Dublin Noir (4 page)

“How do you know?” I asked. And got the frost smile, superior and not a mile from aggressive.

He used his index finger to tap his nose, said, “A guy on the museum staff? He’s got himself a little problem.”

Did he mean cocaine or curiosity?

He continued: “I’ve helped him … get connected … and he’s grateful … and now he’s vulnerable. In ten days there will be a window in the security—the patrol is to be switched, the
CCTV
is to be revamped, there’ll only be two guys on actual watch. Can you fucking believe it?”

We hadn’t had a drink for over half an hour, the lecture was lengthy, so I injected a touch of steel, asked, “And the two, the ones keeping guard, they’re going to what, give it to us?”

Now he laughed, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse. “How fucking stupid are you?” Shaking his head, like good help was hard to find, he said, “We’re going to give them the gas.”

That’s what we did.

Dream job—in, out. No frills, no flak.

… Unless you count the dead guy.

We’d donned cleaner’s gear, always wanted to
don
something, gives that hint of gravitas. Bow said, “Help us blend.”

Especially in my case, sign of the new Ireland, black guy riding a mop, no one blinked an eye.

We’d become America.

Them janitor blues, pushing dee broom, miming dee black and sullen—translate: invisible.

The guards, one in mid-yawn. We hit them fast, tied them up, tops, four minutes. I didn’t glance at the painting, was fearful it might remind me of my mother. Bow did, I heard the catch in his breathing. Then we were almost done, reached the back door, when a soldier came out of nowhere, a pistol in his hand, roared, “Hold on just a bloody minute!”

Bow shot him in the gut. I’d been going for the gas. I stared at Bow, whined, “No need for that.”

The smirk, his mouth curled down, he put two more rounds in the guy, asked, “Who’s talking about
need
?”

The heat came down

Hard

Relentless

Like the Dublin drizzle, rain that drove Joyce to Switzerland

With

… Malice aforethought.

We kept a low-to-lowest profile. A whole month before we met for the split, the rendezvous in an apartment on Pembroke Road, not far from the American embassy, an area I’d have little business in. Bow had rented the bottom floor, wide spacious affair, marred by filth, empty takeaway cartons, dirty plates in the sink, clothes strewn on the floor, the coffee table a riot of booze. He was dressed, I kid you not, in a smoking jacket, like some Agatha Christie major. Not even David Niven could pull that gig off.

Worse: on the pocket, the letter …
B.

For …
Bollocks
?

He was wearing unironed tan cords and flip-flops, the sound slapping against the bare floor. I was wearing a T, jeans, Nike trainers with the cushion sole. A logo on my T …
Point Blankers.

Near the window was the painting, dropped like an afterthought. I took my first real appraisal. The old lady did indeed look … old. She was nothing like my mother—my mother had never sat down in her wretched life.

I heard the unmistakable rack of a weapon and turned to see Bow holding a pistol. He said, “Excuse the mess, but decent help, man, it’s impossible to find.”

I stared at the gun, asked, “You’re not American, right?”

Winded him, came at him from left field, I added: “You’re good most of the time, you’ve it down and tight, almost pull it off but it slips, couple of words blow the act.”

His eyes gone feral, he moved the weapon, pointing at the center of my chest, asked, “What fucking words?”

I sighed theatrically (is there any other way?), said, “Okay, you say …
mighty, fierce …
”

He put up his left hand. Not going to concede easy, protested, “Could have picked them up, been here a time.”

I nodded, then, “But you use
fierce
in both senses, like
terrific
, and like
woesome
—gotta be Irish to instinctively get that. You can learn the sense of it, but never the full usage.”

He went to interrupt but I shouted, “Hey, I’m not done! The real giveaway, apart from calling a pint a
pint of stout
, is
me fags
… Americans are never going to be able to call cigarettes
gay
.”

He shrugged, let it go, said, “Had you going for a while, yeah?”

I could give him that, allowed, “Sure, you’re as good as the real thing.”

Used the gun to scratch his belly, said, “Long as we’re confronting, you’re not Homer Simpson either, not the dumb schmuck you peddle. The Bukowski, it was yours, and the way you didn’t look at the painting, you’d have to be real smart not to show curiosity.”

I reached in my pocket, registered his alarm, soothed, “It’s a book, see …” Took out the Bukowski,
Ham on Rye
, flipped it on the floor, said, “A going-away present, because we’re done, right?”

