Sons of the Old Country

By Tom Cavenagh

Sons of two old countries, Ireland and Italy, two old and feared brotherhoods, the IRA and the Mafia. They come into violent conflict over the exploitation of Irish shopkeepers by violent extortionists. The Mafia Don has never experienced the frustration and exasperation the Irish leader, constantly quoting Irish philosophy and aphorisms, forces upon him.

The FBI, the Boston police and the other crime families are drawn into the battle with all of the predictable violence, assassination, kidnapping and mayhem, seasoned by humor, drama, and two very unlikely romances. The denouement must be read to be believed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491728185

Tom Cavenagh

Doctor Watson's Rucksack is Tom Cavenagh’s eleventh book. He has published four Sherlock Holmes mysteries as well as A Matter of Inches, A Matter of Truth and Jesus on Thursday and Son's of Old Country. With his wife, Pat, he resides in Palatine, Illinois. He can be contacted at [e-mail] for comment or for information about previous books.

Book preview

SONS OF THE

OLD COUNTRY

black.jpg

Tom Cavenagh

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

Sons of the Old Country

Copyright © 2014 by Tom Cavenagh.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2805-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2818-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/20/2014

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

I knew he was a squirrely little

shit the first time I ever laid

eyes on him. I said to myself,

I said," Phelan, look out for

this guy. He’s bad news."

If only I’d listened.

Chapter One

M urphy’s pub on South Logan street in South Boston is the closest thing to home I’ve had since I was sixteen, living in the Bogside in Derry. My father, Eddie Phelan, Sr., and my mother, Nora, had three boys, of which I was the youngest. I’m not sure whether was the youngest or am the youngest is the right way to say it, but there’s probably truth in both. Am because the others, Neal and Arthur, were born before me, but was because they both carried British bullets in their bodies to premature graves. Therefore, I was the youngest, but now am the only.

I’m not going to get mushy on you. That’s not my way. But as I look past my pint to my mates scattered around Murphy’s in several different conversations or arguments, I feel a sense of belonging somewhere, even if it’s just in this rat hole.

Jimmy Walsh from the Strabane Brigade of the I.R.A. has the biggest audience as he retells his story for the God-only-knows-how manyeth time. But it’s a good story and bears repeating for those who’ve only heard it a time or two. Besides, he tells it remarkably consistently, drunk or sober, serious or silly, and it has not grown at all, so it’s probably true. Actually, it is said in Ireland that all stories are true and some of them actually happened.

Murphy himself claims to have made a few calls to Ireland and verified it. Jimmy is an explosives expert, and the way he tells it, he was drinking one day and garbled an order from his commandant, Cecil Curley. Cecil told him, apparently, to strike the Belfast-Dublin morning train. In fact, Cecil had already drafted the message to the Belfast police, including the proper code name, acknowledging I.R.A. responsibility for the attack. Well, they had been talking about Derry just a moment earlier and Jimmy somehow understands him to say he wants the Derry-Belfast train hit. Whatever the misunderstanding, Jimmy blows up the wrong goddam train.

Jimmy is now at the point in his story where he calls in to report to Cecil.

It was a lovely blast, one of my best ever. Bombing is like moonshine. It’s always good, but sometimes the ingredients go in just perfectly, the temperature is just right, and it’s divine.

He stops to take a breath and four inches off the top of his pint before resuming. So I called Cecil to report, and the man goes crazy, right on the phone. He calls me an idiot, a moron… mother of God… everything he could think of. And here’s myself, expecting to be told what a brilliant job I’d done.

The ones who had quaffed the most porter laughed the loudest, but everyone was enjoying the story.

So he tells me it’s the wrong fookin’ train, Jimmy continues. I tell him he’s daft and he goes on five more minutes about what an idiot I am,

Finally, I say to him, ‘Cecil, what the hell’s the difference anyway? A train’s a train. Jimmy leans in a bit and says, almost conspiratorially, "I know I’m in the soup, but I try to play it lightly with Cecil. I mean, a mistake like this could get me kneecapped.

So all of sudden, Jimmy goes on, Cecil calms down and says in a normal voice, Maybe you’re right, Jimmy. I’m getting awfully worked up over this. It’s just that I like things to go right. Come on in and let’s talk about your next assignment. I’ve a big plan you."

Am I relieved? Jimmy asks the crowd. Damn right. Cecil is normally a very hard man.

Jimmy stops talking and leans back as Murphy’s daughter sets down a tray crowded with tall pint glasses of the black gold, Guinness stout. It has the loveliest creamy foam brimming over the rims of the glasses and running down the sides. Jimmy raises the fresh glass and says My God, this talking has given me the devil’s own thirst. Slainte. After the responding chorus of ‘slaintes" and the clinking of glass as everyone touches every glass he can reach, Jimmy pours off four more inches of stout and goes on.

