Death at Christy Burke's (21 page)

“Some of the places I go, some of the people I meet, would tend to generate interest on the part of certain individuals or organizations that do not share the goals of those I meet. I don’t parade through the streets of Belfast wearing my rose-coloured Gaudete
-
Sunday vestments and biretta, you can be sure of that.”

“Em, who would these people be that you spoke to? Not their names, but, you know, what kind of organizations or groups are we talking about?”

“We’re not. We’re not talking about them, Michael.”

That was as far as he was going to get on that subject, Michael knew. He was surprised he got that much out of Killeen. The two of them had another enterprise to attend to now.

They reached Grand Canal Street, where Lane Fanning had his headquarters. The building was a large rectangular block with one corner recessed and fitted with a glass tower.

Lane Fanning had done well for himself indeed. He was sleek and tanned, with stylish tawny hair and clothing Michael would have associated with a “sharp operator.” Fanning rose from behind an enormous blond oak desk and came to greet them. Everything but the desk and chairs was white or chrome or glass. A series of metal frames held a collection of abstract paintings. Purchased as a set, Michael guessed. There was a line of wall clocks showing the hour in Hong Kong, Frankfurt, London, New York, and Los Angeles. On a side table was an architect’s model of a group of ghastly modern buildings.

Leo introduced himself and Michael and explained that they knew his father. He said that Frank’s friends were concerned because this was Saturday and they had not seen him since Wednesday.

Leo asked, “So, have you seen your father? Do you know where he might be?”

“I haven’t seen him. I rarely do.”

“Oh? Why would that be now?”

Lane’s reply was delivered in a voice that had barely a trace of his father’s working-class Dub accent. “Why would that be? That would be because the man is inebriated from noon till night, every day, every week, every year of his life. The fact that you’re alarmed because he has missed a few shifts at Christy Burke’s bar says it all, doesn’t it?”

“The man takes a drink, yes, but —”

“Takes a drink! He guzzles twenty pints of Guinness a day! He’s known as one of the greatest — most notorious, to be more accurate — pintmen in Dublin. That’s his claim to fame. Legendary pintman Frank Fanning. He’s so legendary for his drinking they wouldn’t take him in the IRA. He didn’t meet their standards, such as they are. Security risk. They frown upon pub gossip and operational secrets being passed on through drunken blather. They figured the only thing he’d shoot off would be his mouth. So he’s missed the war. I mean the one that’s going on to the north of us right now. Da sits on the sidelines and mopes. If only he could take part in the struggle — the shootings and the bombings, I guess he means — we’d be a thirty-two-county Ireland. All this patriotic claptrap. Who cares anymore? It’s the nineties, Da. Move on!”

“You don’t share his vision of a united Ireland.”

“Any hope of a united Ireland went out the window in 1921. My attitude is, get over it.”

“That must go over well with your father,” Leo remarked.

“It goes in one of his ears and out the other. He doesn’t listen to a word I say on the subject. Oh, he has plenty of time to listen to — what’s his name? — Nugent over there at Christy’s, behind the bar. Sean. ‘Brilliant young lad, good Republican family,’ blah, blah, blah. The son Da never had! The fact that places like Christy Burke’s are still in business . . . well, it says it all about this country. What Ireland needs — to be more accurate, what the individuals living in Ireland need — is prosperity. A dynamic economy. Foreign capital. An aggressive body of entrepreneurs.”

“Ah, the ‘greasy till,’” said Leo. “‘Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone; it’s with O’Leary in the grave.’”

The young man looked at him blankly.

“Yeats,” Leo prompted.

“Oh, right. Well, as I was saying, we have to develop a business world view. I do business with Northern Ireland every day. I don’t care whether they’re Catholics, Protestants, or Satanists. All the same to me. I do business with the Brits every day. I don’t care what church they attend or whether they vote Tory, Labour, or Loony Party. Borders are becoming meaningless.” The telephone jangled, and Fanning picked it up. “Yes? No! Close the deal! I couldn’t care less!
Close-the-deal!
” He slammed the receiver down, looked at his visitors, and rolled his eyes.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, my father the armchair warrior. You can imagine how stilted our conversation is when we do meet. Last time I rearranged my schedule to have coffee with him he spent the whole hour rabbiting on about Sean Nugent and Finn Burke and vowing revenge for the death of some woman who died fifteen years ago in Belfast! It was the anniversary of her death. Her name was Drumm or something. I never heard of her. Da thought it would be appropriate to mark the anniversary with a violent outburst of some kind. I shudder to think what he had in mind. Fifteen years, who cares? Well, I’m sorry, but I’m too busy to sit and listen to that.”

“Would this have been Máire Drumm, the civil rights leader who was ill and lying in her bed in hospital in Belfast and was shot dead by Loyalist paramilitaries disguised as doctors?” It was clear from his tone that Leo Killeen still cared after fifteen years even if the young Turk across the desk did not. “Is that who he was talking about?”

“Yeah, sounds right.”

“And that was the last time you saw your father? That would have been in October!”

“Right, well . . . I know it’s a cliché but it’s true: time is money. At least for those of us with work to do.”

“What exactly is it that you do here, Lane?”

“I move money, Leo!”

“Move it where?”

“Wherever it can make more money. I’m an investment banker.”

“So does your father do his banking with you?”

The young man laughed. “I’m not that kind of banker. And this isn’t one of your local banks, as you can tell by the name. It’s a U.S. outfit.” Fanning set about describing his work. “. . . collateralized bond obligations . . . commercial paper . . . asset vehicles . . .”

Michael’s mind drifted off to his own interests. Leo had invited him to concelebrate the next Irish-language Mass at the Aughrim Street church. He was looking forward to that, a chance to brush up on his Irish by listening to the experts. And the peace concert tomorrow in Belfast, which meant going on a road trip with Kitty Curran. And Brennan and Monty too, of course.

