Authors: John McEvoy
Hoy pulled off into a rest area eight kilometers north of Cork. He got out and stretched. “C'mon. We can see the highway from over here.” They walked to an empty picnic table that sat on a slight ridge overlooking the motorway. Hoy said, “You told me when you phoned me from the States that you'd explain your coming here once you got here. You've been here a half-hour. This would be a good time, am I right?”
Doyle plunked himself down beside the big man on the bench. He thought for a few moments before replying, “Part of it, Barry, was your suspicion that you mentioned to me back at Lough Inagh. The bigger part was the documents I've seen since then about the Shamrock Corporation. They were very informative. And when you told me our man, usually a ten-hour-a-day workaholic, had begun scheduling more and more days off, acting strangely with people he'd worked with for years, I wanted to see what you and I might find out if we worked together. I'm sure you know what I'm getting at, right?”
Hoy nodded. “I do. At first I was kind of torn about bringing you into this, Jack. But Niall has been so grand to me over the years, we've been in and out of so many scrapes together, I just felt that I had to. Even if I told him what my thinking was, what I suspected, he'd just laugh me off. He'd say, as he has many, many times in the past, âNot to worry. I'll handle this.' I'm not the mental marvel that man is, and I know it, and he knows it. That's fine. But I figured he wouldn't brush you aside, especially if we had some evidence to present to him.
“When I heard Niall talking to him the other day, and Niall being surprised at our man's request for yet another day off, but not inquiring why, I felt more uneasy. That's why I was glad when you called to say you were coming over here again. Whatever we find out, and it could be nothing at all, you'll be the sort of witness Niall respects. I thank you for flying over on such short notice.”
The big man got up to say, “Niall will hardly listen to anyone else on this subject, not even Sheila, much less me. The man can be as stubborn as Corrigan's donkey.”
Hoy glanced at his watch. “If what I think is going to happen does happen, it'll be in the next fifty, sixty minutes. According to what I've been able to learn, our man'll be leaving for Dublin during that time. So, we'll wait here.” Hoy reached into the back and extracted a thermos. “Would you like some tea, Jack?”
“Thanks, no. Now, what kind of car are we on the watch for?”
Hoy said, “He drives a four-year-old brown Volvo. It's not in his nature to be flashing along past us. He'll be well within the speed limit. We should easily spot him if he comes.”
“If we pick him up and follow, he'll know your car, won't he?”
“Sure, and he would, Jack,” Hoy smiled. “But we don't have my car. It's a rental.”
The morning sun had briefly fought its way through the Cork cloud bank twenty-eight minutes later when Hoy suddenly sat up and snatched the car key out of his jacket pocket. “That was him! Our man's on his way.”
It was a time-consuming trip, taking nearly three hours to cover the one hundred sixty miles. They stayed three cars back of the brown Volvo, both of them bored by the inaction. “He drives like an old woman,” Hoy said.
On the Dublin outskirts, they encountered heavy traffic, but had no trouble keeping the Volvo in view. “Traffic like this,” Hoy said, “is a leftover of the grand Celtic Tiger days. When the money was flowing back then, a lot of it went into Ireland's auto market. Of course, by now, many of those grand vehicles have been repossessed or taken over by the banks. Not all, of course. And, Jaysus, not that one,” the normally undemonstrative Hoy shouted, yanking the steering wheel to the right. “Look at it!”
A dark-blue Chevrolet SUV crossed over in front of them, driven by a woman in hair curlers, housecoat, and sunglasses, the two rear seats of the speeding vehicle full of children dressed in junior hurling team uniforms. Steering with her left hand, holding the cell phone to her ear with her right, she signaled a right turn before careening around the next corner to the left, a cacophony of pounded horns in her impervious wake.
“Another menace to society,” Hoy grunted. “Our roads are full of them. Did you know that you can
fail
your driver's road test in this country and
still
continue to drive, on a provisional license? Failures at the wheel! Like that woman, probably. As far as I know, we're the only country in the world that allows such nonsense. It's a wonder the curbs aren't littered with casualties.”
***
They trailed the cautiously driven brown Volvo for another fifteen minutes, always three or four cars back. Finally, it pulled up next to the curb on Raglan Road. Hoy slid the Focus into a parking place a half-block back. They watched as Tony Rourke slowly got out, locked the door, looked cautiously about, then walked toward Moynihan's Ould Times Pub. His hat was pulled down and raincoat collar pulled up. He was back outside of the pub within two minutes in the company of a small, cocky looking senior citizen who had his cap on and jacket collar raised against the suddenly arrived drizzle. The little man peered up and down the street before he began talking rapidly to Rourke, occasionally reaching forward to jab fingers into Rourke's chest.
“Jaysus,” Hoy said. “That's old Billy Sheridan with him!”
“Who is that?”
