Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (5 page)

He often walked in his old neighborhood in the small hours, when the streets were mostly empty and he could keep his silence and not have to glad-hand a hundred strangers. He liked to picture it as it had once been—pastures and orchards filled with peach, apple and plum trees, the magnificent stands of elm that had once surrounded the houses of the original land barons who had been part of the English invasion of these shores. Those English had quickly become Americans, though, and were the beginning of the brash young colony that would eventually banish the British army back to their homeland, and write a constitution for the nation that was based on liberty, equality and justice. Though that justice would not initially extend to the immigrant tide that would flood Boston in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds.

For though the English had established the first foothold, there was no doubt that this was an Irish city. The Irish were the backbone of this country, and this was never truer than in the great cities of the East Coast. The railroads, canals and mines were built upon the back of Irish labor. A journalist of the times once said,

"There are several kinds of power working at the fabric of the republic—water-power, steam-power and Irish-power. The last works hardest of all."

Love himself was the product of a Boston Brahmin mother who’d been disowned by her family when she’d married his first generation Irish American father. He had been born to a family that, while not poverty stricken, certainly understood what it was to worry where the next meal might come from.

Tonight he stood upon his favorite bit of the old neighborhood, the eastern portion of the peninsula, called City Point because it looked out over the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Love liked a horizon that was without limits. It was how he viewed his own life.

The Point had become an area for many institutions over the years, its fresh salt air and broad green pastures seen as the ideal spot for hospitals, poorhouses, mental asylums, and a house of corrections for adults guilty of misdemeanors, as well as a separate institution for juvenile offenders. The maze of all these brick buildings slowly ate away the green pastures, fruitful orchards and lovely homes that had once graced this neck of land on the edge of the Atlantic. The resentment shaped by the city construction of these places was the seed of discontent that would make South Boston turn in upon itself, become self-sufficient, and forge the ‘us against them’ mentality that would become a theme in Southie.

The refrain of an old song flitted through his head and he smiled,

It will make you or break you,
But never forsake you,
Southie is my home town.

It was an attitude that had seen Southie through many crises: the influenza epidemic of 1918, the Great Depression that swept through factory-laden Southie with a particular vengeance, labor disputes, and gang turf wars. Southie survived it all, due in large part to the interconnected family network that was the hallmark of the community. Those who had little gave to those who had less. Doors were open, beds available and an extra place at the table could always be managed. In many ways, the culture was a continuation of the old Irish village way of life.

It was a way of life Love understood, and subverted to his needs. It was easier to keep things quiet when outsiders weren’t spoken with, when police weren’t trusted, when people were afraid and grateful all in the same breath.

Every once in awhile, however, a person came along who didn’t understand the status quo in this neighborhood. Or they understood and thought they were an exception to the rule. Casey Riordan was such a person. He was becoming a problem that Love didn’t want to deal with anymore. He’d liked him at first, had thought he’d work well within the tight knit organization Love ran. It hadn’t been long before he realized he’d sorely miscalculated the man’s character.

He had to admit he didn’t think a man who’d come looking for IRA funding would also be in possession of a conscience. Or of a wife that literally took the breath from Love’s body.

Love Hagerty was used to getting what he wanted and he had never wanted anything more than he did Pamela Riordan. He had known it from the first time he set eyes upon her.

It had been a Sunday dinner at his house, and he’d invited the two of them to join his family. She had come in behind Casey, laughingly picking leaves from her hair, where they’d fallen in autumnal splendor amongst the blue-black curls, and he had been stopped cold there in the marble entryway of his Beacon Hill home.

Had she been merely beautiful, and God knew she was certainly that, he was sure the obsession would have run its course. However, as he’d drawn her into conversation during dinner, she had revealed herself to be witty and intelligent, with a sense of humor and an ability to read situations very clearly.

It had taken only days to get the rest of the information on her. How she’d grown up. He’d whistled when he realized just who her father had been, it explained a whole hell of a lot about her level of sophistication, her knowledge of Irish American politics and business, and her polish in dealing with social situations.

