We Were Kings (10 page)

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Dudley Square

DURING THE DAY,
in the absence of club goers thronging the streets and music spilling from the dance halls, the Square was a bustling place of retail and business: trucks idling as they unloaded their shipments and cars honking as they moved north along Washington Street into downtown Boston. Almost immediately, Owen marked the long, wide Lincoln town car parked before the Hibernian—it stood out among the other cars, like a yacht surrounded by rowboats—and pulled in behind it.

Owen was dressed simply because of the heat, pants and shirt with his badge clipped at the belt and his snub-nose hanging in its holster at his side. Without a blazer to cover it, he felt strangely exposed; everyone could see that he was a detective, but that might not be a bad thing this morning. He rolled up his sleeves; he was like any other workingman out for the day.

He'd called beforehand and was told that de Burgh's office was on the top floor of the Hibernian. He'd asked the operator to connect him, and he'd waited and listened to the line ring until the operator came on again and told him what he already knew, that nobody was answering.

In the Dudley Square Tavern, a half a dozen men sat at the bar. Many were laborers who had stopped in for lunch; they wore T-shirts stained with plaster and paint. On the television behind the bar, the Red Sox were playing the Athletics and Spook Jacobs of the A's had just slapped a run-scoring single through the infield. One of the men, meat loaf and potatoes spilling from his mouth, swore and then took a pull from his bottle so as not to choke.

The bartender came over. He looked the part: tall and thin, his posture so bad that he was hunched over. Owen imagined a life of leaning against things—bar tops, doorways, ledges, the bar back where the bottles gleamed dully—and then always leaning in farther, conspiratorially, to catch the whispers and rants and confessions of his clientele.

“Officer,” the bartender said, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Detective Mackey.”

“Detective Mackey, what can I do you for?”

“I'm looking for Vincent de Burgh. His office said I might find him here.”

“Mr. de Burgh? Haven't seen him in here in some time. But you might look over at the Biltmore or the Intercontinental, that's where he is when he comes in town.”

Owen nodded, asked for a lemonade, and looked about the room. Two men in Sears overalls were talking, one of them agitated and gesturing wildly and then shaking his head. Another man sat at a corner booth reading the
Globe
and sipping on coffee or tea. Owen wondered how many men in the room might have known Mickey Flynn, how many might have had some part in his death.

The bartender came back with his lemonade, the glass beaded with condensation, and said, “If you don't mind me asking, why are you looking for Mr. de Burgh?”

Owen put back half the lemonade in one gulp, his mouth puckering at the sweetness, and then set the glass on the bar.

“I was hoping he might donate to the Boston Police Gaelic Column, the pipes and drums band.”

“Oh, he'd do that, all right, he's certainly one for the music. It's him that keeps the music alive. Wouldn't be a thing happening here or elsewhere in town without him.”

“I was also hoping he might tell me a little bit about Mickey Flynn.”

“Mickey Flynn?”

“Did you know him?”

“Ah, God, sure I did. Poor Mickey. Everyone knew Mickey. I was just talking with the lads”—here he half turned and waved an arm at the rest of the bar—“and we were saying what a shame it was, how hard it's been on his poor wife and their children.”

“I know,” Owen said.

“Mr. de Burgh's arranged a charity drive for the family,” the man said, wiping down the bar. “There's going to be a raffle this weekend to help them out, and all the local musicians are donating their time.”

“That's generous of him.”

“He's a generous man.”

“And Mickey, he was a musician too, wasn't he?”

“A brilliant tin-whistle player.”

“Where did he play?”

“All over town, but his regular gig was at the Intercontinental with the Irish Starlight Express.”

“Would you know the names of people he played with?”

“Well, sure, there's lots of guys. Mickey played the kitchen sets around town and the weddings and baptisms. Mickey played with anyone that could hold a tune.”

“Anyone who's here right now?”

The bartender glanced along the bar and then shook his head. “No, not at this time of day, but if you really want to know the steady ones, the ones who played with Mickey for a living, you should ask Mr. de Burgh. He's in charge of headlining the acts. You don't play anywhere without his say-so.”