But something pops into my head he says. One of the old-timers had once said to me after Cecil had chewed my ass right down to the bone over something, he said, Don’t be bothered when Cecil’s yelling. The man yells from morning till night. If he speaks softly, it’s serious. If he whispers, you’re dead."

"So I’m nervous now. He didn’t exactly whisper, but he wasn’t a thunderstorm any more. So I go back to the phone and call Billy Considine. Billy is one of Cecil’s top men, but we grew up together. He’s one of my closest mates.

His sister answers and I tell her it’s myself and she gives him the phone. He takes it and says to me, ‘Well if it isn’t the late Jimmy Walsh."

Late is it? says I. Billy, this is no time for jokes. What the hell is Cecil so worked up about? We’ve been blowing up trains for years, both the Dublin train and the Derry train.

But he told you to blow up the Dublin Train…

But next week it could be the Derry Train. What the hell’s the difference?

Again Jimmy Walsh stops, not for the porter, although he does take a sip. Probably more for dramatic effect. Jimmy’s getting to the heart of the matter.

Jimmy, Billy says to me, the difference is that someone got killed.

Billy, says I, someone’s gotten killed every time we hit a train. I’m not using firecrackers, for God’s sake.

Now Jimmy’s voice drops a little lower. Even though I’ve heard the story, I’m drawn in when he gets deeply into it.

The man that got killed was Cyril Curley, Cecil’s brother.

Holy shit, gasped one of Jimmy’s listeners.

Holy shit, indeed, says Jimmy. That’s exactly what I said.

Jimmy waves to Murphy’s daughter, holding up his empty glass. She gives him a nod and he returns to his small audience, assured that another cold one is on the way. Well, not really a cold one, we drink them a little closer to lukewarm.

Jimmy has them now. They can’t wait for the narrative to resume.

A minute ago I’m worried about getting kneecapped, now I’m certain that Cecil is going to kneecap me in the head.

I noticed that my own pint had evaporated. But as I started to motion to Jerry, the bartender, I found him coming my way carrying a black telephone with a long curled cord trailing behind him.

It’s Murphy, he said tersely as he took my glass and headed for the tap.

Hi, Murph.

Eddie, thank God you’re there, I need a favor. Nothing big…

No problem, Murph, I’m just sitting here listening to Jimmy’s story again.

Great, Eddie, Like I said, nothing big. Stay there. I’ll be there in less than an hour.

I love Murphy. One would be hard pressed to find a more likable, considerate man anywhere. Ireland was poorer and America much richer for his emigrating from his beloved land almost sixteen years ago. None of us were sure why he left, but when an I.R.A. officer shows up in the U.S., it’s normally for a very good reason. The most common was that continued residence in Northern Ireland would be very perilous to his health and happiness.

Murphy never gave me an assignment. He always asked me for a favor, even though I more or less worked for him. He let me live rent-free in a small basement flat in an apartment building he owned and he let me run a tab at the pub. If I was out of work for any length of time, the tab got lost and he started a new one.

I’m a construction worker by trade, so I can’t get unemployment checks to tide me over till spring. Most of the lads have proper papers, but it’s not as easy as it used to be.

So I do odd jobs where I can find them and serve as the resident gofer at Murphy’s. But, as I said, Murphy never lets me feel small, so I’d do damn near anything for him.

On the way back to the toilet, I see Liam Hegarty scratch on an easy straight-in to the corner pocket, so I assume he’s got a pigeon at the table. And there he is, tall, red-haired, skinny as his pool cue, standing there with a little smirk on his face. It’s the only face near the table that I don’t recognize, so he must be new. Smirking after Liam misses a shot will probably cost him an extra tenner, but he doesn’t know that yet. Liam is still setting the hook. The new lad is probably fresh off the boat, so I hope he didn’t bring all of his money to the pub tonight because he’ll have damn little left an hour from now.

The place is starting to fill up now, so it’s a good thing I left a full pint and a burning cigarette at my stool, or I’d for sure find someone sitting on it when I returned. In the corner near the washroom door are five lads recently moved to the states, either permanently or until it cools down a bit for them in Ireland. The young I.R.A. ones are fairly easy to spot. They never seem relaxed, even when laughing and drinking. Their eyes make a quick pass around the room every minute or so, looking for something out of place or a pair of eyes looking at them. It’ll be a good year before they really feel safe enough to let their guard down.

