Vineyard Shadows by Philip R. Craig Page B

that we'd like to buy him a Guinness. Yeah, that's right: Quinn.”
    He hung up and grabbed his hat and we went out. As we drove toward the river, Quinn spoke of our destination and of Sonny Whelen.
    Charlestown is a part of Boston that I never worked in while I was a cop. It lies on a hilly little peninsula between the Charles and the Mystic rivers, and is where Paul Revere waited to see one light or two before setting outon his famous ride. It's also the site of the Bunker Hill Monument, built to celebrate the battle where, according to legend, the Colonials waited to see the whites of the British regulars' eyes before firing. The facts that the battle was really fought on nearby Breed's Hill and that the British won have not diminished the renown of the monument, which remains a popular tourist attraction.
    Charlestown is also the home of a fine community college; the birthplace of Samuel Morse, inventor of the telegraph; the site of John Harvard's grave; and the home of a lot of decent, ordinary people.
    It is, however, better known nowadays to Massachusetts cops and D.A.'s for the affinity of its mobsters to rob banks and armored cars, and the three monkeys attitude of many of its citizens toward local criminals. If you are set upon a life of crime, there are worse places to live than Charlestown, as certain genealogical evidence proves, for in Charlestown it was not rare for members of two or even three generations of the same family to be concurrently serving time for similar crimes.
    Sonny Whelen's people had been in the rackets for a hundred years, ever since they'd come over from County Cork, but Sonny was the first to achieve major league status and was, therefore, a subject of no little pride to his kith and kin and, to only a slightly lesser extent, to townspeople who could bask in the reflected glow of his fame. He further ensured his popularity by the time-honored practice of giving generously to local charities, aiding widows and orphans, and making sure that the streets were safe for civilians. Sonny's mob might be tough and frightening, but few people outside of the profession they practiced were ever killed or damaged in Charlestown. Beyond Charlestown, of course, such was not the case, as many guards of banks and armored carscould attest, if they were still alive. Still, like many successful criminals, Sonny preferred to practice nonviolence whenever possible, since killings always roused passions and therefore increased the dangers of retaliation from the relatives and friends of the victims, and might also goad the authorities into action they might otherwise not take.
    There are a lot of narrow streets in Charlestown, and on one of them I found a place to park my car. We walked about two blocks and came to the Green Harp, another one of the many new brewpubs that are springing up all over the country and which, I believe, offer the best evidence we have that the nation is not, after all, going to the dogs, but is actually improving. All that microbrewery beer suggests a future full of hope.
    We went inside. It was just before noon, and the place was about half full. The bar curved out in a semicircle from the back wall. Booths lined the side walls, and there were tables in the front. The farthest corner of the room was beyond my sight. I ignored the many eyes I felt upon us and the falling away of voices as the regulars took note of us—two strangers—and followed Quinn to the bar.
    â€œTwo pints of Guinness, if you please.”
    The wide-bodied bartender pulled the drinks and put them before us. I paid and touched my glass to Quinn's. We drank the good, dark, smooth, strong Guinness, and ordered another.
    â€œThere's a booth,” I said. “Shall we sit?”
    â€œPatience,” said Quinn.
    I drank some more Guinness.
    A man appeared beside Quinn, a glass in his hand. “Is this your friend, Mr. Quinn?” He leaned forward over the bar and peeked at me. I peeked