He tuned back in when Leo spoke. “Is that your family?” Leo was looking behind Lane’s desk at a photograph showing a fashionable blond woman and two well-dressed children posing in front of a sailboat.

“Yes, my wife, Victoria, and our kids, Imogene and Bradford.” He gazed at them with admiration.

That gave Michael an idea. “You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of your father here, would you, Lane?”

“I doubt it. Why? You’re not going to call in the gardaí, are you? He’s probably gone on a bender in some other drinking hole.”

“Well, we don’t know that. And his friends are a little concerned.”
Even if his son is not.

“Hold on, let me look. The kids brought some old pictures over to be photocopied.” Lane yanked open one of his desk drawers and pulled out a bag of photographs. He flipped through them with a look of distaste. “Let’s hope these never see the light of day. Oh, here he is. Stewed as usual.” He handed the photo to Michael.

It wasn’t the most flattering picture of Frank Fanning. He did look as if he’d had a drop or two. But it would do.

Lane turned his attention to the computer on his desk, then leaned forward. “You know what the next big thing is?” Michael and Leo shook their heads. “The information superhighway!”

“Where would that be, now, Lane?” Michael asked.

“Here, there, everywhere! In cyberspace.”

“Science fiction, that class of a thing?”

“No. Computers. The nineties will be all about computers. Pretty soon you’ll be able to do
everything
from your own computer: shopping, banking, investing . . . you’ll do it all without leaving your desk.”

“Ah, well,” said Leo, “we have different views of what constitutes ‘everything,’ my lad. But be that as it may, good luck to you. Would you like to join us for a pint across the street?”

“I don’t drink. Some of us don’t, you know!”

“Perhaps you should take it up. We’ll be on our way now. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome. Really. If there’s any way I can help, just give me a buzz.”

Leo shook his head as they descended in the lift. “Sad, Michael, isn’t it? All that education . . .”

Where was Frank? One answer was “It’s nobody’s business.” The most sensible answer, Michael supposed. But the other drinkers had looked worried. Rightly so, perhaps, given that an individual with a can of spray paint had made serious accusations against somebody at Christy Burke’s. Had the accuser gone a step further and caused harm to the accused? Was Fanning the target? Michael knew from his talk with Bill McAvity that Fanning did not drive. So Michael would do some detective work to find out whether anybody had seen Frank Fanning leave the city by train. If he struck out with the trains, he would try the buses. There was no need to bother Brennan with this little plan, no need even to mention it.

So, after saying goodbye to Leo, Michael set forth with the photograph of Frank Fanning in his pocket. He made his way through what used to be the red-light district of Dublin, known as the Monto, to Connolly Station. He had always found the nineteenth-century building a bit bizarre, dominated as it was by an Italianate tower poking up in the middle. He was more than a little self-conscious; would he look like an eejit flashing the picture and questioning possible witnesses? Should he have left his clerical collar at home?
No use second-guessing yourself now, O’Flaherty — get on with the job.
He chose the ticket counter with the shortest queue and waited patiently until he was facing a young girl with short, spiky blond hair seated behind the glass.

“Excuse me, I’m wondering whether you can help me.”

“Where to, sir, em, Father?”

“Well, I don’t actually need a ticket. Not today. I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

She looked at him warily. “What kind of a question, like?”

Michael drew the photo from his jacket pocket and showed it to the girl. “Would you have seen this fellow in the station, do you recall?”

The girl gave the picture a cursory glance and shrugged. “Lot of oul fellows look like that.”

Well, I suppose a lot of “oul fellows” look like me, too,
Michael thought.
Would she remember me if someone showed her my mug shot tomorrow?
“He doesn’t look familiar to you then?”

“No. Sorry.”

“All right. Thank you for your time.”

She was already looking at the next person in line by the time Michael pocketed his photo and moved aside. He told himself not to be discouraged after striking out with the first ticket agent; there were plenty of others. He got into a queue on the other side of the room and waited patiently again for his turn. This agent was a middle-aged woman with faded auburn hair and laugh lines around her eyes.

“Where would you like to go today, Father?”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. But I was hoping to ask you a question, if I could.”

“You ask me anything you like. How can I help you?”

He brought out the picture and asked, “Have you ever seen this man in the station here?”

She peered at the photo. “That’s not Mr. . . . No, no, it isn’t. I can’t say I’ve seen him in here, Father. Who is he? Is he missing?”

Michael had not prepared for this; obviously he should have. Of course someone would ask who the man was!

“That’s right. I’m, em . . .” No, Michael would not, and could not, say he was helping the police with their inquiries. “I’m a friend of the family, and they haven’t seen him. He has, em, episodes when he becomes confused.”

“So you think he might have wandered off, that sort of thing.”

“Right. That’s it. But you don’t remember seeing him.”

“No. But somebody might. If you’ll let me have the picture, I’ll show it around for you.”

“Ah. That would be lovely. Thank you.”

The woman put a sign up — “Next Wicket, Please” — and disappeared. Michael heard the grumbling behind him and did not want to turn around. He studied the timetable posted on the wall in front of him and tried to ignore the discontent that was welling in the queue. People shuffled into other lines, some with good grace, some without. But the ticket agent was back in a few minutes.

“You’re in luck. One of the lads, Colm, thinks he saw the man in here. He’ll come round to see you. Here he is now.”

“Thank you and bless you!”

“No trouble at all, Father.”

She took down the sign, opened up shop again, and people appeared in her line as quickly as pigeons spotting a piece of bread.

Colm was a young man with a shaved head and a stocky build; Michael could picture him bashing a ball around on the playing fields of Ireland.