I turn the latch on the stall door and try to get comfortable on the cold seat. When the walls and doors in the toilet stalls get full of graffiti, Murphy has them painted, but it starts again as soon as it dries. A few years ago, Murphy put little green chalk boards with chalk and erasers in every stall. After closing on the first night, he went back to see how his walls had fared. He found that someone had taken a pen knife and scratched into the freshly painted wall What the hell are these green boards for? So much for that.

After a few minutes, the door bursts open and I immediately recognize the loud laughter of Tony Ward. They used to call him Mad Anthony, like the Revolutionary War guy, but he didn’t care for it, so most people stopped. Tony’s in his mid to late fifties with bushy snow-white hair and a face that is always so red he looks a though he’d just stepped out of a sauna. I can’t see him, but I picture him in an expensive suit, white shirt, and fifty-dollar tie, but looking like a pile of laundry.

His tie is always pulled down with the top button open, horizontal creases in the top of his pants and the belt often rolled over by his pot belly. Tony is the funniest man most of us have ever met. He is the M.C. at all of the dinners at the Irish Heritage Center and knows as many jokes as Hal Roach does. Everyone says he could have been a stand up comic, but he’s a very successful lawyer instead.

Tony started out legal life as an ambulance chaser, his characterization, not mine, but got into criminal defense work and now has six young lawyers working for him. He says that he’s the only partner in the firm, whatever the hell that means.

When the money started to pile up, Tony’s wife wanted to live at a different social level, but Tony was not going to give up the old friends or the old ways. So we occasionally sit here watching B.C. on Saturday or the Patriots on Sunday, looking at Tony in corduroys and an Aran sweater showing Murphy a picture of himself in the Boston Globe with a tuxedo on.

Tony is talking to someone but since the other one can’t get a word in, I can’t tell who it is. I hear two zippers come down at the urinals and Tony’s booming voice.

So Jack, this Prod’s on his death bed with his life-long buddy there beside him. He leans up on his elbow and says Billy, run over to St. Columba’s there and get me a priest."

His buddy says What in the world do you want with a priest? The Prod says ‘I’m going to become a Catholic.’ His friend is shocked. ‘For the love of God, why would you do a thing like that? Are you going mad?’

The Prod says. ‘Don’t argue with me. Get the priest!

"So his buddy brings the priest over and surer than hell, he gives him some instructions, prays over him, and pronounces him a Catholic.

When the priest leaves, his buddy starts wailing, ‘How could you do it? How could you let us all down like this? You’ve been a good Presbyterian and a member of the Orange Lodge all your life. Now when you’re about to breathe your last, you become a Catholic. For the love of heaven, tell me why.

The Prod gets up on his elbow and says, Billy you don’t understand anything. Better one of them should die than one of us!"

Tony laughed as loud as his friend as they washed their hands and tore paper towels from the roll. By the time I stepped out of the stall, the door was closing behind them. Tony was saying that he just had time for one more drop.

Back on my barstool, I glance at the clock trying to remember exactly when Murph said he’d arrive. Shouldn’t be too long now. Jimmy Walsh must have had a phone call or something because he’s not too much further along in his narrative. When he realized that by blowing up the wrong train, he had killed Cecil Curley’s brother, he decided it was time to seek a warmer, perhaps drier, climate. This is the part that gets screwier. It can’t be proven either way, but it sure sounds like there’s some embellishment in the story.

Jimmy always kept a kit, as he called it, a stash that contained almost eighteen hundred pounds, skimmed off the top of some I.R.A. operations, mainly bank robberies in the Republic. It also held a passport in another name, complete with a fairly recent photo. Jimmy went straight from the phone to the stash to the airport. He packed what he could gather in fifteen minutes and was gone.

At the airport he found a large group from Belfast heading for a pilgrimage at Lourdes and within minutes was with them. A black-haired girl from upper Falls Road loaned him an extra rosary and Jimmy becomes the most pious of the lot. He gets right in the middle of the group, threads the rosary through his fingers and keeps his head down. If any of Cecil’s men happen to be at the airport, this group is the last one they’ll check.

I spent three days with the group, trying to figure out what to do next, Jimmy is saying. I almost fell in love with this Gracie, but I couldn’t get her mind off the prayers, even at meals. I don’t think she was very interested in me. I still have the rosary, though, he says, and damned if he doesn’t fish one out of his jacket pocket. He looks at it pensively for a moment, but puts it back in his jacket pocket without further comment.

"So we get to Lourdes and we’re down near the grotto one day and up comes another group from Belfast… . and who, for the love of God, is right near the front of the pack but Annette Fagan. Now you don’t know her, but if you’ve never heard of Mad Dog Fagan, you’re in the wrong pub. Now isn’t Annette Fagan the Mad Dog’s sister? And didn’t she grow up three houses down and across the street and knows my face damn near as well as her own?

