We Were Kings (20 page)

_________________________

Chelsea

WHEN THE KNOCK
came at the door, Martin Butler had just finished singing his brother to sleep in his wheelchair by the bedroom window. Dymphna went to answer the door as Butler laid a light shawl over his brother's chest. It was the latter part of the day and the room was mostly in the shadow of the bridge, a small breeze bothering the curtains, and he worried that even with the heat, Coleman might get a chill. He went to the kitchen, raised the flame beneath the teapot that was always simmering, and listened to the talk at the front door. After a moment Dymphna's heels clicked on the linoleum followed by the sound of a man's boots as she brought the guest the length of the hall and into the kitchen.

Bobby Myles stood in the doorway. “God bless all here,” he said and Butler smiled.

“I was wondering when you'd stop by.”

“Aye. We've been busy.”

Butler put two mugs of tea on the table, and Bobby pulled out a chair and sat. Spread across the kitchen table were a dozen pamphlets and brochures in bright colors advertising the desert: red sand and red buttes and blue pools in which rich, suntanned bathers were frolicking. Hope Springs in Arizona and New Well Ranch in Nevada—vacation spots and tourist getaways in the American West. Dymphna was still standing in the doorway, and Butler looked at the old woman and then nodded for her to go.

“You found your way back all right, then?” he said.

“I've been studying the maps. I had no problems.”

Butler nodded. “That'll be a good thing for the job, it'll help you acclimate quickly. Still, you were the last person I expected they'd send.”

“I think it came as a surprise to a whole lot of them.”

“Why then?”

“Because I was told to. I didn't have much choice in it.”

“We like to think we have no choices in what we do in life.”

Bobby eyed him but remained quiet. He had a keen dislike for such philosophizing. Sure, a man knew he had choices: to be killed or to kill and suffer the penance and the guilt for doing the killing. He noted that philosophers rarely got their hands dirty; they let others do the work for them. He thought of all the commandants he'd taken orders from. So many of them soft, weak men who loved violence and reveled in the carnage it left behind. But then, he knew Butler and the struggles the man had experienced, how hard he'd worked at protecting his brother, whom Bobby had recognized in the wheelchair through the window on the night he'd arrived in Boston. The man he'd once seen as a boy being treated at the Temple Street children's hospital next to the Mater Misericordiae in Dublin, where his own sister had succumbed to tuberculosis at the age of twelve. Martin Butler had been all the rage then, the mysterious man from County Kerry playing the big ballrooms around the city, and he and Bobby would see each other, sometimes two and three times a week, as they attended to their siblings in the hospital. Even then he'd been talking about America.

From the other room came the sound of Butler's brother coughing, wheezing like an asthmatic, and then moaning softly. Butler was watching Myles; carefully he collected the tourist pamphlets and brochures and placed them in a single stack.

“The doctors say the best place for Colie would be the desert,” he said. “They have these spas, natural springs and the like. Dry, clean desert air is what he needs, but here we're underneath a bridge with all manner of traffic belching its fumes and the ships steaming up the Mystic and the empty metalworks and paint companies down the waterfront still polluting the city.”

“I've always wanted to go out west meself,” Bobby said.

“With the cowboys.”

Bobby grinned. “Oh, aye, the fecking cowboys.”

He sipped his tea. It was strong and bitter and left an oily taste on his tongue. He could hear the old woman's footsteps on the floorboards above them, moving back and forth. “Do you think you'll ever go?” he said.

“Go?”

“West, I mean, with your brother?”

“I don't know. Perhaps. Ah sure, it might just be wishful thinking. There's a lot of work to be done here but in the end the family should come first, don't you think?”

“Family,” Bobby repeated and nodded absently. The word meant very little to him these days. Briefly, he considered his sister buried in Glasnevin Cemetery, and his mother, and those who would tend their graves without him.

“Your sister—” Butler began.

