Chicago Assault (4 page)

Hawker had opened the door. He stopped and turned. “He was murdered, Felicia. I killed the men who did it.”

“I'm glad,” she whispered. “I feel better knowing that.”

four

As Hawker climbed into his midnight-blue Stingray, something the Irishman had said touched one of the memory electrodes. Something about having to hurry because they had to meet their “pickup.”

The apartment building was bordered on the north and south by connecting alleys to Lake Shore Drive. On a hunch, he cruised through the first alley.

Not much to see. Three cars, all parked and seemingly empty.

Hawker turned onto Lake Shore, then immediately turned left into the second alley. More parked cars. Garbage cans. Two winos sat on a bench, propped against each other, trying to stay warm in the cutting Lake Michigan wind.

Their driver had probably headed for home at the first sound of sirens.

No, the driver wouldn't have headed for home. These guys were professionals. They would have had a second pickup point. Or maybe even a safe house.

Whatever their alternate plans were, Hawker knew there wasn't much hope in a random, one-man search.

Chicago is a big, big city.

Hawker turned onto Lake Shore again and headed for Bridgeport.

Jimmy O'Neil lived in a narrow, two-story brownstone house, yard-to-yard, driveway-to-driveway, with hundreds of other brownstones.

Even so, Hawker had no trouble finding it. As he parked on Archer in front of the house, he wondered how many times he had walked up that sidewalk into the old brownstone. How many summer afternoons had he spent there as a boy, shooting the bull with Jimmy O'Neil, or doing homework, or making grand, boyish plans?

Through elementary school and high school, he and Jimmy had been more than best friends. They had been almost like brothers. They had too much in common for it to be any other way.

Both were Irish, second-generation Americans with their parents fresh from the old home soil. They were the same age, and they had both loved sports.

Their fathers—old Ed Hawker and rough and husky Blair O'Neil—were both cops. Damn good cops, if everything Hawker heard was true. And they both liked to sit together on the porch on summer evenings over tall stories and taller glasses of beer.

So it seemed preordained that Hawker and Jimmy would be best friends.

And they were. Everywhere Hawker went, Jimmy went. Their Little League team won the city championship. In high school football, both were all-state selections: Hawker as a running back; Jimmy O'Neil as a tackle. They had played together, ate together, fought together, and dated girls together.

Inevitably, as happens in all boyhood friendships, graduation, jobs, weddings, and the solitary process of aging separated them. They saw less and less of each other.

Jimmy had been filled with the passions of the “Irish Cause” for as long as Hawker could remember. So he wasn't surprised to hear that, upon graduation from Notre Dame, O'Neil headed straight for Northern Ireland with his law degree.

There were rumors that O'Neil had joined up with the Irish Republican Brotherhood and was fighting England's despised Orangemen, which wasn't at all hard to believe since Blair O'Neil was, like Hawker's own father, a dedicated Fenian.

O'Neil had the connections to do it. And he had the brains. And, as Hawker and everyone else in Bridgeport knew, the IRA depended on the support of Irish-Americans—for money, weaponry, and manpower.

For nearly five years, Hawker heard nothing from O'Neil, save for an occasional scrawled note. There was never a return address, but the postmark was always somewhere in Ulster.

Then one day, O'Neil returned to Chicago. There was no fanfare, no prior announcement. He simply reappeared, as if he had gone to the store for milk and was late getting back. Hawker was still married at the time, but O'Neil's wife had long since divorced him. O'Neil opened a law office but seemed to pour most of his money—and his time—into opening a bar. A fine Irish bar, of brass and polished woods and rare corned beef sandwiches, called the Ennisfree.

The Ennisfree became the acknowledged collection center for IRA donations. Hawker had also heard that it served as a safe house for IRA members on the run from English law. Except for an occasional probe to see if Hawker was interested in helping, O'Neil never talked about the Brotherhood.

And Hawker never asked.

They got together every month or so to play racquetball or spar a few rounds, but even this was becoming more infrequent.

The best friends had taken separate paths. And, as every adult soon realizes, there is no going back.

