Authors: John McEvoy
Less than an hour after their Raglan Road discovery of Tony Rourke's treachery, Barry Hoy stopped his rental car outside Nora's house in Bray to let Jack out before starting his drive back to Kinsale. Their mostly quiet ride together was laden with depression, Hoy saying twice, “I can't believe Tony did that to Niall.” Doyle exited the auto and reached back across the passenger seat to shake Hoy's hand and wish him a “safe trip” back. “When are you going to tell Niall about what Rourke has done?”
“As soon as I get back to Kinsale. Thanks, Jack, for bearing witness to this awful development.” He pulled away rapidly.
A couple of loud knocks confirmed Nora wasn't home. Doyle found her house key in the very same obvious spot he had advised her not to put it, underneath a front stoop flower plot, and went in, carrying his suitcase. It was early afternoon. He didn't know when Nora would be back. He found the last remaining bottle of Guinness in her refrigerator. Turned on a horse racing channel from England. Lay on the couch and dozed until late in the afternoon when his hostess barged in through her front door he'd left ajar. Jumped up to embrace her and apologize for his surprise entrance and, again, advise her to “hide your damn house key better than that.”
Nora blushed. “You're right. And perhaps right now you'll tell me the reason for this surprise return of yours.”
“Hey, I started missing you so badly that I⦔
She swatted his arm with her purse. “Don't try that brand of blarney on me, boyo,” she said with a laugh. “C'mon, now. What's the deal? Sit down and tell me.”
“I've had a long, tough day. I'm starving. How about if I fill you in over a few soothing libations and a nice meal?”
They walked to dinner through crowded streets. It was Bray's annual Summerfest Week, an event featuring music, sports, a carnival, dozens of concession booths and arts displays. “The final weekend there'll be probably sixty thousand people or so here,” Nora said. “I'm definitely going Saturday night. I want to see Clockwork Noise, one of my favorite new bands. You should hear their violinist, Flo Healy. Outstanding,” Nora enthused. “Besides playing like an angel, she's beautiful, too. I believe she's from just over in Dun Laoghaire.”
They were lucky to nab a table for two on the second level of Bray's large, popular Martello Restaurant, one with a great view of the Irish Sea. Nora ordered a glass of white wine, Doyle said he'd try “the Hog Head pale ale. A pint, please. We'll look at the menu a bit later.”
Nora said, “All right, then. You said earlier you had a quote long, tough day unquote. You want to tell me what that was all about?”
He began to recount his Dublin experience with Barry Hoy and Tony Rourke. What had brought Hoy and him there on Rourke's trail. He had barely reached that point when Nora reached over and grabbed his hand. “Wait. Can I record this?” He shrugged. “Record away,” and she reached down into her purse.
His monologue was interrupted only by their expectant waiter, and they quickly ordered their entrees. When Nora had listened to Doyle's complete account of that day's Raglan Road happenings, she turned off her recorder and sat back in her chair. ”Whew. That's quite a story. What do you think Niall will do about this, Jack? Any idea?”
“I'm sure Tony Rourke's days at Shamrock are numbered. In single digits. Niall will certainly get rid of him. Will Niall attempt to press charges? I have no idea. I just know that by now,” he stopped to look at his watch, “Barry has given Niall a complete account of today's sad happenings in Dublin's fair city. And all that those happenings imply. I'm sure the attacks on Niall are history what with Rourke now exposed. As Barry Hoy said, âThose Dublin thugs don't favor
pro bono
work.' So, Sheila Hanratty can resume sleeping well at night alongside of her hard-headed husband.”
When their entrees arrived, bowls of the house specialty, a rich seafood chowder, Doyle ordered a carafe of white. “Nora, can you put away the tools of your trade now? I've told you all I know. I have no idea,” he added, “what you would do with all this information.”
Nora tucked her recorder back down into her purse. She flashed him one of her knockout smiles, green eyes aglow above it. She took a sip of wine. “Being the trained reporter that I am, I would say you never feckin' really know, Jack.”
***
Pleased with their meal and each other, they left the restaurant an hour later and, instead of turning up Nora's street, went down long, steep steps to the seaside. The crowds were thick here, too. Nora gripped his arm as they wended their way. “Did you know Sinead O'Connor lives here in Bray?” she said.
“Of course I did. I also know that Katie Taylor, the Olympic women's boxing champ, hails from Bray. I watched a couple of her bouts on television. Outstanding fighter!”
The dusk was gently creeping as they strolled to the water's edge. Young families with children were now heading up the other way, toward the steps and home. Nora suddenly let go of Jack's hand and dashed over to a nearby bench, yanked her sandals off, put her purse atop them. “Watch my stuff here now, will you, Jack?” she shouted, laughing. Then she dashed across the sand into the shallow water, lifting her skirt as she twirled in the surf. A small group of young men passing by gave her an encouraging shout. The little lapping waves seemed to buoy her.