Bobby shook his head. “No, the consumption took her. She didn't live to see her thirteenth birthday.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

He looked at Butler and they held each other's gaze and then Bobby dipped his head to his mug of tea and Butler rose, pushed back his chair, picked up the stack of brochures, and placed them in a drawer by the sink. He glanced through the window.

“Why don't we go for a walk?” he said. “Some of the heat is gone out of the day and it would be good for Colie to get some fresh air. He's been cooped up in the house for too long. Besides, he's sick of looking at my sorry face. He likes new company.”

They walked with Butler pushing Coleman in his wheelchair down to the Chelsea waterfront and along Marginal, where the traffic passed over the recently built McArdle Bridge into East Boston, and then they threaded through the narrow cobbled backstreets off Broadway by old brownstones and along the Mystic River, where the remnants of Chelsea's once-thriving industry remained: decrepit and crumbling warehouses and pitched smokestacks.

As they walked, Butler pointed to places out in the channel where this or that had happened during the Revolutionary War; where the battle of the Chelsea Estuary occurred, where the British ship
Diana
was taken by colonists, where George Washington was stationed during the siege of Boston. Bobby didn't know if it was for his benefit or for Coleman's—perhaps this was something they did together every day, and perhaps for Butler it was a penance of sorts. The sound of Butler's voice did seem to soothe Coleman and it wasn't until they went below the supports of the bridge, darkness and heat melding with the sound of cars passing invisibly above them, that Coleman became agitated and tossed his head so violently that it banged against the back of his wheelchair.

They emerged into light and onto the grounds of the naval hospital rising up on Admirals Hill, the green grass being tended to by gardeners with white hoses. Before them, the Mystic widened and sparkled in the sun, and they paused for a moment to take it in. Butler stroked Coleman's hair, and he became calm again. Bobby could see fish flashing briefly on the surface of the dirty water, pecking at flies floating on its scummed top, and for a moment he could forget why he was here, three thousand miles from home.

As if reading his mind, or perhaps because he had been waiting to say it all along, Butler spoke. “Terrible business that, in Belfast.”

Bobby looked up.

Butler was looking at him. “Gedrick was a fool,” he said. “And may he rest in peace. It wasn't your fault what happened.”

Bobby flicked his head, as if to dismiss the matter. He appreciated Butler's words but had already heard it a million times. “So,” he said, “what is it you do for Donal, for this fellow de Burgh?”

“I do what I did back home. I play music and run Mr. de Burgh's dance halls. I look after his estate. There's a grand power in that, a great freedom, and a wonderful opportunity for a businessman. There's as many Irish coming now as there were in the days of the Famine.”

“You're lucky, then. To be out of all this rubbish.”

“I am, I suppose.”

“But de Burgh told you we were coming.”

“He did, but I know only part of what's going on. I think it works better for everyone that way.”

“Then he trusts you, and you trust him?”

“He does, and I do.”

“What happened with the boat?”

“The police knew it was coming in and the lads had to rush to hide the guns.”

“Sure I know all that, but what else is there? What is de Burgh up to?”

“Didn't Donal tell you?”

“Ah, he's not telling us a thing.”

“Well, he must have his reasons.”

Bobby sighed. “I just want to be done with it. I don't want Belfast all over again.”

“That would be up to your men, wouldn't it?”

“I wish I trusted them as much as you do this de Burgh.”

“It will all work out, God willing. Mr. de Burgh will see to it. He doesn't do anything lightly and he takes nothing for granted. I'm sure Donal has already told you that.”

“How did you ever end up working for him? Why did you come to America?”

The breeze lifted the thin hair on Butler's brow. His face was perspiring in the heat. Small beads of sweat dotted his upper lip. His pale blue eyes, impassive as ever, didn't change as he spoke. “Sure, what was there in Ireland for me and Colie anymore? The two of us needed a fresh start and Mr. de Burgh gave it to us.”

They reached a gazebo with picnic tables that faced a wharf at the center of the hospital grounds; it had a small rotunda at its end where patients might sit and view the river. Butler stopped the wheelchair and looked at him.