As if I hadn’t noticed the weapon. His grip on the butt had eased, not a lot but a little. He said, “In the bedroom I got near thirty large, you believe that, nigger?”

No matter how many times I hear the word, and I hear it plenty, it is always a lash coming out of a white mouth, an obscenity. He let it saturate, then added, “I got enough nose candy to light up O’Connell Street for months, soon as I deliver the painting and get the rest of the cash. A serious amount, but guess what, I’m a greedy bastard, I don’t really share.” Pause, then, “And share with a darkie? … Get real. Gotta tell you, I’m a supporter of the Klan—did you know they were founded by a John Kennedy? How’s that for blarney?”

I lowered my head, said, “Never let the left hand see what—”

Shot him in the face, the gun in my right hand, almost hidden by the crushed fingers. The second tore through his chest. I said, Brooklyn inflection, “Duh, you gotta …
focus.
”

Got the cash, put the portrait under my coat, didn’t look back. Near Stephen’s Green a wino was sprawled beside a litter bin. I gave him some notes and stuffed the Whistler in the bin. He croaked, “No good, huh?”

I said, “It’s a question of appreciation.”

T
here’s a buzz about the place. Sure as hell wasn’t here when I left fifteen years ago.
He remembered Dublin as the pits then. Dark, priest-ridden, can’t-do culture, living on government handouts and money from the emigrants. A Godforsaken hole of a place. For himself, anyway. Edmund Burke.
Yeah, that’s me. My old man had delusions. Thought if he named me after the great Irish statesman that the name would overcome the bad genes and the lousy upbringing.
Willie Burke had been a failure, failed at every no-risk job he ever attempted, and the old man had ended his days earning a mere pittance as a salesman in a tailoring shop that had seen its best days in the last century. Mass on Sunday was the highlight of his mother’s week, a timid woman from the west of Ireland who’d never felt at home in the big city. An only child, Edmund had been conceived just as his mother’s biological clock was about to stop ticking. She was forty-two when she had him.

All these things flooded his mind as he jumped into the taxi at Dublin Airport and told the driver to take him to Ballsbridge. He’d survived. Succeeded because his father’s failure terrified him. Got into Trinity, earned a law degree, headed for England, stayed a year in a boring clerk job at a London legal firm as resident Paddy. Luck intervened. His mother’s uncle in Boston sponsored him to the States. Decided that he’d go by sea instead of air. Took a 28,000-ton liner out of Liverpool. Gave him a sense of being a pilgrim setting out for the New World.

Now he was back. Why. The Celtic Tiger! That’s why. Well, one of the reasons. He was running away again. But that’s another story. Taking a year off from his New York law firm. Had just about enough of his mob clients. As well as his ex who wanted to rob him blind. Oh yeah, he’d stashed away a few dollars, but still hadn’t made that million. Maybe Dublin’s the place to be these days. Everybody’s here. All these faces in Dublin on a Tuesday and you see them again in New York or L.A. on the weekend. Aidan Quinn. Gabriel Byrne. Liam Neeson. Colin Farrell. Michael Flatley now a household name with
Riverdance
conquering the world. And Michael O’Leary and Ryanair conquering the skies. The priests are scarce on the ground these days. Divorce is legal. The Bishop of Galway has a love child with an American lover, and the President of Ireland has crossed the religious divide to take communion in a Protestant cathedral. The
IRA
is about to call it quits and the border separating the Republic from Northern Ireland is gradually becoming an imaginary line. Money talks. And money goes where it’s well treated. And the Celtic Tiger is treating it well.

Money! That’s really why I’m here,
he reminded himself
. Not here to feel sentimental. Still, the old city looks good,
he thought
. New roads, new houses, construction cranes everywhere. Plenty of Mercs and BMWs. They’re not taking the Liverpool boat anymore. No! They’re in investment banking, working for McKinsey and Microsoft. Turning Ireland into the largest exporter of computer software outside of the United States.

At Ballsbridge, Burke paid the taxi fare and walked up Shelbourne Road. Dublin 4. The most sought after neighborhood in the city. Bright skies and the early morning briskness countered his lack of sleep. Old stately homes lined the streets. Surrounded by sturdy stone walls, they exuded wealth and power. As a kid this would have been an alien place to him.
Still is,
he thought, as he reached a modern four-story apartment block in Ballsbridge Gardens. He already had a key, mailed to him in New York before he’d left.

Once inside, he realized that he could be anywhere. Luxury that would be right at home on Fifth Avenue. He dropped his bags, started the coffee machine, and minutes later sat in the large Jacuzzi bathtub watching the bubbles welcome him to Dublin.

