla, close the door, please. Carla did as asked.

This is Paul Forté.

Hi, yah, Paul? My name’s Sheila, Sheila Mulroney?

Yes, you said you’re a friend of Finola McGee?

"Well, not strickly speaking. She’s my sister’s friend, in Ireland. They played camogie together in school." Sheila sounded like a smoker.

Camogie? I couldn’t figure the accent. More than a whiff of Irish lilt, but heavy on the Dorchester, like she’d been around a long time.

Yah, it’s hurling for the girls.

Hurling, with the sticks and the hard ball, and there are no rules, just time out for injuries?

The woman chuckled. Yah, pretty much, but with the girls, it isn’t so rough.

I wasn’t sure about that. How can I help you, Sheila?

Well, it’s really my sister who needs the help. I’m just callin’ for her. It’s about her husband.

I’m sorry, Sheila, but I don’t handle matrimonial cases, not even as a favor to a best friend. I can refer her to someone, though.

Naw, her husband’s dead.

I see. I didn’t, but I had faith that the fog would lift.

"Yah, see, my sister, Kathleen, her husband is Dermot, Dermot Flynn. He works—I mean he worked, God rest him, for my ex, Noel Mulroney. Dermot fell off a building, or something, week ago Friday. Over in Southie, by the Conley."

I heard about it, I said. I live around the corner.

Yah? So, Kathleen, she was going to let Noel have his lawyer take care of the paperwork, you know, like the...

Probate.

Yah, probate, she said, but I guess Kathleen talked to Finola, Finola suggested she call you first, and I thought it was a good idea, too.

Okay, well, I’ll be glad to help. Estate administration wasn’t my favorite work, but the sisters needed help and Sheila seemed to approve of keeping her ex-husband out of the deal.

Well, first off, the funeral home’s had the body for six days, and they’d like us to sign off on sending him back to Ireland.

Right, that will take Kathleen’s signature. Shouldn’t be a big deal.

Nah, well…Just the time to get a document sent over, right? Well, they’d prefer something happen faster, I think.

We can take care of that.

And then, someone has to settle his estate here. Kathleen says he has some money comin’, I mean besides the life insurance.

Life insurance, huh?

Yah. So anyway, my instructions were to come by and see you, make sure Kathleen will be in the right hands, then hand you off to her.

Okay, well, why don’t you come on down to the office tomorrow morning, and we can get Kathleen on Skype right here in my conference room.

You can do that? Must cost a fortune!

No, Sheila, it’s free. Don’t you have a computer?

Yah, well…I do but…

Technology isn’t your thing, eh?

Not by a long shot.

What about Kathleen?

Oh, we email, that’s how we keep in touch, usually. So yah.

Okay, so email her, see if she has a Skype address, if not, tell her to set one up and send you and me the address, and we’ll plan to call her tomorrow morning at… I checked my calendar. Ten-thirty. That sound okay?

Yah, that’s great. Wait, lemme find a pencil.

She put the phone down for a bit and came back, I gave her my email and cell phone, and we said goodbye.

So. An Irish guy falls off a Boston building, but his wife is in Ireland. He works for his wife’s sister’s ex-husband, and the sister happens to be a camogie teammate of Finola McGee.

This one could be interesting.

4

Charitable Giving

Dublin, Ireland

When I got Kathleen O’Byrne’s voicemail out of the blue at my Telegraph office, my first thought was, I wonder what she’s gotten herself into now. Funny, you don’t see someone for twenty years, yet the memories come back so vividly. Katie Oh!, we called her, because of her habit of starting every sentence with oh.

Katie Oh!, upon whom all calamity fell. She broke her collarbone in a camogie game against St. Mary’s. As soon as that one healed, she broke the other when she was thrown from a horse. Four car wrecks, none her fault.

When she met and married Dermot Flynn, we’d all figured her bad luck had finally run out. But when the news came back that Dermot had been killed, falling from a roof in Boston, I was crushed. I’d called to ask if I could help, and when she started getting upset about getting Dermot’s body home and estate details, I’d given her Paul’s contact information, and offered to take her to lunch.

Oh, she’d said, I’m working at the checkout in Tesco’s, and I only have a half-hour for lunch.