“I think Colie and I will rest here awhile, if that's okay? You can find your way back?”

“I can.”

“Good-bye then, Bobby. And good luck.”

“Good-bye, Martin. I hope the next time we meet it's under better circumstances.”

Butler smiled. “God willing,” he said. He turned, spoke briefly into his brother's ear, adjusted the shawl on his chest, and pushed the wheelchair down to the wharf. Bobby watched them for a moment and then, with the wide, towering expanse of the bridge looming before him, walked back the way they'd come.

_________________________

Boston Police District D-4, South End

OWEN SAT AT
his precinct desk looking at the
Herald
's obituaries spread out in front of him; a metal fan, clacking loudly, oscillated back and forth, stirring the edges of the paper. Other cops moved about the room or sat at desks typing up reports. Someone was whistling, and it grated at his senses. He was supposed to be doing his own follow-up on a recent knifing at the Stuart Street homeless shelter that had become a homicide only after the victim—a sixty-seven-year-old black man, Donald Mathies—had bled out while staying overnight at Boston City Hospital. He and another detective were searching flophouses throughout the South End and Roxbury for a young man named Cesar Vasquez, the assailant, but there was something about the case that nagged at Owen. The hospital staff had been covering up something when they'd spoken to them. In fact, he knew they were lying. The other detective was still out on the streets, and when he got back he would expect Owen to have something to offer, but he had nothing. He'd been staring at the obituaries and thinking about the Irish shootings since he'd first seen the paper. Cal and Dante were right.

He glanced up as two youths, their eyes bruised and swollen shut, were pushed across the room toward the holding cells, the cops holding them shouting obscenities at them as they went. He knew the two cops and knew them for the fuckers they were. They were from Cal's days at the academy but had gone no further up the ranks—they were sadists and vicious and they liked what they could get away with on the streets. He shook his head, thought,
One of these days, you bastards will get yours
.

He looked down at the paper again, where he'd circled the wakes of the murder victims that were taking place at funeral homes in Dorchester and Boston. All of them were staggered, one day after the other, over the next week. He wondered at the time frame—why were they waiting so long to wake the dead? The bodies had been released to the families directly after the autopsies, four days ago. The obits spoke of
In the Memory of
and
Loving Husband, Father, Son, Brother,
but there seemed to be no urgency in getting the bodies home to grieving loved ones on the other side of the ocean. The bodies would have Mass services here but there would be no burials as they were all returning to Ireland.

De Burgh had paid for Mickey Flynn's funeral, and, looking at the paper, Owen wondered if Flynn's was the only one—maybe de Burgh had paid for the others' as well. How far did de Burgh's philanthropy go? Perhaps de Burgh had covered the costs purely out of a desire to help the Irish community, or perhaps he had had a more direct connection to the deceased. Owen tore the obit page out of the paper, folded it, and placed it in the inside pocket of his light jacket. He took the jacket from the back of his chair. Giordano would have a fit if he knew Owen was putting time that should be directed to other police work into this, but he needed to go back to Dudley.

Downstairs, he let the desk sergeant know where he was heading and he left a message for the other detective. When he got back, they'd take a ride to Boston City Hospital and question the staff again, but this time he'd get some straight answers from them.

He left his car parked near the precinct and walked across Stuart to Columbus, where he caught a streetcar to Dudley. The car was packed with people in the middle of the day because subway service had been temporarily suspended on the Orange Line El due to the rail ties expanding in the heat.

As the tram rattled along, he watched the city passing—people standing on street corners looking bleached and dazed, others sitting beneath awnings and in the shadows of porches and stoops. Sunlight dazzled off the glass. The heat of the sun's glare filled the interior of the car. He could smell the sweat of the other passengers. Crossing invisible borders between neighborhoods, he looked over the rooftops of the brownstones and tenements at the blue-white, cloudless sky. Boston was not a town of tall buildings and arcing skylines but of neighborhoods, tightly packed and closely linked—if not by tenderness then by history, and each neighborhood emerged as distinctly, proudly its own. They passed a park, empty of children, and an avenue of trees, a shock of bright green when everything else seemed so washed out and defeated.