Her history with the Clann na Gael he’d found very interesting. Details were scant, but through his contacts, he had been able to determine that she’d done some work for the Clann, which was ostensibly the American wing of the Irish Republican Army.

And then she had fled to Ireland and to the house of James Kirkpatrick. That tidbit of information had given him pause. He didn’t know the man, but had been able to glean enough from the reports he’d received to know he wasn’t someone to be trifled with. His fiscal resources exceeded that of many small nations, he was also an MP for West Belfast and a man that stirred up talk and speculation everywhere he went. He was particularly popular with the ladies, and Love wondered exactly what Pamela’s relationship to him had been. It couldn’t have been more than dalliance, he surmised, for she had married Casey less than a year later.

It was as though she’d been born and bred to sit at his side. The queen he’d been waiting for, even though he had not known it. His marriage of twenty-four years suddenly seemed not the comfort it had previously been, but an impediment. He’d never been faithful, and his wife was resigned to it, as long as he exercised discretion. He’d had a series of affairs over the years, but they had been merely a satisfying of physical lusts. This was different. This was the woman destiny had foreordained for him.

There was a glitch, however—she loved her husband. It was apparent in the way she looked at him, in the way their eyes would meet in an intimate look that excluded everyone else in the room, even though it was not consciously done. The heat in the air around them near to scorched those within their aura. It was a powerful bond, and he knew better than to underestimate the depth of such a thing. Love, however, not one to admit impediments, saw this as merely a temporary setback.

He took one last look out over the water. The fog was heavy, shrouding the rest of Boston from view. From this vantage, Southie was the whole world. His father used to bring him to the Point when he was young and tell him that all of America lay before his feet.

“It’s yours for the taking, boy,” he’d say.

Love nodded to himself, as though he could hear his father’s voice in the here and now.

Something would have to be done soon about the Irishman. He didn’t like all these sleepless nights. They made a man sentimental.

THE WIND COMING in off the Atlantic scoured the streets of Boston with an icy breath that left a sparkling frost in its wake. While pretty, it was also fiercely cold to be walking in. Particularly for an Irishman used to the milder winter exhalations of Belfast.

Weather notwithstanding, Casey liked these walks to work. Today he was driving one of Love’s ‘associates’ down to Hartford. It made for a long, boring day and he would have preferred to unload the shipment of furniture that was docked at a warehouse in Southie. The driving paid better, though, and with his godfather Desmond’s visit looming imminently in his near future, Casey wanted to be sure that he was on as secure a financial footing as possible. He knew Desmond had his doubts about the wisdom of what he saw as a precipitate move across the Atlantic. In spite of, or perhaps because of, his own doubts as to how wise they had been in this venture, Casey wanted to put as good a face on their situation as possible. Desmond would see that he was a man well able to look after his own family, no matter how small said family might be.

Though he had experienced a few bouts of homesickness, altogether he liked Boston. It was a brash city with enough Irish running in its arteries that he didn’t feel entirely adrift.

During Colonial times, Boston had been a tiny pear-shaped peninsula connected to the mainland by a narrow strip of land. Each day when the tide came in Boston became an island. Due to its size, Boston’s residents had little need for horses and carts, and walked wherever they needed to go. Thus it became a city of winding footpaths—between home and church, church and business, business and tavern. Over streams, around rocks and trees and other natural obstacles.

The ghosts of these obstacles remained in the meandering way of the paths, which became cobbled streets and then eventually paved roads. It left Boston with the unplanned charm of the old cities its inhabitants had left behind in Europe.

Casey enjoyed the history of these streets, the narrow wee laneways with oaks and elms overhanging the pavement.

He was just two blocks shy of his destination when he spotted the man. He cursed softly under his breath and put his head down into the wind, hoping the man wouldn’t see him. He turned left instead of the right he had intended to take and picked up his pace considerably, breaking into a half run. He’d just have to approach take the Chatham approach rather than his usual route up Congress.