“You heard about the boat that came in, where Mickey was killed.”

The bartender stared at him; he seemed to straighten slightly from his slouch, as if a metal rod had been driven into his spine. He stopped wiping with the rag. “I don't know anything about a boat,” he said and turned abruptly to watch the Sox game as if Owen were no longer there.

“Hey,” Owen said, but the bartender ignored him. “Hey,” he said again and banged his glass sharply against the bar. The room quieted. The men at the bar looked down its length to the two of them. The bartender turned back to Owen, and Owen stood. Color had risen to his cheeks and he seemed about to grasp the man by his collar and pull him over the bar. He lowered his head. “A man was brutally murdered,” he said. “So when I ask you a question, you fucking well answer me and you don't turn away. Have you got it or do I need to make myself clearer?”

“No, Detective, I've got it.”

“Good. Now, about the boat?”

“We all heard about it, but I don't know anything. This isn't that type of bar.”

Owen was aware of the other men watching them. Three of them, longshoremen by the look of their getups, rose from their stools and stood, feet planted wide on the floorboards. Owen watched them, turning his body halfway so that they could see the gun, but they held their ground.

“So where is that type of bar?”

“Jesus, I don't know, in Southie or Dorchester, but not here.”

Owen nodded toward the men. “What are you three doing?”

The smallest of the three spoke. “Nothing. We was just finishing our lunch and need to get back for our shift.” He wore a light flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. Hooked to his belt was a utility knife.

“Where do you work?”

“At the South Bay rail yards, unloading freight.”

“Well, it won't hurt you to sit your asses down for one minute longer, will it?”

Owen stared at them until they sat and then looked back at the bartender. “Give me the name of a bar,” he said, “and then I'll be out of your hair.”

“Jesus, man,” the bartender said weakly. All rigidity was gone now and he seemed to have curled further into himself. “That's not my scene. You'd know as well as me.”

“A name. Any name.”

He shrugged. “Feeney's, Cullen's, the Twelve Pins, I don't know…”

“That's good enough.”

Owen raised his glass and finished his lemonade. He walked the bar, making sure that the men kept their backs to him. The bartender watched him the entire way.

So much for truth and simple answers. Owen hadn't expected this level of resistance so quickly and he regretted having had to bully information out of an average Joe; they'd all clam up with the police now and word would spread like wildfire.

Outside, he walked quickly to his car parked on the opposite side of the street, waited beneath the shade of an awning, and watched as the three dockworkers came out. He expected that they might come looking for him but they got into an old Harvester pickup with rusted blue panels and drove away. They hadn't been looking for a fight after all.

At the Intercontinental, Owen took the steps up to the main floor and the ballroom where they'd celebrated his birthday. Music came to him faintly, the sound of a chanter or bellows and a metallic rhythmic tapping. From down below, in McPherson's, the soft tinkling of glasses, the legs of bar stools scraped on wood. Deep in the building's belly, the flushing of toilets. Otherwise the building was still, his footsteps loud on the tile. He stopped beneath the gilt chandelier, its beveled-glass diamond-shaped jewels catching the sunlight from the surrounding windows and sending it in glancing arrays about the broad hallway and staircase. He stepped across the light-dappled entranceway and into the ballroom. A cleaning woman pushed a damp mop back and forth over the gleaming parquet floor. She looked up to acknowledge him before going back to her work.

In the corner of the room near the bandstand two men sat, one playing the uilleann pipes and the other a tin whistle, the unaccompanied sound swelling out into the high open spaces of the room. They leaned into each other, huddled, as if listening to the other's notes, and as they played, the one with the tin whistle, a smaller man with a receding hairline, nodded and hummed to himself. The uilleann player had his eyes closed. A tall, lean man watched them; he was writing something in a notepad. As Owen walked across the dance floor, the man looked up and then came forward and met him halfway. Owen watched him, saw him glance at the gun and the badge and then back to his face. He smiled but it was without warmth; there was something of the clergy about him, Owen felt. A certain severity that showed in his gaunt features, his pinched look. Two brass or gold pins on the lapel of his jacket caught the light, sparked briefly. Owen recognized one as a pin of abstinence. When the man smiled, it didn't touch his eyes. He held out a hand. “My name is Donal Phelan, I'm the manager here. How can we help you this fine morning?”