And wouldn’t Cecil be the first one that Mad Dog calls if Annette says she seen me? Yes to all three. I about fouled the only pair of clean shorts I had left when I saw her. So inside the grotto I run, and for a change, luck is on me very own side.

Jimmy moves a little closer to the middle of his group. There’s about nine of them and they all crowd in a little closer because of the rising decibel level around them. Murphy’s is quite a bit larger than it looks from the outside and, judging from the crowds there every night, it must be a gold mine. But as I said, it couldn’t happen to a nicer chap than Murphy.

Jimmy sees the musicians starting to straggle in and realizes he had better finish before they start playing or it’s all over.

"I don’t know if they mistook me for someone else or were overwhelmed by my saintly appearance, but don’t they ask me if I’m there as a volunteer to help with the baths? I am, says I, and they put me right to work. I keep watching to see where Annette is going to come in and I get as far away as possible.

What they do is let the pilgrims get down to their underwear, or less than that if they want to… they’re all private stalls. These pilgrims can get all the way in if they want to. Full immersion the man calls it. What they have me doing is assist the pilgrims in and out of the water, especially the older ones. I help a few in and out, but I can’t find Annette any more. I’m about to duck out, when all of a sudden I find her. Where? you ask. Right in my line!

I look to the front door just as Denny Boyle comes in. Denny was born in Derry, and has retained a distinctly Derry accent. Both of his parents and his older brother were born there as well. The whole family emigrated together. Denny is an incurable gambler and not too successful a one. It’s been said of him that he couldn’t pick himself out of a gang of niggers, but still he’s at the track twice a week.

This time of year it’s the parley cards. Denny loves football. He hardly has his jacket off when hands all around him are extended, reaching for the cards. Denny is dealing them like a poker hand. Boston College getting eight from Syracuse. he says. Bet the farm on B.C. They win straight up. Even the off duty police take cards and reach for pencils.

Denny has some kind of a sign with Jerry the bartender because there’s a pint waiting for him when he arrives at the bar. He breathes deeply, raises his glass quickly, and after a soft slainte to those around him, buries his nose in the glass. It’s considerably lighter by the time he comes up for air.

I give Denny a brief sign like a blackjack player calling for another card and he slides me a parley card. I do like B.C. with eight, but I’m looking down the card for Notre Dame. They’re giving Purdue seventeen. Ouch. But probably still a good bet. This is not Purdue’s year.

Back to Jimmy Walsh, ". . . . So there she is, Annette Fagan, about six back in line. She can’t see inside but I can sure as hell see her. Now I’m not a praying man, but I think that God is keeping an eye on his old altar boy, Jimmy Walsh.

In comes this little, round Franciscan, say Jimmy. He’s got this brown robe with a hood and a rosary that practically touches the ground. Now, I’ve as much respect for the cloth as the next guy, but I’m desperate. I tell St. Francis here to make his way to the far end of the tank and pray for as long as he’d like… . Well… . I’ve got my jacket and pants and shoes off in less than thirty seconds. In thirty more seconds, I’ve got the sandals on and the robe… . I’ve got the hood pulled over so far I can barely see out of it, and I’m out of there like the grotto’s on fire. Stuffed my own clothes under the robe to look heavier.

They’d had enough to drink by now that anything would be funny, but this would be great stuff to them if they were cold sober.

Jimmy, you took the priest’s clothes and left him naked in the water?

I did.

You’ll burn in hell for that.

"If Cecil catches me, I’ll burn on earth. I’d rather take me chances on God and the Franciscan forgiving me than Cecil. Besides, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet!

Up I go to the church. I figure with proper robes on and my head down in prayer I’d be left alone to think my way out of this. You’d think that wouldn’t you?

Jimmy likes to ask a question occasionally to make sure they were still with him. If not, he’d abort the session quickly. No danger of that tonight, though. Everyone nodded, or mumbled something like of course.

Wrong, says Jimmy. "I get a tap on me shoulder and here’s a priest with the same kind of robe I have on. My heart stops. I mean stops beating altogether. For several seconds, I’m a corpse waiting to tip over.

He says to me Father . . . . Me heart starts beating again. I thought he had found me out. He says ‘Father, I see your Carmelite robes… . Carmelite! I think all this time I’m a Franciscan and I turn out to be a Carmelite.

This is received with appropriate laughter. They were really into it.

Anyway, he says ‘Father, we’ve two bus loads just arrived for confession and we’re two priests short. Can you help us out? He wants me to hear confessions! I say to him "Father, normally I wouldn’t hesitate, but I’ve got this terrible feeling in me stomach… . Well, he looks mortified. I find out later that you’re never supposed to refuse, even on your death bed. Genuine repentant sinners on the hoof are every priest’s first priority.