So all of this went through Hawker's mind as he climbed up the three foot-worn steps and banged on the door. He didn't know how Jimmy O'Neil figured into Saul Beckerman's murder, but he was damn well going to find out.

If O'Neil had somehow gotten on the hit list, he needed to be warned.

And if he had something to do with planning Beckerman's death, Hawker would.… Well, he didn't know what he would do.

The porch light blinked on, and Jimmy O'Neil swung open the door, digging a massive fist at the sleep in his eyes.

“This sure as hell better be important—” he began sleepily. But when he saw Hawker, his eyes widened, and his jaw set itself in a wide, craggy grin. “Hawk! What in Mary's name are you doing out and about at this hour?”

“Need to talk to you, Jimmy.”

“Problems with the ladies, I suppose?” he said, smiling as he let Hawker in.

“I wish it was something that simple.”

Hawker followed him into the kitchen. O'Neil switched on the overhead light and sat ponderously at the table. “What time is it?” he asked, still confused by sleep.

“Going on two.”

“Good God,” he said, yawning. “Back in the old days, we'd just now be getting our second wind. Now it's a rare night when I see the clock touch midnight.”

Hawker sat down at the table across from him. The years and the miles and the wars had changed Jimmy. It was like seeing old Blair O'Neil all over again. There was the wide, flat Celtic face and the thin, broken nose. The hair was straw-colored, curly and thick except for a slight thinning at the crown. The eyes were a misty gray-green, and they had a sly glint to them. His shoulders were half as wide as the table, and they sloped abruptly over the whiskey-barrel chest, the narrow hips and the knobby, bandy legs that seemed too long and thin to carry O'Neil's two hundred fifty pounds.

Jimmy wore nothing but his sleeping clothes: a pair of blue cotton gym shorts. There was no place to hide the Colt Python .357 he had carried to the door, so he placed it on the table, barrel pointed away from Hawker.

“Expecting trouble?” Hawker asked, nodding toward the handgun.

O'Neil's eyes crinkled good-naturedly. “Expectin' trouble? In Chicago at two in the morning when only lunatics and old friends are out roaming the streets? Ha! Sure, and you're as safe in Chicago as in your own mother's arms.”

Hawker chuckled at the sarcasm. “I was thinking of something a little more specific.”

O'Neil made a noncommittal gesture. “It's true, I've made an enemy or two in my life. Can you imagine that there was more than one Englishman in Ulster who took an immediate dislike to me, fine human being that I am. Actually threatened violence on my person.” He tapped his index finger on the black grip of the Python. “So, I take precautions. Those Orangemen don't give up easily, you know. When they have killing in mind.”

“So I've heard,” said Hawker.

O'Neil's voice was soft. “I imagine you have. Especially since it was the Orangemen who murdered your mother and two sisters.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Forgive and forget, right?”

“I was only four, Jimmy. All I remember of Ireland is green hills and rainy afternoons.”

“And the explosion. You remember that. You told me so yourself.” He got up suddenly and went to the refrigerator. He popped open two dark bottles of Guinness, and slid one across the table to Hawker. “Hawk, I've never been able to understand why you refuse to acknowledge our cause.”

“The Irish cause is your cause, Jimmy. Not mine. There's no doubt that all the misery and suffering the English have heaped on Ireland make it a noble cause. But it's not a reasonable cause. There's no winning that war.”

“Only because we refuse to stand as one and fight as one, damn it!” O'Neil snapped. “I'm sick to death of disinterested Irishmen telling me the cause is hopeless when they, themselves, are the reason it is hopeless!”

“I am not an Irishman, Jimmy,” Hawker said softly. “I'm an American who happened to be born in Ireland. This is my country now. My cause is here. My fight is here.”

O'Neil was silent for a moment, seeming to force his emotions under control. Finally he said, “You're a guest in my home, and my closest friend to boot, and here I am ragging at you about something we've argued about a hundred times before.”

It was true. Northern Ireland's fight for independence had been the single point of disagreement during their long friendship. As teenagers, they had fought their one and only fistfight over it; a long, bloody battle that sent each of them wobbling away, neither boy the winner.