So here I was, sitting in front of a BLT at O’Brien’s sandwich bar in the Dundrum shopping centre, waiting for Katie Oh, remembering that as well as being accident prone, she was also habitually late. We hadn’t been best friends at school, being so different, but we shared an odd affection, like opposites attracting. Katie was heedless and a little ditzy, the complete contrast to my zeal and ambition. I had to be the best in everything. Not for myself but to impress my dad who, being the ultimate male chauvinist pig, never gave me as much as a pat on the head when I came home with good results or a sports medal. Only when I got eight honours in my leaving cert and went on to do a degree in journalism at Trinity College did he express some faint praise. But by that stage I had left home, sick of being the target of his bad moods and drunken temper tantrums.

Katie Oh, being the baby of her family, hadn’t been up against these challenges, which might explain her lack of drive and focus. Or maybe she was just born a bit of a klutz?

I was just about to bite into my sandwich when she arrived, breathless, still in her smock with TESCO embroidered in red on the breast pocket. I stood, we hugged and kissed, and she sank down on the chair opposite me.

Sorry I’m late, she said. We were short-staffed this morning. Some loafer called in sick.

No problem, I replied. She looked as I supposed a young mother who’d lost her husband would. Tired, bewildered. I’m just glad to have a chance to see you after all these years.

Kathleen gave me the ghost of a smile. Happy to see you too, Finola. You did really well for yourself, I have to say. How’s your mam?

She died two years ago, I said, trying to keep the sadness out of my voice.

Kathleen put her hand on my arm. I’m so sorry.

Thank you. She was sick for a long time. But you couldn’t have known. It’s nice to catch up with you again. I just wish the occasion wasn’t so grim...

Kathleen sighed. I know. You’ve always been a good friend, Finola. And I sure could use a friend right now.

Well, we’re still teammates, eh?

She managed a wan smile. Those were the days. She sighed and glanced at the menu card on the table. Don’t feel like eating, but I suppose I’ll have to try. I need to keep up my strength for the kids.

Tell me about them, I said. Kathleen had always had that pale, freckled skin, but her tall, slim frame was thinner than I remembered. She looked as if she’d topple over in the slightest gust of wind. Not surprising, considering what she was going through. I waved at the waitress and ordered potato and leek soup and a grilled cheddar cheese sandwich for her.

Oh, they’re a handful, I tell you. Bernadette is six, she’s the boss. Kira’s five and the quiet one. Then there’s Cian, he’s three. A whirling dervish, always into something. He tried to put the dog into the washing machine the other day. I swear, I don’t know how I get through the day sometimes.

And you’ve done it all on your own for how long?

Oh, Dermot went over two years ago now.

That’s a long time to be on your own.

"Feels like decades, I tell you. We were just seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, too.

How are they coping?

Kathleen sighed. Not very well. We were all looking forward to the move and we were nearly ready to go. The movers were just about to arrive when we got the news. They don’t seem to understand that their daddy isn’t coming back or that we’re not going to move to America now. Kira is still talking about going to Disney World next summer. But she’s only five, so it’s hard for her to understand what’s going on. And Cian was one when Dermot left, so he doesn’t even remember him.

He did what he had to do, going over. Hundreds of others in the same fix, thanks to the feckin banks.

No, you’re right. There was nothing for him here, and he wouldn’t think of the dole. He got that job offer and then the charity stepped in to help with the costs nearly at the same time. It was like a miracle that Dermot could go over and start earning money straight away. All thanks to Finbarr Murphy.

I looked at her, mystified. Finbarr Murphy? The ex-politician?

Kathleen nodded and stirred the soup that had just been delivered. That’s him. Lovely man. A saint.

But what’s Finbarr Murphy got to do with Dermot’s going to America? He was just tossed out on his ear after the last election.

He was. Still a member of Fianna Fail, of course but with no seat. And now he’s head of CRAIC.

Craic? Like in a bit of fun? What on earth is that? Can’t believe someone is seriously using that as a brand name. Are you sure?

Positive. It’s C-R-A-I-C, Kathleen spelled. Committee for Relocating Afflicted Irish Construction workers. They help out-of-work builders get jobs in the US.

There sure are plenty of them, I’d say. Not what I’d call good craic.

Now perhaps, but back then it was worse. That’s why we kind of jumped at the chance. Didn’t want to miss the opportunity. They organized everything. Travel, job, accommodation, and that visa thing you need over there.