He looks at me and doesn’t say a word… . like he can’t believe his ears. Finally, says I, ‘But if there’s souls to be saved…’ Now the man breaks into a smile and ushers me into one of the booths.

How did you know what to do? asked one of the listeners with a bit of skepticism. He is apparently beginning to wonder how much of this is true.

Are you serious? Jimmy shoots back. In Strabane, the nuns wanted me to go to confession twice a week. It took too long if I just went on Saturday. I know every question they ask and I can even recite their prayer of absolution. Do I know what to do. Ha!

The first sounds from the small stage were drifting through the pub now. Fiddle, guitar, and banjo were being tuned and the bodhran tapped to loosen the drummer’s wrist. Danny Rooney, leader of the band, is organizing the night’s program, though they usually play a few things they had planned and are then inundated with requests, make that demands, for the rebel songs, the Wolfe Tones kind of stuff. They’d be playing pretty soon. Jimmy keeps an eye on them so he can finish right on time.

Jimmy leans toward the one who seemed skeptical. He looks quickly left and right as though he’s going to try to sell the man a stolen watch. I’m doing just fine till in comes a lady and says she is the wife of the Taioseach. Jimmy uses the Irish word for the Prime Minister of the Republic of Eire. The papers had run stories on occasion with rumors of past affairs she was alleged to have had.

Would you like to know what she said to me? Jimmy asks.

I would.

For the love of God, man!’ Jimmy roars, Would you ask me to break the seal of the confessional? My lips are sealed!" With this, Jimmy bounds off of his chair and heads for the bar. The roar of laughter behind him is drowned out by the thundering beginning of the music. They always start with something loud and energetic to get the people’s attention.

"It’s of a brave young highwayman

this story we will tell."

"His name was Willie Brennan

and in Ireland he did dwell . . . ."

Jimmy stops and waves to the skeptic. Come on, I’ll buy you a pint.

". . . Twas on the Kilworth mountains

he commenced his wild career

and many a wealthy nobleman

before him shook with fear . . . ."

Murphy has entered the pub and is making his way to the bar. It’s a slow process because everyone has something to either tell him or ask him. Murphy is too kind a man to brush anyone off. He glances quickly around the room, either sizing up the house or looking for me. Either way, he seems pleased. He winks at the fiddler, the leader of the small band, as they swing into the chorus, urging everyone to join them.

". . . . And its Brennan on the moor,

Brennan on the moor,

Bold, brave and undaunted,

was young Brennan on the moor . . . ."

Jimmy Walsh is next to Denny Boyle, studying his parley card intently. I’d never heard the part about the Prime Minister’s wife before, and I’m sure it’s not true, but he swears cold sober, that he heard the confessions. Not only that, he insists that it counts because the sinner thought in good conscience that he was confessing to a priest.

Murphy always supported him on that point. God’s not a nit picker. If a guy is sorry, that’s good enough for the Lord, whoever the hell he confessed to. Murphy’s a devout Catholic and always seems to know what he’s talking about on church matters.

Anyway, to finish Jimmy’s story, He made his way to London, then Liverpool, in his Carmelite robes. From there he changed clothes and got work on a freighter to Sydney, Australia. He lived there for three and a half years, but never liked the climate. When word reached him that Cecil Curley had been killed in a shootout with British soldiers near Crossmaglen, he immediately began winding things up in Australia. Within two months, he was at the bar in Murphy’s, undecided about staying here or completing the long journey back to Strabane.

All of a sudden, Murphy is upon me. I’d gotten into the music and lost track of him. Brennan on the Moor was soon followed up by The Maid of Fife, a Scottish song, actually, but since the Clancy brothers and Tommy Makem did it, it’s now more than acceptable in Irish watering holes.

Ah, Eddie. Here you are. Good man. Murphy shakes my hand warmly, as though he hadn’t seen me in weeks. I spent two hours with him yesterday.

Eddie, I’ve got an old and dear friend arriving at Logan at 9:15 tonight. His name is Paddy Farrell and I promised to pick him up. I planned to do it myself, but… .

Murph, no problem. Don’t give it a thought.

It’s just that my oldest daughter… .

Murph, believe me. I’m happy to, do it.

Okay, Eddie. Thanks a million. He’s on a United flight from London, number . . . Murph fished a scrap of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it.

Here we are. It’s all there.

How will I know who he is? What does he look like?

Murphy chuckled. I think you’ll know him when you see him, but just to be on the safe side… . Let’s see… . actually, I haven’t seen him in over seven years, but he’s not a lad to change very much.