Doyle smiled as he watched, thinking again how much he relished the company of this interesting, interested, and vibrant woman. When she finally pranced back out of the water, he opened his arms to her rapid advance, caught her up, and kissed her. They swayed gently, feet in the sand, ignoring passersby, until they heard an elderly man shout, “Tara, back here quick,” and looked up to see an on-charging brown and white spaniel. The dog slid to a stop at their feet, wagging its tail as Doyle bent down to offer the back of his hand to its inquisitive nose. More tail wagging.
Tara's owner tipped his cap to them as he walked her back toward the water. “She's a brilliant swimmer when she's not distracted,” he offered back over his shoulder. Nora waved them good-bye.
Climbing up the stairway from the strand to the roadway, Jack said, “This band you like. Clockwork Noise. That you plan to see. Will they be selling CDs of theirs there at the Fest?”
“I'm sure they will.”
Doyle and Nora halted at the top of the steps up to look back down at the passive sea and the dozens of strollers now in shadows of the retreating evening sun.
“Good,” Doyle said. “So please buy me one of the Clockwork Noise CDs. We can listen to it sometime. If and when I ever come back here,” he grinned.
She started striding up the street toward her home, leading him by his hand, looking straight ahead and nodding emphatically as she said, “You'll be back, Jack.”
“You have a very confident walk and way about you, Nora Sheehan,” Doyle said. She shot him a look over her shoulder.
Doyle stopped her at the beginning of her street that led up to her house. “Nora, you have water there on the bottom of your skirt from your cavorting in the surf. Should we maybe stop here, slip into the shrubbery, and wring the moisture out of it?”
Nora laughed as she grabbed his right hand with her left and yanked him forward. “Follow me. We're not that far from much more comfortable accommodations.”
***
Doyle shifted in Nora's bed, expecting to feel her hips against his. Gray morning light seeped in through the blinds they had hastily drawn the night before. He sat up when he heard her call, “Jack! Wake up quick! Come in here.”
He pulled on his tee-shirt and briefs. She was at her desk, computer open, eyes riveted on the screen and its Flash News Story.
“Good God, woman, it can't be even seven a.m. What's the rush? Did Texas secede from my nation? Don't tell me the Chicago Cubs are again vowing to win their first pennant since 1945!”
The look on Nora's intense face quickly convinced him that whatever had her interest was not to be joked about. She scrolled rapidly to the bottom of the page. Turning to him, she said, “A neighbor found the body of a prominent Cork City businessman last night. An apparent suicide. Oh,” she said, hands at her ears, drawn face shaking from side to side, “this is terrible tragic.”
“Aw, hell,” Doyle said. He backed up a few steps and sat down on the couch. “Tony Rourke, right?” he said softly.
“Yes. âAnthony X. Rourke, longtime Shamrock Off-Course Wagering Corporation executive,'” she quoted. “âAge fifty-two. Widower. Survived by one daughter. Garda officials have ordered an autopsy to confirm what appears to be a drug overdose.'”
Doyle took a deep breath and got to his feet. He went to the front door and opened it. The remnants of that morning's mists trailed away toward the sea. Nora came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, left cheek buried against his back. He turned around and hugged her.
“What a sorry, resentful, bitter little fellow Tony Rourke must have been,” Doyle said. The whole depressing chain of recent events must have felt like it was tightening around his chest. Jack could easily imagine Barry Hoy arguing that “What
we
did in catching him out doesn't make
us
responsible for what Tony did in the end.” Which was probably true. But it didn't make Doyle feel all that much better.
Nora relinquished her hug and moved around to face him. “Do you still intend to take your flight in the morning?”
“Yeah. I've got things to do back home. But first I have to talk to Niall.”
***
The Kinsale phone was immediately picked up. “Jack,” Hanratty said, “I just heard this terrible news from Barry Hoy who heard it on the radio. Crushing news! First, what Barry had told me yesterday about you and him seeing Tony with that thug in Dublin. Now this. I can hardly believe it.”
Doyle heard Hanratty pause to say, “Sheila, leave me now. I'm talking to Jack.” There was the rattle of a cup being dropped before Hanratty said, “I can't fathom it, Jack. My good little friend Tony taking his own life. I'm gobsmacked. What could have prompted him to do it?”
“Niall, I can't answer that with any confidence. But I would guess it was an accumulation of things. His beloved wife's death. His depression following that. And,” Jack said, “your unfulfilled promise to him.”
Hanratty erupted. “What? Are you mad, man? I was paying Tony the exact equivalent of a partner's share. I've
always
been fair with him about the money since we started together years ago as junior clerks in that dinky little betting shop in Bray. I saw the opportunities, and grabbed the main chance, and brought Tony's brilliance for figures right along with me. We did great out of it. We both made gobs of money!”
Hanratty paused before saying, “This is beyond me. After all our years together, and our success, I thought I knew the man. And then he sets out to try and kill me before killing himself!”
“Niall, I don't think what burrowed into Tony Rourke's mind had anything to do with money.”
Silence. Then Niall said, “Well, Mr. Chicago psychology expert, what the hell was it about then?”
“I think it was about the fact that you never came through with the partnership in Shamrock that you promised him.”