Owen noted that the bagpiper watched them for a moment, and then looked away again. The melody was a familiar one, he thought, but he couldn't put a name to it; it was much older than the usual standards, perhaps something from his parents' time. He handed Donal his business card.

“I'm Detective Owen Mackey of the Boston Police. I understand that Mickey Flynn worked here regularly, as a musician?”

Donal nodded his head. “Yes, poor Mickey. May he rest in peace.”

“Your employer, Mr. de Burgh, would he be about? I'd like to talk to him if I could.”

Donal looked at him and then turned to the bagpiper. He seemed to hesitate before turning back to Owen.

“Mr. de Burgh's not in his office at the moment.”

“Where is he?”

Donal turned again and called out to the two men and the music stopped. “Do you know where Mr. de Burgh is?” he asked. “The detective here would like to talk with him.”

The bagpiper was the one to speak. “He went to the bank, said he had business there. He should be back after lunch.”

Donal nodded and looked at Owen. “If there's something you need, perhaps I can help?”

Behind them a metal pail banged loudly on wood, and, grunting, the charwoman offered up a prayer to no one in particular.

“I need a list of the musicians who play here as regulars, members of the Irish Starlight Express and others, if you can provide that.”

“Of course. It's the Irish you want, not the Irish Americans.”

“Is there a difference?”

Donal smiled, and again Owen was aware of how little warmth showed in the man's eyes—it was telling. There were only a few men he knew who could manage that trick.

“I'd be happy to get the names of all the musicians we have working for us and their information.”

“I assume you pay them under the table, so many coming in just off the boat?”

“Not at all, Mr. de Burgh wouldn't hear of such a thing. We're running a business, not a rooming house. Everyone who works here has valid papers, and they're also established musicians. Mr. de Burgh keeps everything on file.”

The music started up again.

“Very good.”

The tall man strode to a back room and Owen walked to the two men playing. The older one, who seemed to be leading the session, continued to play with his eyes closed. The man squeezed the bellows beneath his elbow, and his fingers moved across the chanter as he rocked back and forth, and a sweet but sad air sounded from the instrument. He finished on a spiraling downward sequence and the dirgelike drone that had been a fixed note throughout the song moaned one final, despairing appeal that Owen could feel the vibrations of it through the wood beneath his feet. The man glanced up, and, seeing Owen listening, he smiled.

“You liked that?”

“I did. Very nice. What's the name of it?”

“‘Cu Chulainn's Lament.' An old sad song but a good one.” The man looked at him quizzically. “I remember you,” he said. “You were here the other night.”

“There was quite a crowd, I'm surprised you'd remember a face like mine.”

“The music has kept me sharp. It's rare that I don't recall a face once I've seen it.”

“Then you know all the musicians you've played with around Boston.”

“Yes, certainly.”

Somewhere along the hall a clock chimed. Its toll reverberated off the wood and tile. Owen was thankful for a breeze that had suddenly come in from the open windows across the room. He took a moment to wipe his brow.

“Did you know Mickey well?” he said.

Nodding, the man took the pipes off his lap and laid them gently on the floor. “Well enough,” he said. “He was a fair musician who was always open to learning new things. A good man to play with. If you decided to change it up, all you had to do was look at him and he'd be right along with you.”

“Did you know his politics at all?”

“You're asking was he involved with the Cause?”

“Yes.”

“There's some that talk loudly about stuff like that, especially on the American side, but that wasn't Mickey. He liked playing the old rebel tunes at the end of the night or during practice, but that doesn't mean a thing.”