He glanced over his shoulder. The man had disappeared; he heaved a breath of relief and turned the corner. The man stood directly in front of him, a deceptively amiable smile on his face.

“Christ on a piece of toast!” Casey exclaimed. “Yer lucky I didn’t smack ye, poppin’ up like a friggin’ jack-in-the-box.”

“Sorry about that, but you’ve given me the slip ten times in the last two weeks, so I had to get tricky.”

“Has it occurred to ye,” Casey said dryly, “that I’ve given ye the slip because I’ve no desire to talk to ye? I’ve already given ye an answer to the question ye keep askin’, my mind isn’t goin’ to change.”

The short, slightly pudgy agent with the disarming smile and crew cut hair had become, for Casey, the stuff of nightmares. The sort you desperately wished to wake from, but couldn’t quite seem to.

He’d first seen him two weeks before when it became evident to him that the short man in the bad suit was following him and not merely taking the same route to work. This was exactly what Agent Gus had claimed to be doing, when Casey had waited around a corner and confronted him. Casey had responded with threats that were not veiled in the slightest, assuring the man that he knew a federal agent when he saw one.

“Thought it was the best time of day to talk with you, before everyone is out and about.”

Casey cast a quick glance around and blew air onto his hands in a futile effort to warm them. “Listen, I told ye I’d nothin’ to say to ye the four days past. Not a thing has happened to change my opinion in that time.”

Agent Gus smiled like a friendly dog that doesn’t understand when it’s being told to get lost. It was a trait that was beginning to grate sorely on Casey’s nerves.

“I think you might change your mind one of these days,” the agent replied cheerfully, sticking his own hands in the brown polyester armpits of his suit to warm them.

“Aye, if I want a hole or two in my skull, or to be found floatin’ facedown in the Charles. Until then I’ll thank ye to keep yer distance.” He nodded curtly and made to move around the man.

Agent Gus, however, was nothing if not persistent. “That girl you drove home the other night— the pretty one with the blonde hair?”

Casey froze in place, wondering what angle the agent was playing now. “What about her?”

“Do you know what she does for a living?”

“I’ve not time to play twenty questions here man. If ye’ve something ye wish to say, say it an’ let me get on my way.”

“She’s a hooker—didn’t used to be though. She used to be Hagerty’s girlfriend. That’s what he does with people, uses them up and then throws them away. That’s the sort of man you’re protecting.”

Casey had an uncomfortable memory of the woman, crying in the back seat of his car, makeup smeared and face anguished. She had been inadequately clad for the bitter chill of the day and pathetically grateful to him for driving her home to an area of Jamica Plain that had seen far better days. He shook his head to rid himself of the vision.

“Maybe it’s not him I’m protectin’, maybe it’s merely self-preservation.”

“We could protect you.”

Casey shook his head and snorted. “Ye must think I’m terrible naïve, ye’ve no doubt had a good look at my own past. That alone ought to tell ye how likely I am to rat a man out.”

Agent Gus shrugged. “Doesn’t make it any easier to sleep at night, though, does it? You think about it, Mr. Riordan and when you decide you’d like a conscience you can live with again, give us a call. We’ll be waiting.”

Casey took a deep breath and walked away from the man. He got half a block before turning back to look. Agent Gus was still standing there waving cheerfully.

Casey cursed under his breath and continued down the block. Agent Gus was even more annoying when he was right.

CASEY RIORDAN,” PAMELA said with a smile, “I do believe you’re nervous.”

Casey twitched uncomfortably at his starched collar. “Damned right I am,” he said, “this is no friendly visit, ye know.”

He stood in the middle of their bedroom, clad in gray dress pants and a stiff white shirt that had him looking as miserable as a scalded cat. Desmond, Siobhan and Patrick were due in at Logan in slightly less than three hours. Sylvie had decided against the trip to Boston, taking the opportunity of Pat’s absence to visit her family in Derry for the holidays. It couldn’t be Pat making him nervous, for the two had settled their estrangment once Casey knew Pat had accepted the invitation to come to Boston for Christmas.