As I’m leaving, I bump into Ambrose Casey, who’s just walking in the front door. Shit. Ambrose doesn’t come in every night, and I hate to miss him. He teaches European, but mainly Irish, history at B.C. and knows everything knowable about Ireland. Every song, every folk tale, every place of interest, every everything.

Ah, Eddie, good man. You’re not leaving are you?

Ambrose! Damn! I wish I’d known you were coming in tonight. Murph’s got me picking up an old friend at the airport. Be around for a while?

A few hours, at least. I’ve brought that mad attorney a book and I suppose I’ll have to explain the whole thing to him.

Tony’s here already. He’s got a new joke about a prod converting on his death bed.

Ambrose smiled, Better one of them should die than one of us? He used the punch line of the joke as a question.

The very one, Ambrose. You’ve heard it, then.

I told it to him a fortnight ago. I can assume that he did not accord me proper attribution as his source for the joke.

He didn’t, Ambrose. Not a word.

No surprise there. Well, hurry back, Eddie. I was hoping to have a pint with you.

Ambrose patted me on the arm as he slid past and headed for the bar. He and Mad Anthony Ward were the best of friends, but that wasn’t always apparent. Tony Ward was a student of Irish history as well, and the two of them would debate the most minor of points endlessly. They often dipped deeply into friendly sarcasm in making what they considered the salient point of the discussion.

Ambrose, when asked a question in the pub would occasionally say something like That’s a bit too simple for me to trifle with. Ask that mad attorney over there. It’ll be a challenge for him.

Their appearances were a paradox. Mad Anthony always wore the most expensive suits, ties, and shirts, yet managed to look disheveled. Ambrose always wore tweed sport jackets-he had no more than three—with those old woolen plaid ties from Ireland, yet he always looked neat as a pin.

Chapter Two

T he Callahan tunnel was still quite crowded, even though it was after eight. Whenever the cars come to a halt in the tunnel, I get very nervous. If it lasts very long, I get paranoid. Perhaps I’m claustrophobic, but I consider where I am, fifty feet under water in a concrete tunnel and I think about those goddam Arabs. I half expect to see a bright flash, followed by a loud roar, then a tidal wave of water.

I imagine myself in a leakproof car, from which there is no escape, looking at the sea around me while waiting for the oxygen to give out. If I had to go through this tunnel every day, I would hate Arabs, even though I’ve never met one.

Although they announce that the flight has landed, it’s at least twenty minutes before the passengers begin streaming out of the jetway. It appears as though Murphy’s wrong. I don’t know him if, indeed, I have seen him. They look mainly like Brits. One man stands against a pole, but he’s tall, wearing a suit, certainly looking like an ordinary businessman. But he is looking for someone. When our eyes meet, he hesitates then looks right past me, scanning the area.

Over my right shoulder, I see a bank of telephones. As I start to get up to approach him, may as well, another suit comes into the picture. They shake hands warmly. Though their voices are low, I can gather enough to conclude that the second suit had run into unexpected traffic. They each grab a piece of the small carry on luggage and head down the concourse.

So it’s to the phones, but I only get a few steps. Murphy’s right after all. As soon as I see him, I’m sure it’s him. He’s just emerging from the jetway and moving very slowly, looking around as though feeling his way through a maze in the dark.

He’s short, round ruddy face, tweed jacket with mismatched trousers, and one of those crumpled funny looking hats the Irish often wear. Naturally, it’s a considerably different color tweed than his coat. I remember Tony Ward saying to Matt Barry once That’s an egregiously eclectic ensemble you have on Matt. Matt didn’t know what he said and didn’t want to admit it, so he just said, Thank you, Tony. Tony put an arm around Matt’s shoulder and said with the most sincere voice and manner he could muster, and I want you to know that I meant every word in the most pejorative sense. Poor Matt doesn’t understand that word either, but he’s impressed with Tony’s sincerity. Thank you, Tony. Its kind of you to say. With this, Tony waves to the bartender Jerry, a pint here for my good friend, Matt.

As Tony slid back onto his seat next to Ambrose Casey, Ambrose said in a manner every bit as sincere and admiring, Tony when I see you interacting with your fellow man, I am ever more impressed with what a pedantic onager you truly are. Ambrose could not be outdone in sincerity.

Ambrose, he replied, I can’t tell you know deeply moved I am to hear those words coming from a man of discernment such as yourself. They used English words they didn’t think many understood almost as a coded language. With that, they clinked glasses and drank deeply.

For some reason, that little scene comes to mind as I get my first look at Paddy Farrell. This is truly an eclectic ensemble. He has this unfathomable look on his face. I can’t tell if he looks awed at the size of Logan or if it looks like he’s up to something. Overall, he just has this squirrelly look and I have this feeling that he is not going to be good news in my life.