“One of the old-time hard men from the IRA's glory days. My Da grew up with him. Billy did his years in Mountjoy, which they say he came to run like it was his front parlor. Once out, the troubles pretty much over by then, he cleverly converted to straight ahead civilian-type crime.”
The rain increased. Hoy started the motor and put the wipers on low. He said, “Billy now has a little gang of his own, mostly dimwitted brutes he runs like a chieftain. No patriotic airs there, just bad business for its own sake. High-end burglaries, muscle work for hire, intimidation with leg breaking and extortion. That's what I hear. Billy's a feckin' menace. Always has been no matter what side's he on.”
Hoy shook his head. “I cannot feckin' imagine how little, quiet Tony Rourke would have found a way to hook up with the crooked Mr. Sheridan.”
Doyle leaned forward to peer through the blurry windshield. Hoy reached over into the glove compartment and took out binoculars. He lowered his driver' side window, leaned out. “Son of a bitch,” he growled. Doyle said, “Let me look, Barry.” Hoy brushed his hand away. Doyle rolled his window down and poked his head out attempting to get a better view. He felt one of Hoy's large paws yank his collar and himself back into the car. “Sit, now. You don't want to be seen.”
The conversation in front of them proceeded, the principals unaware they were being observed. Hoy's hands tightened on the binoculars. “There goes an envelope from Tony's shaky little hand.” Doyle could see Sheridan riffling currency with a satisfied look. Hoy said, “I just read Tony's lips, him telling Sheridan, âDon't fail me again with Mr. Hanratty.'” Hoy threw the binoculars down and erupted out of the car.
Sheridan saw Hoy coming and began to retreat. He whistled a signal. Doyle circled in toward this twosome from the right. The rain had increased and he felt his feet momentarily slip on the wet concrete.
Suddenly seeing their approach, Tony Rourke yelped, “What?” He started to speak as Hoy grabbed his coat collar and snarled,
“You devious gobshite. After all Niall's done for us. For you?”
Billy Sheridan snapped open a switchblade before sliding toward Hoy, whose head was turned. Doyle caught the little thug square on the chin with a left hook. The knife dropped to the pavement as Sheridan fell face-first next to it. Doyle kicked the knife to the side and turned, hearing a thumping approach. A big, black hooded and jacketed figure had charged up from behind the stunned Rourke aiming for Hoy. Barry kept his right hand grip on the pale-faced Rourke's coat collar. When the advancing attacker was less than a yard away, Hoy pivoted and set his feet and slashed his large left forearm across the man's throat. The man fell to his knees, gurgling, hands scrabbling at his neck.
“Pick up the money envelope, Jack,” Hoy barked. He was breathing heavily as he stared down at Rourke's ashen face.
Doyle leaned down to grab the rain-sodden envelope. He could feel the wad of Euros in it. He handed it to Hoy, who had now taken his hand off Rourke, and a deep breath, and then a step back from the Shamrock Off-Course Wagering Corporation's longtime treasurer. The rain was pouring down now, emptying the nearby sidewalks of the handful of startled passersby.
Hoy said, “It makes me sick to look at you, Tony. That you'd be dealing with these feckin' Dublin lowlife criminal bastards trying to get at the man who made you.
Made
you! And himself treasuring yourself all of your years together.”
Hoy stopped and slid over to administer a resounding kidney kick to the downed black-garbed attacker who had begun to sit up. Back down he went. Little Billy Sheridan remained with his face pressed onto pavement. “Watch him, Jack.” Hoy said. “Tricky little bastard might have another leap in him.”
Tony Rourke took a step away from Hoy and then stood still, as if he could somehow remove himself from this reality with the longing look he aimed at the leaden sky above Raglan Road.
Hoy took the pay packet from Doyle and jammed it into Rourke's coat pocket. “Keep this for your upcoming early retirement, you miserable bastard.”
Doyle wiped rain off his forehead as he watched Rourke seem to retreat into his wet coat. It was hard for Doyle to picture this timorous little numbers-cruncher as a man bent on having murder committed on his behalf. “Are you going to say anything, Tony?” Doyle said. “Like, this isn't what it seems?”
“
No,”
Rourke said defiantly. “It's
exactly
what it seems.
“Niall was the big man so full of promises,” Rourke sneered. “Promises he never fulfilled
.
He kept putting off my percentage increase, year after year. It was
my
idea to expand the company the way we did.
I
should be running Shamrock. I've known that for years. So did,” he stopped and took a deep breath, “my dear Moira. She believed I was being short-changed by Niall. She pleaded with me to do something about it. I was never able to bring myself to do so when she was alive, God help me.” Eyes misting, he turned his head and began to slowly walk away. “Finally, I tried to do just that even if it was only in her memory. And then I messed that up, too.”
Rourke began to walk away. Hoy started to follow, then stopped. He had a stunned look on his broad face as he said to Jack, “Aw, let him go, the sorry little creature.”