He stepped off the tram at Dudley Station and walked the Avenue slowly, looking into storefronts. The bars were of little help; the community was closed off to the police, and de Burgh had yet to return his messages, and now Owen was irritated. Situated in the Ferdinand Building, a three-story, high-ceilinged baroque- and Renaissance revival–style structure dating from the 1880s, the Dudley Square Bank occupied a central place in the square.

At the customer-service desk, Owen showed his badge and asked to speak with the manager. The brunette clerk called the office, spoke briefly, and then rose from her chair. He followed her across the wide lobby, her heels sounding loudly on the tile, and he could see that, despite the fans in the room, her blouse was stuck to her lower back with sweat. She knocked on an office door with the sign
STEWART NICKERSON, BANK MANAGER
, then opened the door for Owen and left.

The manager stood and shook Owen's hand, then sat again, nodding as Owen introduced himself and explained that he was a detective looking into a murder case, all the while saying impatiently, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Owen stopped short and smiled, letting time drag out. The manager was slim, pale, with glasses and a receding hairline, and his quick, irritated air made Owen bristle. He waited until he sensed the man growing uncomfortable. The manager leaned forward in his chair and began to fidget with his pen; he widened his eyes questioningly and then cleared his throat. From the lobby came the sound of adding machines, a call over the intercom for a Mr. Roberts, and music playing through the office speakers, up-tempo A-sides of songs Owen knew but couldn't quite place.

“I understand,” Owen finally said, “that this bank is used by most of the local businesses?”

“That's correct.”

“Including Mr. de Burgh's businesses—you deal directly with him regarding those accounts?”

“Why, yes, yes, we do. Mr. de Burgh's accounts are all handled out of this office. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. It's merely part of our investigation. Would it be possible to get a record of his holdings throughout Boston?”

“Why do you need that information?”

“Like I said, it's part of the investigation. We think some individuals might be using his funds inappropriately, funneling the money for their own use. I know that Mr. de Burgh has been generous to many people in the city of Boston, most especially recent immigrants. We think that the distribution of such monies might have been a factor in the recent killings. I can't say more than that.”

“Well, why don't you simply ask Mr. de Burgh? I'm sure he'd be happy to assist you.”

“Because I'm here, and I'm asking you.”

“Well, that's not information I feel comfortable giving out to you, Detective, not without Mr. de Burgh's say-so.”

Owen's face softened and he nodded, sharing that he understood the manager's reluctance and the potentially difficult position Owen was putting him in. When he spoke, he tried a reassuring tone. “I don't want any more information than would be publicly available in the records at city hall.”

“Like I said—” The man spread his hands as if to say it was all beyond his control, and Owen took the opportunity to abruptly change tactics.

“You do understand that I'm on police business, investigating multiple murders. If you're saying that you're not willing to accommodate the police in a murder investigation, I can make sure that information finds its way into the press.”

“No, no, I'm not saying that at all, you misunderstand me—”

“If I have to leave and come back with a warrant, I'm not going to be happy, and neither will my boss, and neither will the DA or the judge he'll have to harass for it. No one, beginning with me, likes having his time wasted. I'll make sure to come back not only with a warrant for Mr. de Burgh's records but also with warrants to open up all of this bank's most prestigious accounts for scrutiny. It'll be mayhem. And when your superiors ask what's happening, you can tell them that it began the day you decided not to cooperate with the Boston Police.”

“That won't be necessary, Detective—”

“Detective Mackey.”

“I'm sure I can get you the reports you need, but, as I hope you'll understand, I will have to inform Mr. de Burgh.”

“Of course.”

The manager pushed back his chair and went to the door. His pale cheeks were pinpricked with two dots of startling red, and when he passed by, Owen noticed the dark hair beneath his left jaw that he'd missed while shaving that morning.