Hi, are you Paddy Farrell?

He stops and looks all around the waiting area, as if to be sure I’m alone. Then he looks at me as though I’m an alien or something, up and down, side to side. Then he bores into my eyes. His look isn’t unpleasant, but the eyes seem very strong. It seems as though a lot of time has passed and I start to ask him again, but he finally answers.

Paddy Farrell, is it? Are you looking for Paddy Farrell?

Well… . Yes, I answer. Are you him? I’m Eddie Phelan. Murphy sent me to pick you up, if you’re Farrell.

Murphy, he says, Who Murphy?

This is pissing me off and I don’t think I like this guy very much already.

Christopher Columbus Murphy! St. Francis of Assisi Murphy! What the hell’s the difference? If you’re not Farrell or you don’t want to admit to being Farrell, just say something and I’ll move on.

He seems amused by this. God, you yanks are a feisty lot He actually smiles. After a deep breath, I try to hide my exasperation. Look, I’m not here to be feisty. You look like Paddy Farrell, so I…

How do you know what Paddy Farrell looks like?

Murphy described him to me

What does Murphy look like?

I know that I’m not going to take much more of this, but I can go a little further. A few inches taller than you… hair almost white… Irish flag tattooed on his right forearm.

Where did he tell you to take me?

Well… , I’m taken a little off guard by this… . I assumed he meant back to the pub. That’s what I was going to do. But if you want to go someplace else…

No, the pub will be fine. Eddie Phelan, is it? I’m happy to meet you, Eddie.

Now he acts as though nothing has happened and I’ve just introduced myself. We get his luggage and I pull the car up and in short order, we’re through the Sumner Tunnel and on our way to South Boston. He hasn’t said much, just a few comments on things that look unusual to him. I do notice, though, that he never seems to stop checking his surroundings.

I’m sure it’s none of my business, I ask, but is someone after you? I mean you act as though you’ve just broken out of prison.

I do?

I wait at least a minute until I’m sure that I do? is the only answer I’m going to get.

Yes, you do I say in a tone that indicates that I’ve given up and am not going to pursue the point.

Ten minutes of uncomfortable silence pass. Uncomfortable for me, I guess, he seems perfectly content. Then he asks, Eddie, do you work for Patrick? I’ve called him Murph for so long that his Christian name seems a bit strange.

More or less, I answer. I don’t have a regular job, but I do a lot of errands. He lets me use a small basement apartment of his.

Ah, Grand. He’s a grand fellow, Murphy. Very generous.

Finally something I can agree with him on. Yes, he is. Murph’s the best.

What kind of gun do you carry?

Gun? I’m stunned by this question. I don’t carry a gun. Why the hell would I carry a gun? My voice rose considerably on the last question.

Paddy Farrell continues to look around nonchalantly. No reason at all. What’s in your breast pocket?

I feel both sides. You mean this? It’s an electric shaver. I shave in a car or at the pub most of the time… Hmm. Usually put it in the glove compartment. How did you notice that?

Oh, nothing at all, he says airily. It just caught my eye. And in your right front pants pocket… that’s not a gun either. He says it as a statement, even though it’s clearly a question.

No, it isn’t. Jesus Christ! Here, I fish it out of my pocket. It’s a goddam wallet. I do have to admit that it’s so stuffed with papers, bills and cards that I use a thick rubber band to hold it together.

I’m telling you I don’t have a gun! Now did you notice anything funny about my underwear?

He laughs Eddie, you’re too serious a man. It just happened to catch me eye.

Just caught your eye, I repeat, probably a little more sarcastically than was intended. Why would you think it’s a gun anyway?

No offense, Eddie. I’m from a wee village in the north of Ireland and we thought everyone here carried a gun. Irishmen get nervous coming to America.

I started to say that I’ve seen small town hicks before and Paddy Farrell was not one of them, but why bother? He’d probably reply so innocently, he’d think he was making me feel bad. Why waste my breath?

As we came south on Logan Street, I went slightly past Murphy’s, checked the rear view mirror and made a large sweeping u-turn that ended exactly at the front door. It was probably more polite not to express my relief that my errand was over and that I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore of Paddy Farrell’s bullshit.

Why don’t you hop out here and I’ll park the car around the back? It’s Murph’s and he has a special spot he likes

Again I’m treated to his annoying habit of waiting as long as he pleases to answer. He looks up and down the street and seems to study the front of Murphy’s pub as though it was an encyclopedia.

Paddy, perhaps I don’t speak loud enough. I said…

You speak just fine, Eddie. He says, very cheerfully, as always, lovely, actually. I wonder… I’ve changed my mind, Eddie. Would it be too inconvenient for you to drop me off at my mother’s house?

