street in a five-floor apartment building, bedroom lights flickered on. A woman screamed from an open window. Three men got back in their car, and the driver gunned it down the street. All of them kept quiet until they were a mile away from the burning bar, and in the distance, they could hear a fire engine wailing its sad, desolate song.
“Time for a drink, I say.”
“I say we all deserve it.”
“We sure as hell do.”
“Not a scratch, not one scratch. Pray to the Mother Mary and may she bless us all.”
The laughter they shared was loud and quick, and before they knew it, the quiet returned as they made their way back to Boston. The killing was over for tonight. Perhaps one drink, or maybe two, but not much more than that. They had to be on their toes for the morning, bright and sharp and ready. Because they knew damn well that tonight was not the end of something but the beginning.
8
_________________________
The Intercontinental Club, Dudley Square
THE BIG COP, Brennan, hulked in the doorway, waiting. He was almost as tall as Phelan. “He was a cop, a detective, Martin,” Donal said. “Brennan recognized him.”
“We have a lot of police that come in here. Sure most of them are our own. Where else would they go?”
“He was on the docks the other morning. Some of the lads—dockworkers—saw him there.”
“Was he? That could just be coincidence.”
“And he’s here that night? That’s a quare coincidence.”
“It’s Boston—you can’t go four feet one way or the other without banging into someone who knows someone else. Besides, he has no way of knowing the two are connected. Was he talking to anyone?”
“Not that we know.”
“Well, then, there you have it—if he was on police business, he’d be asking questions and not dancing.”
“Still.”
Martin nodded and raised a hand to placate them both. “Right, right, I get your point.”
He rubbed at his chin with his pen and, for a moment, looked very far away. He tapped absently on the marble patina of the accordion resting with its clasps closed upon his desk. The reeds had swollen with the heat and he’d need to find another instrument to play tonight.
“I’ll let Mr. de Burgh know,” he finally said and Donal looked at him, and Brennan, seeming satisfied, left them.
“What do you think?” Donal said.
“I think that things we have no control over have already been set in motion, and, God willing, those things will take care of themselves. We shouldn’t get involved.”
“You’re sure?”
“They’ll already be on their way so?”
“They will.”
“Then I’m sure.”
After Donal left, Martin went back to his work—arranging the music for the Fitzgerald wedding, scheduling a session with the young fiddler from Athlone who was trying to make the band, ensuring that the flower bouquets and Mass cards for the recent Irish dead would arrive at the funeral homes, and writing the monthly check to Mr. de Burgh’s mother, sent via airmail to Ireland.
Afterward, Martin Butler drove down to Quincy, as he did every other day, to Mr. de Burgh’s home, a brick Colonial on an acre of perfectly manicured lawn on the Houghs Neck peninsula, overlooking Quincy Bay. In the two-car garage sat the Lincoln town car, and, because it was always one of Mr. de Burgh’s pleasures, Martin took it out for a spin down to Hull and through the winding coastal roads to Cohasset. There was a clam shack on Route 108 called Tully’s Bait that sold the best fresh oysters and fish—baked cod or haddock melting in tartar sauce and vinegar, dripping in a thick bun, and the brine from the oysters slick and tight on your gums for hours after. On the return trip he filled the car with gasoline at a station near the Quincy shipyards, at the rotary just over the Quincy Fore River Bridge past Kings Cove, and then returned it to its spot in the pristine garage.
In the parlor, he often paused before the carved crest of the de Burgh clan, a
“Time for a drink, I say.”
“I say we all deserve it.”
“We sure as hell do.”
“Not a scratch, not one scratch. Pray to the Mother Mary and may she bless us all.”
The laughter they shared was loud and quick, and before they knew it, the quiet returned as they made their way back to Boston. The killing was over for tonight. Perhaps one drink, or maybe two, but not much more than that. They had to be on their toes for the morning, bright and sharp and ready. Because they knew damn well that tonight was not the end of something but the beginning.
8
_________________________
The Intercontinental Club, Dudley Square
THE BIG COP, Brennan, hulked in the doorway, waiting. He was almost as tall as Phelan. “He was a cop, a detective, Martin,” Donal said. “Brennan recognized him.”
“We have a lot of police that come in here. Sure most of them are our own. Where else would they go?”
“He was on the docks the other morning. Some of the lads—dockworkers—saw him there.”
“Was he? That could just be coincidence.”
“And he’s here that night? That’s a quare coincidence.”
“It’s Boston—you can’t go four feet one way or the other without banging into someone who knows someone else. Besides, he has no way of knowing the two are connected. Was he talking to anyone?”
“Not that we know.”
“Well, then, there you have it—if he was on police business, he’d be asking questions and not dancing.”
“Still.”
Martin nodded and raised a hand to placate them both. “Right, right, I get your point.”
He rubbed at his chin with his pen and, for a moment, looked very far away. He tapped absently on the marble patina of the accordion resting with its clasps closed upon his desk. The reeds had swollen with the heat and he’d need to find another instrument to play tonight.
“I’ll let Mr. de Burgh know,” he finally said and Donal looked at him, and Brennan, seeming satisfied, left them.
“What do you think?” Donal said.
“I think that things we have no control over have already been set in motion, and, God willing, those things will take care of themselves. We shouldn’t get involved.”
“You’re sure?”
“They’ll already be on their way so?”
“They will.”
“Then I’m sure.”
After Donal left, Martin went back to his work—arranging the music for the Fitzgerald wedding, scheduling a session with the young fiddler from Athlone who was trying to make the band, ensuring that the flower bouquets and Mass cards for the recent Irish dead would arrive at the funeral homes, and writing the monthly check to Mr. de Burgh’s mother, sent via airmail to Ireland.
Afterward, Martin Butler drove down to Quincy, as he did every other day, to Mr. de Burgh’s home, a brick Colonial on an acre of perfectly manicured lawn on the Houghs Neck peninsula, overlooking Quincy Bay. In the two-car garage sat the Lincoln town car, and, because it was always one of Mr. de Burgh’s pleasures, Martin took it out for a spin down to Hull and through the winding coastal roads to Cohasset. There was a clam shack on Route 108 called Tully’s Bait that sold the best fresh oysters and fish—baked cod or haddock melting in tartar sauce and vinegar, dripping in a thick bun, and the brine from the oysters slick and tight on your gums for hours after. On the return trip he filled the car with gasoline at a station near the Quincy shipyards, at the rotary just over the Quincy Fore River Bridge past Kings Cove, and then returned it to its spot in the pristine garage.
In the parlor, he often paused before the carved crest of the de Burgh clan, a
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