Refreshed and dressed, he arrived at Lillie’s Bordello at 6:00. The most elite club in Dublin. Had he been here a few nights ago, after the Irish Film and Television Awards, he could have joined Pierce Brosnan and James Nesbitt as they sang “Danny Boy” at the piano in the
VIP
room.

This was Murphy’s idea. Drop him into the deep end. Meet who’s who in Dublin society. Hit the ground running! That’s always been Murphy’s modus operandi. Murphy was his old law school buddy at Trinity and the reason he’d returned to Dublin. Murphy had built a successful legal business, rich from tribunal money and litigation. Now, with more business than he could handle, he’d developed a distrust for his partners.

It didn’t take much persuasion to tempt Ed Burke back to Dublin. His mob clients were a little annoyed at the moment. One with a bullet behind his ear in a ditch in Westchester. Another behind bars on a federal indictment for corruption.

Jesus Christ! I really could be in New York or L.A.! The same confidence. The same body movements. Damn it. Even the accents are mid-Atlantic.

All the right people at tonight’s reception for a noble cause. Charity. Aid for Africa. Medicine for Chernoble. Sexy stuff. Good publicity for the rich and powerful.

He felt a finger trace its way up his spine, lingered to enjoy, then turned slowly and came face-to-face with her.

“Edmund,” she said, moving to within inches. No one else except his mother called him Edmund.

Just then Murphy arrived with drinks. “Ah, a reunion, you two … okay! Okay!” he protested their stares, then handed Burke his drink and moved on. But the spell had been broken.

“Pia, it’s been a long time,” said Ed, looking at the woman who had broken his heart. Days and nights of endless lovemaking when they both attended Trinity. Summers in Donegal. Running naked into the sea on the Fanad beach at midnight. Dark, Latin beauty, born in Barcelona, Irish father, Spanish mother. Something Irish flashing through, the same way you see the Irish in Anthony Quinn’s Mexican face.

“Twenty years, Edmund. You’re looking well. If I’d known you were going to be such a success …” She let the sentence hang in the air.

Ed wanted to hold her, kiss her, take her to that Fanad beach again. His mind spoke to him:
Oh, Pia, I loved you so much. And you left me for that geek. Now he’s one of the top Ministers in the government. Being touted as a future Taoiseach.Speak of the devil.
The man himself approached.

“Ed, I see you’re back. Good. We need your talent here. Building a great country these days.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it, Minister. Had things looked like this twenty years ago, I might never have left.”

“Well, you’re back. That’s what matters.”

Looking at his wife, he said, “Pia, you and Ed are old friends. Introduce him around. New blood he should meet here.” And with that he was gone. Working the audience. Consolidating his mandate.

Ed Burke knew that it was a mistake. But he was addicted. Always had been. In the days that followed, he and Pia threw caution to the wind. They were inseparable and indiscrete. Glued together in cozy corners in the best pubs and clubs, unabashedly naked in private saunas. It seemed their passion had only been fueled by the passing of time.

Just three weeks after his arrival, Ed Burke found himself “in at the deep end,” defending Dan Mortimer, one of Dublin’s elite, against a class action suit brought by a rabble of welfare-dependent inner-city denizens. As Murphy had said, “Good way to announce your presence to the world. This is a case you can’t lose. And making an ally out of Mortimer will seal your career. Besides, it’ll be great PR for our firm.”

Some said that Mortimer was the public face of the Celtic Tiger. A good quarter of the construction cranes crisscrossing the Dublin skyline bore the Mortimer name in huge capital letters. The new dockland development had Mortimer stamped all over it. But this case had aroused the emotions of the people. The class action suit claimed that Mortimer had illegally acquired derelict inner-city land that should have been used for the community, and had then used his influence to have it rezoned for commercial purposes. Site development had commenced, excessive noise polluted the air, cracks had appeared in the foundation of adjacent houses. The suit also claimed that Mortimer had used aggressive tactics to persuade local homeowners to sell and leave so that he could demolish their homes and make way for further commercial usage. Two hungry young lawyers represented the claimants.
Just like me twenty years ago,
thought Burke,
idealistic and naïve.
They could not support their case with solid evidence. They promised to produce a witness who would testify that Mortimer had made illegal payments to someone in government to get the land rezoned. But the witness did not show up in court. The judge gave them a second chance. Produce the witness within one week, otherwise the court finds the claim unsubstantiated.