Back then, the fight had only brought them closer as friends.

As adults, the old divergence of belief had taken their lives in separate directions.

“You've come to talk,” said O'Neil, sipping at his beer. “And judging from the hour, it's something important. I'll not offend you again by goading you away from your business.” He grinned. “What's mine is yours, Hawk. Now, how can I help?”

“Information, I guess,” said Hawker. He took the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and pushed it across the table. O'Neil picked it up and held it away to read it, like someone who is farsighted.

He put the paper down. “Who's Saul Beckerman?”

“An acquaintance. He's out of Bridgeport. Maybe ten years older than we are. Short, chubby guy. Made millions in the jewelry business.”

“Why is my name on the same piece of paper with his?”

“I don't know. That's why I'm here. Beckerman was murdered tonight. Three guys hit him. Professionals. I got to them about five minutes after they gave Beckerman a flying lesson from a nineteeth-floor balcony.”

O'Neil's smile was thin and knowing. “I'd wager the three killers didn't give up this little piece of paper willingly.”

“One was an Irishman. I took it off his corpse. The other two didn't sound Irish, but that doesn't mean anything. No I.D.'s on their bodies.”

“You killed all three?”

“I didn't have much choice.”

O'Neil nodded. “No, I suppose not.” He looked at Hawker. “This guy Beckerman—was he Irish?”

“Jewish.”

“I don't get the connection.”

“Neither do I, Jimmy. That's why I'm here.” Hawker hesitated, then put it as plainly as he could. “I want to know if you had him murdered, Jimmy.”

O'Neil mused over his beer, toying with the label. “Are you here as a cop, Hawk? Or are you here as a friend?”

“I'm not a cop anymore, Jimmy. You know that.”

“Ah, James, James.” He smiled. “You'll always be a cop. Don't you think I have some idea of why you took that trip to Florida? Came back with another knife scar—sure, don't think I didn't notice it. And then, jetting off to California like a regular world traveler. You may not be a Chicago cop, but you're still more than just a private citizen, if I miss my guess.”

Hawker chuckled. “I'm not going to lie to you, Jimmy. I'm going to tell you the truth because I know I can trust you. I'm no cop. Nothing official, anyway. But when I see things that need to be done, I do them. Another friend of mine supplies the financial backing.”

“You've become a bloody private eye!” O'Neil laughed.

“Kind of,” said Hawker. “And you still haven't answered me, Jimmy. What's the connection? Did you have something to do with Beckerman's death?”

O'Neil shook his head thoughtfully. “No. I didn't even know Beckerman. But I may know something about his death. In fact, I was thinking of calling you—”

O'Neil stopped in midsentence, cocking his head strangely. He held his index finger to his lips and picked up the Colt Python in his right hand. “I thought I heard something on the porch,” he whispered.

“I'll go around the back way,” offered Hawker.

“Do you have a weapon?”

Hawker thought about the Colt Commander Chezick had taken from him. “Not with me.”

“Some cop you are,” O'Neil snickered.

“Give me sixty seconds to get in position. That piece of paper could be a death list. Someone as ugly as you deserves the compensation of a long, full life.”

“Hah!” O'Neil whispered. “Ugly, am I? Then it's strange that I still have to carry a stick—just to beat the girls away.”

Hawker made his way out the rear door into the city darkness. Wind writhed in the black trees, and there was the sound of distant traffic. September leaves were slick under his feet.

The backyard was enclosed by a chain-link fence—O'Neil's mother had kept springer spaniels before she died—and Hawker stepped over the fence. From the side yard, he could see that his Stingray and O'Neil's old Mercedes were the only cars out front.

It meant nothing. If someone was out to assassinate O'Neil, they would be smart enough to park someplace else and walk.

In the darkness, Hawker could see that something slanted against the stone wall of the house. It was a hoe. He picked it up and carried it with him.

There was a rose copse at the edge of the porch. Hawker peered over it. The porch light was still on, and Hawker could see two men. They both wore ragged overcoats and hats.