Four hours later, after he'd left Hoy and Doyle on Raglan Road to shakily traverse the wet highway back to his Cork City home, Tony Rourke unlocked his front door, took off his rain coat, and poured himself a glass of merlot. He drank quickly, poured another. The day-long rain had finally stopped, the heavy gray clouds dissipated. He took his wine out to the small back garden of the home, the area in which he and Moira had shared hundreds of pleasant evening hours. The aluminum-colored sky was gaining a hint of deep orange toward the west. “Should I be surprised,” he said to himself, “that I feel so relieved to be found out? I don't know. Just as I seem to know so very little else these days.” He put his wineglass down, picked up his notepad, and began to write.
Dear Bridget,
Years ago, I made the mistake of not acceding to your mother's often repeated request that I “finally stand up to Niall Hanratty” for taking advantage of my talents, that I demand my just dueâthe partnership he had promised me in Shamrock, the company Niall and I brought from nothing to prosperity. Even though I was making more money than I could ever have imagined, your mother thought that I deserved that title of partner. I was never given it. Despite your mother's insistence, I never brought this up to Niall. I don't know if he intentionally ignored his promise, or simply forgot it. But your mother considered my situation to be the result of injustice. After her death, Niall's unfulfilled promise just ate away at me. It changed me in a way that I now very much regret.
Mind you, this campaign of hers to spur me into aggressive action was not constant, by any means. I could always fend her off by saying the “right time had not come.” And she would accept that, ignoring what I later came to believe was her disappointed acceptance of my weakness. And it was a weakness.
Remember, Bridget, I admired Niall and was grateful for all he'd enabled me to do. He was always fair about our divisions of profits. So, I always believed he would come through with the promise of a partnership. Really, that was not that important to me. But, it was important to your mother.
I think your mother saw me as too weak to challenge The Man and demand what I had coming. And after she passed, I at first found myself unable to do anything but regret my inaction. But later, in the long, lonely months after that dear woman's passing, the idea of revenge took on a momentum of its own for me. I can't explain how it surged through me. I am ashamed to say it took me over.
So, I began a campaign to wreak revenge on Niall Hanratty. I will admit to you tonight that I wanted him dead! And tried to make it so! I was not thinking wisely. I did it as kind of a warped tribute to your mother, who had been so incensed for years over what she considered the terribly shabby treatment Niall had given me. So I paid for, and put in motion, actions intended to put Niall in a grave. These attempts failed. They were mistakes.
Your mother not being in my life has left me with a life not worth continuing. Starting after that final, terrible hospital day when her poor, sweet, pain-ravaged
face
was covered with the white sheet and they wheeled her out of that awful room and away from me, I believed that a campaign of revenge against Niall would somehow be carried out in her honor. And that it would give me something to live for. That this kind of forcefulness would somehow make her proud of me. But that was a ridiculous thought on my part as I have finally come to realize. Your mother would have said just that. My ill-conceived efforts to have Niall Hanratty murdered were doomed from the start. Just as well. Just as well.
I picture you, Bridget, in your fine home and with your grand family in the States. Receiving these words. Feeling horror and shock and, undoubtedly, anger at me. But please, my dear daughter, me saying good-bye to you in this way is as merciful as it could ever be. As much as I love you and your family, this is the truth for meâthere is nothing in my life anymore that makes me want to rise to the day.
Love,
Da
Tony Rourke carefully folded the two pages and put them in the envelope addressed to Bridget. He licked the seal. He'd already festooned it with all the necessary postage for America. He carefully placed the envelope beneath the small, bedraggled potted plant on the table next to his chair.
Late sunlight was dwindling, and bustling clouds from the west advanced against the last deep orange layer of light. Rourke picked up the wineglass and took a long swallow, lips twisting in its aftertaste. He'd never been much of a drinking man.
A vivid memory of Niall Hanratty came to him. Some Shamrock Company affair or other, years back. He pictured Niall at the head of the long dinner table, late in a raucous night, calling for collective quiet and quoting “Mark Twain, now, who said beer
corrodes
an Irishman's stomach. Whiskey
polishes
it! Drink up my friends!” Rourke had never agreed with either of those Twain claims.
Rourke reached into his coat pocket and uncapped a tall bottle of morphine tablets, the unused supply from Moira's final days. He placed a handful in his mouth, drank some wine, then another, the last of the wine following. He struggled but managed to keep it all down. And finally took a deep breath and lay his head back on the chair. Within minutes the sun had set.
Rourke's arms lay still on the chair's arms. He felt as if his veins were clogging. “Oh God,” he suddenly thought, “did I tell Bridget I loved her? I think I did. But did I ?” He attempted to sit up and reach for his pen, but failed.
Next door neighbor Peter Rafferty found Tony Rourke's dew-covered corpse later that night when, while taking a garbage bag to the bin behind his double garage, he looked across the fence and said, “Hiya, Tony,” and was first surprised when he received no reply, then horrified when he discovered why.