Your mother’s house? This little man was no end of surprises. Your mother lives here?

She does, Eddie. I probably should have mentioned it.

No reason for you to mention it. I don’t care. God, you’re full of surprises. Where does she live? Miami? Cleveland?

Again that funny laugh. Not at all, Eddie. She’s not fifteen minutes from here. Actually you’re headed in the right direction.

As I start to pull out, it occurs to me that this suspicious little shit wanted to make sure I was really bringing him to Murphy’s before he decided to trust me with any other information. We ride in relative silence, him directing me, then he starts fooling around with his bags. He has this ancient leather briefcase that looks very worn and frayed at all the corners.

I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye as he starts to pull his shirt out of his pants. Off comes this multi-compartment money belt that appears to be jammed full. He stuffs it into the briefcase and damned if he doesn’t then unbuckle another one. Number two is stuffed just as tightly as number one.

Stuffing it into the briefcase, Paddy unzips the last compartment and removes the contents. It’s about an inch and a half of American hundred dollar bills. There is no apparent attempt to keep me from seeing what he is doing. I’m beginning to ponder why in hell’s name he would let me see this, when he peels the top bill off and jams the rest back into the belt.

After re-strapping the whole bag he says Eddie, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help tonight. A lad could get lost in a big city like this and never find himself. With this he jams the C note into my right coat pocket.

I try to protest and reach for the pocket, but he keeps his hand in it so I can’t reach the money. Paddy, look, you don’t owe me nothing. This is a favor to Murph. He is very generous with me and he wouldn’t want me to take anything from you.

I know that, Eddie believe me, I do. But this is just a sincere thank you and it’s our little secret. We sure as hell aren’t going to tell Murphy.

Lord knows I could use the hundred and he seemed to have an awful lot of them, so I put my hand back on the steering wheel. On the way back to the pub, I sit puzzling over the whole thing. Paddy Farrell… I’d never heard the name before… He seemed as though he must be a member of the organization… secretive… suspicious, in fact he had the bearing of an officer… yet it made no sense to let me see the money and casually slip a hundred into my pocket… as though it was his… but where the hell would he get that kind of money? I would learn eventually that Paddy Farrell had a reason for everything he did.

Murphy was anxious to see me. In fact, that is a huge understatement.

Eddie, thank God…

The rest of the sentence was lost in the almost deafening noise. The music was winding up and everyone was on their feet to sing the last one. Danny Rooney is using his fiddle and bow as batons as he leads the singing of A Nation Once Again, which is always the last of the night, without question. If he was going to do an encore, he finished with something else and let himself be coaxed into Nation as an encore.

It was as stirring and patriotic as Irish songs get to be and many nationalists would admit to daydreaming about singing it, arm in arm with their mates, as the last British troop ship sails out of port. For many of the regulars, this song is the only exercise they get in the evening. They were all on their feet stomping the floor, clapping hands in tune with the others, and singing for all they were worth. As the song concludes, they grab their pints, clink glasses all around, and drain them to the bottom.

Once, two of them were so excited they drove the mugs together with such force that they shattered, spraying beer and glass everywhere. Unfortunately, that got such a laugh that we could count on a few of them occasionally. When the song began, Murph would clap and sing with the rest of them, but he had the bartenders and waitresses filling mugs and glasses as fast as possible because everyone would be looking for a fresh pint when they took their seats again. The timing was critical. Get a full cold one in front of them just in time and they wouldn’t leave.

I raise a finger to Murph, indicating we should wait a moment till the din subsides.

". . . And Ireland long a province be

a nation once again…"

The roar could give one a migraine if he wasn’t so wrapped in the moment that he didn’t notice the noise. As always the pattern was the same tonight. First the clapping and singing, followed by a trembling roar, the staccato clink of a hundred glasses, the relative silence as the Guinness is poured down raspy throats, another more subdued roar, and finally the scraping of a hundred chairs and bar stools as the boys settle back into their seats. In a few minutes, we are back into the drone of conversation and laughter.

Nothing to write home about, but traditions lodged in hearts and memories are lovely and this was one we all shared. Murphy had gotten a phone call and was facing the mountain of bottles at the back of the bar, so I had a brief moment to savor the feeling. Denny Boyle immediately resumed the job of tallying up his parley card bets and handing them out to late-comers. Jimmy Walsh was into another story, a few tables removed from Ambrose Casey, Tony Ward and two others whose backs were to me. Their conversation seemed serious at first, but as Tony stopped talking, they erupted in laughter.

In the back of the room the young IRA types were still high-fiving, something they had learned from watching American football and had taken to enthusiastically. In another hour or two they’d start