Hanratty said, “Jack, I don't get it. Why would the partnership promise, which I admit I forgot, and never considered to be very important, why would it mean any more to Tony Rourke than the money I was paying him? He was getting an
equal share
with me. What the hell do you mean?”
“What I mean is something you did not understand, my friend,” Jack said softly. “With Tony Rourke, his complaint, his smoldering resentment, was probably never about the money. It was about respect. The respect that he thought he'd never gotten from you.”
Another brief silence before Niall said, “Whatever it was, Jack, I am terribly sorry about what Tony tried to do to me. And what he did to himself.”
It was later that week, when Jack was back in Chicago, that the Internet headline “Exclusive Account of Bookie's Demise” leapt out at him one morning. “Well, of course,” he said to himself. “Scoop Sheehan at work.”
With his summer course work finished, straight A-plus as usual, W.D. Wiems turned his attention to the lucrative task ahead. Heading toward his senior year with a perfect career 4.0 grade point, he had been urged by his University of Kansas counselor to plan for grad school in quest of advanced degrees. He ignored the suggestion, convinced he would know all he needed to know about the intricacies of computers and their advanced programming by the end of his senior year. If he hadn't already.
It was a typical Kansas summer, torrid and potentially cyclone or tornado-ridden, so Wiems looked forward to his Chicago trip and the twenty-thousand-dollar payoff it would produce. Then, he hit a snag.
Through his Internet wizardry, Wiems had gained access several weeks earlier to Jack Doyle's e-mail address and the e-mails that went to and from it. Not much of a challenge for a young man who had already hacked into the supposedly protected inner sanctum computer files of dozens of major financial institutions not to mention several departments of his nation's government. But not much in Jack Doyle's tiny sliver of the Internet world was very informative. Wiems was disappointed to find only very occasional entries, usually just briefly described planned meetings with Doyle's friends, the review of racing results, an occasional exchange with
[email protected]
, and visits to a popular boxing website to which the opinionated Doyle sometimes contributed comments.
“This guy must mainly communicate by phone or snail mail,” Wiems disgustedly concluded. “What a throwback.”
At the start of the week, when he felt himself primed and ready for action, it pissed him off to access Doyle's e-mail and find the message
I am
unable
to respond to your e-mails the week beginning today. I will be away.
Aggravating, but what the hell. Wiems had learned that Doyle's absences were never lengthy. Patience was called for, so patience it would be. Wiems devoted his days to adding to his impressive compendium of underground slasher/porno movie highlights that he intended to package and sell to a select clientele he'd already unearthed on the Internet. Most nights he spent at Cartridge Central sharpening his shooting skills, after which he took lengthy night Harley rides on quiet country roads far outside of Lawrence. These were on primarily empty roadways, their dark borders marked only infrequently by farmhouse lights. The Harley could easily hit ninety miles an hour on these empty stretches. During each ride, Wiems at least once even briefly topped one hundred mph. But most of his time was spent at more moderate speeds, guiding the machine with his right hand on the Harley's steering wheel accelerator control and practicing deadly pistol shooting with his gun hand.
Twice early during that week of Doyle's absence, Wiems rode a couple of hours through the night before ending it with a brief visit to Shorty and Lammy's Saloon where'd had done his initial business with Marco Three. That increasingly impatient employer had stopped phoning Wiems after Wiems finally made clear to Marco “that, if you don't, I'll kill you for nothing. And stay out of Shorty and Lammy's until I tell you. I don't want to be seen with you yet.”
“Okay,
okay
. Do it your way. Geez. I leave it to you.”
This Thursday night, Wiems took his usual stool at the end of the bar. He put his riding gloves down on the mahogany with a slap. Seats nearby him quickly emptied, one by a bleary-eyed senior citizen named Roscoe who usually drank there after his weekly AA meeting, the other by Sherri, tonight an off-duty Shorty and Lammy waitress he recognized. Randy, the regular night bartender, nodded at Wiems and reached down into the cooler. All three of them knew him.
Wiems drank half of the Corona with one extended gulp before saying, “How'd the Royals do tonight?”
“Led into the eighth. Boom. The bullpen collapsed. What is else is new?”
Wiems finished the Corona. He got off the stool, reached into his jeans, and, as always, left a tip on the bar for Randy. As Randy had told his fellow employees, “Exactly one dollar and fifty cents each damn time! For more than a year now! I've got no fuckin' idea why. I just say thank you and good-bye. Motorcycle Man is one strange cat, I'll tell you that.”
Randy took a wet rag to the old, scarred, wooden bar. “That guy, Moto Man,” he said to Sherri, “he ever talk to you? Hit on you?”
Sherri grimaced as she sipped her Bailey's and cream. “Are you kidding? I've never seen him even look twice at any woman in here, much less me. Only person he ever talks to is You Know Who.”
Randy nodded, not surprised. Motorcycle Man's only conversations he'd observed from afar were with Marco Three. He didn't permit curiosity, ordinarily a good bartender's stock in trade, to factor in here.