Owen glanced about the room. There was a glass tank filled with brightly colored tropical fish swimming in a continually revolving pattern. A portrait of an ancient banking tycoon, white and grizzled with a thick handlebar mustache and small, glaring eyes meant to scrutinize and intimidate—an assurance to a particular class of white people that their funds and their future assets, their legacies, were safe with him. On either side of the wide, levered-blind window stood a large purple vase with a bouquet of lavender roses and daisies offset by fuchsia carnations and white lilies, all surrounded by baby's breath. It was arranged in a distinct fashion—he'd seen similar flowers in other professional buildings in the square and in the window of DeWitt's Travel Agency. Their scent gave the room an atmosphere of calm. He wondered if he could ever be comfortable working in such a space.

The manager came back and placed a manila folder on the desk before Owen. He remained standing, perhaps hoping that this would be the end of their interaction.

He coughed into his hand and cleared his throat. “That's a record of all Mr. de Burgh's properties that this bank holds mortgages and liens for. It also includes those businesses whose finances we manage.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all the ones that our bank manages.”

“Good, because I don't want to come back, and I assume you don't want me to come back.”

“That is entirely at your discretion, Detective.”

Owen smiled. “Nice flowers,” he said.

The manager turned, glanced at the flowers, and then looked back again, surprised. “Oh, yes, they are very nice. We have fresh flowers delivered twice a week. It maintains a certain air, a kind of professionalism, don't you think?”

“It's amazing you can keep them from wilting in the heat.”

The manager looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face.

“The flowers,” Owen said.

“Oh, yes, the flowers.” He shrugged and smiled thinly. “Well, we do the best we can.”

The manager watched from his doorway as Owen walked through the lobby to the front doors. When Owen stepped out into the square, the manager returned to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed Mr. de Burgh's office at the Intercontinental.

Staying to the west side of the street, where the sun was blocked by the buildings and allowed some shade, Owen walked to Dylan's coffee shop on Columbus and sat down heavily at the counter. There were only two other people in the place, a man and woman sitting at a booth; the woman was crying softly. Behind the counter, hot dogs marketed as
Fresh and Delicious!
sat in a steamer of greasy-looking water. Stale pie crumbled on a plate beneath the glass of a grimy display. From the kitchen came the smell of frying liver and onions. Owen's stomach churned unpleasantly. He ordered a coffee and a glass of water and opened the bank records of de Burgh's properties and investment holdings in and around Boston. It was a long list, and he glanced over them and then took the
Herald
obit from his pocket and compared the information. When the old man behind the counter brought his water, Owen gulped it down and asked for another.

The wakes for the victims were to take place in various O'Flaherty‘s Funeral Homes—there were two funeral homes on Dot Avenue and another two in Southie, all of them owned by de Burgh. So the question of whether or not he'd paid for all of the funerals seemed to be answered. Every one of the murdered men was going through his funeral homes and returning to Ireland. And that Atlantic passage might be on de Burgh's dime too. Six bodies, six coffins, all being waked in the same week and then shipped home together, but no dates were given in the obits on when the bodies were to be received or interred in Ireland. Owen sipped his coffee and grimaced at its taste, pulled some coins from his pocket, and left them on the counter.

Outside, he began walking. The entirety of Washington Street along the El route from Dover Street to Egleston was almost impassable due to the road's buckling. Burst water pipes had flooded the street, with geysers shooting up through the ruptured tar and macadam. Road detours and work crews pressed the pedestrians and the traffic down one congested street after another until Owen felt like he was trapped and would never get out of Dudley. At the corner of Shawmut and Lenox, he paused at a phone booth. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder and his shirt was dark with sweat, and one of his headaches pressed behind his eyes. He stepped into the booth and the fan kicked on, and it was a welcome relief. He called the precinct and told them to send a black-and-white to pick him up because it was too damn hot to walk. Then he lowered his head and waited—the fan blowing on the back of his neck, the receiver at his ear to dissuade any passersby from banging at the door—until the cruiser pulled up at the curb.