A green card, you mean? But doesn’t that take a long time? Very difficult to get, I thought.

Kathleen took a bite of her sandwich, chewed and swallowed. Is it? But Murphy said there was so much construction going on over there and they needed the workers. They have some kind of legal expert who takes care of the green card applications. All part of the packet. Dermot got his green card very fast.

And they funded all of that for you? This Craic-charity?

Not all of it. We had to fund some of it ourselves. That whole packet is very expensive, what with legal fees, insurance and all. So we sold the car and Dermot’s mother put up some of it and then the charity paid for the rest.

I put down my sandwich. It suddenly didn’t look so appealing. How much did you have to pay?

Ten thousand.

I blinked. Euros?

Of course.

Jesus, that was one expensive package.

Kathleen shrugged. What do I know? I had a husband out of work with no prospects, offered a good paying job in Boston. I don’t know the details. We thought it was great to get it all organised for us so easily. She sighed and picked up her sandwich but put it down again. All I want is to bury my husband and then, when I get the insurance money, I can look for a better flat than the dump we live in now.

Of course, I agreed, without really listening. Finbarr Murphy wouldn’t know the meaning of the word charity. CRAIC, or whatever? I had never heard of it. I’m no genius, but if Finbarr Murphy was collecting money, some of it was probably staying in his pockets.

5

Making Arrangements

Fort Point, South Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A.

From my open office door, I watched Sheila Mulroney enter the reception area. Carla greeted her, took her coat and showed her into our breathtaking conference room, where I joined her moments later.

Thank you for doing this so promptly, she said. This is all a bit overwhelming for me. A little more of that Irish lilt came through than I remembered on the telephone. And nervousness. Still, she sounded more Dorchester than Dublin.

I can imagine. Anything I can do to help a friend of Finola. I glanced at my watch. We have a few minutes to kill. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your sister and her husband.

She was a handsome lady, in a rough kind of way. She had great bone structure in her face, dark eyes, a wide mouth, and fire red hair. And she looked like she’d lived hard. Maybe it was the crow’s feet or something tired in her eyes. She looked like a lot of Irish-surnamed women I’d run across in Boston. Attractive in their way, but tough, inclined to give a good punch and able to take one, figuratively speaking. She was also punctual, which I’ve come to appreciate deeply in my middle age.

Eh, well. She flashed a bit of exasperation. Kathleen’s quite the handful. She paused, like she had intended to continue but thought better of it.

I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more expansive.

Oh, sorry. Well… She seemed to fight for the words. Kathleen is my baby sister. She was a September surprise, she said, with emphasis on the surprise, came along ten years after me. I was married when I was seventeen, left for the States soon after, and I’ve not seen much of her since. When Dermot had his troubles in the building trades at home, she wrote me to see if I could put in a word for him with Noel, my husband. So we got him a job, and then she was talking about moving over here herself, bringing the kids.

Tell me about Noel.

Ah, well… She sighed, eyebrows up again. Noel and I were childhood sweethearts, I suppose you’d call us, she said, rolling her eyes again, though it seems hard to think that way now. We were married when we discovered I was pregnant, but that didn’t stop the families from their tut-tutting, so Noel brought me over to –Boston—it was –1985—and I haven’t been home since.

How did two teenage immigrants make their way?

"Noel is quite a bit older than –me—ten years. One of the reasons the families didn’t approve, I guess. So he was already a skilled tradesman when we got here. Things were rough for quite a while, but he’s a hard worker, and he eventually ended up going out on his own, and he’s built things up awful strong now. But the pressure of the business was a lot to cope with. And Noel, he’s got a fierce temper, and he likes his booze. He broke my nose, I broke his, and after a while we called it a draw and I filed for divorce. I was in the middle of

Reviews for Half Irish

[Erika Grobb · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great strong women, strong men and ugly villains. The scam theme excellent.

[Sheena Gurbakhash · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

wonderful conclusion to a very well thought through trilogy. Really liked it- Paul's character really seems to have come into it's own. Would like liked Shannon to play a bigger role, she seems to be a bit player in this one. The mystery is very compelling and the murders are so tragic.

[Robert Dodd · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Good author, good fiction, good read, third book of the trilogy, read all three!