Authors: Thomas Fleming
Hours of Gladness (19 page)
Leo had in fact used all his Washington connections to quash any attempt to prosecute Sunny Dan Monahan for income tax fraud. Congressman Mullen, the recipient of at least $200,000 in donations from Dan in his twenty years in Congress, threw all his considerable weight behind the effort, and even Senator Kennedy, over Melody's violent objections, was prevailed upon to make a phone call to the commissioner of Internal Revenue.
But no one in the family gave Leo any credit for this achievement, and he began finding reasons to avoid visiting Paradise Beach. Melody, indifferent to his feelings as usual, had insisted their presence was a necessity at this conjunction of the Cubans and the IRA, to make sure his relatives performed up to par. Only when Leo had seen the CIA printout on Black Dick O'Gorman did another reason for her insistence occur to him.
Outside, a car horn beeped. Melody pulled a wide,
shiny leather belt around her slim waist. It had an oversize gold buckle. For some reason the buckle made Leo think of the incredibly fine blond hair of her pussy. It made him want her. What was happening to him?
shiny leather belt around her slim waist. It had an oversize gold buckle. For some reason the buckle made Leo think of the incredibly fine blond hair of her pussy. It made him want her. What was happening to him?
Melody walked to the door. “I wasn't going to touch O'Gorman,” she said. “Believe it or not, I have some consideration for your feelings.”
As usual, she had an uncanny instinct for exactly how to subdue him. “I'm sorry!” Leo wailed. “I'd never tell them. Never!”
He saw Melody did not believe him. They had gone from strangers to enemies.
D
ick O'Gorman knew he was in trouble the moment Melody Faithorne emerged from Desmond McBride's front door. Her cheeks were as rouged and her lips as red as a face on a piece of Wedgwood pottery. Her crimson dress was one of those silly little things that cost $3,000 in Paris. Maybe she'd gotten it from Senator Ted, although it was obvious that she could terrorize her husband into giving her anything she wanted. How American to think she could glamorize Richard O'Gorman, the IRA's quintessential idealist, into bed. When it came to understanding foreigners, Americans did not have a clue.
ick O'Gorman knew he was in trouble the moment Melody Faithorne emerged from Desmond McBride's front door. Her cheeks were as rouged and her lips as red as a face on a piece of Wedgwood pottery. Her crimson dress was one of those silly little things that cost $3,000 in Paris. Maybe she'd gotten it from Senator Ted, although it was obvious that she could terrorize her husband into giving her anything she wanted. How American to think she could glamorize Richard O'Gorman, the IRA's quintessential idealist, into bed. When it came to understanding foreigners, Americans did not have a clue.
“Sorry to trouble you so early in the day,” O'Gorman said. “But there's a bit of pressing business I think we should discuss.”
“You've rescued me from terminal boredom,” Melody purred with her brightest smile.
There was no doubt what she had in mind. To make it clear that he did not have it in mind, he drove to the
Golden Shamrock. The dismay on Melody's face was almost amusing. O'Gorman had to remind himself that he needed this woman's help. Could he keep her at arm's length without antagonizing her? Perhaps not. But he was going to tryâfor the sake of Barbara O'Day.
Golden Shamrock. The dismay on Melody's face was almost amusing. O'Gorman had to remind himself that he needed this woman's help. Could he keep her at arm's length without antagonizing her? Perhaps not. But he was going to tryâfor the sake of Barbara O'Day.
O'Gorman was in the sentimental phase of his fling with Barbara. She would be humiliated beyond measure if she found out he was also boffing Melody. It would cheapen him forever in her eyesâand in his own. But O'Gorman regretfully recalled that he had cheapened himself more than once in his checkered past for reasons all too similar to the ones that might require him to satisfy Melody Faithorne.
“Can't we go someplace more entertaining?” Melody said. “I've heard the food here is awful.”
“They serve a very good fish-and-chips,” O'Gorman said. “It reminds me of Dublin days.”
“I thought fish-and-chips was an English dish.”
“You'd be surprised how much the English and the Irish have in common, after a millennium cheek by jowl.”
Wilbur Gargan, the Shamrock's outsize proprietor, greeted them at the door and led them to a booth with a nice view of the ocean. Melody ordered a vodka martini. O'Gorman chose Jameson. When her drink arrived, in an outsize cocktail glass that made it a double, she downed half of it in a single gulp.
“Even Atlantic City would be more enticing,” Melody said.
“Possibly a good deal more dangerous,” O'Gorman said. “Chief O'Toole tells me if the Mafia decides we had anything to do with the disappearance of Joey Zaccaro and his million and a half dollars, they may be in a very ugly mood.”
He could see that Melody did not believe any mafioso in America would have the nerve to touch her. How wonderful it must be to have such a sense of invulnerability. It undoubtedly came from associating with powerâalthough anyone who worked for Senator Ted Kennedy
ought to remember every day that power can attract its own brand of deadly lightning. But Melody had probably been about ten years old when Castro's marksman blew off Jack Kennedy's head. It was a montage on television to her. The reality was Senator Ted's bulky potencyâin more ways than one, no doubt.
ought to remember every day that power can attract its own brand of deadly lightning. But Melody had probably been about ten years old when Castro's marksman blew off Jack Kennedy's head. It was a montage on television to her. The reality was Senator Ted's bulky potencyâin more ways than one, no doubt.
Melody ordered another vodka martini. “I thought this whole thing could be accomplished in forty-eight hours,” she said. “I have things to do in Washington that can't wait.”
“We all have things that can't wait.”
“I was looking forward to meeting you,” Melody said, demolishing the second martini at the same pace as the first. “You were going to be my compensation for enduring forty-eight hours with my in-laws.”
“Why do they distress you so?”
“They're so mindlessly, relentlessly stupid.”
“Perhaps you're too hard on them. They have willing heartsâsome of them at least.”
“I can't believe it. Richard O'Gorman, the sentimental revolutionary. But I guess that's how you got your reputation.”
“Oh? I didn't know my fame had traveled to America.”
“I got your profile from Interpol. They have reams of data on you. âIrresistible to Women' was the heading on one chapter. Another one suggested you could become prime minister of a united Ireland, if the IRA won.”
“I'm afraid such rumors are more than a little datedâand could get me killed if some of my Irish friends read them.”
“I must confess I don't think much of the IRA as a terrorist organization. You seem so mindless. England get out of Ireland. But then what? You never say. You have no program.”
“If we revealed our program, the Prods in the north and the Catholic capitalists in the south would fight to the death. We intend to annihilate both of them.”
“That's what I've been hoping to hear.”
“I trust it won't go beyond this booth.”
“Don't worry.”
“What would the senator say, if he heard it?”
“He'd be horrified. He's the sort of brainless liberal that Lenin mockedâand then exterminated.”
“What about your husband?”
“I thought I'd convinced him that there was no compromise possible with capitalism. Now I'm not so sure.”
“Why?”
“It's a very personal quarrel.”
O'Gorman sensed she was about to tell him something he did not want to hearâsomething that would obligate him to break those unstated promises to Barbara Monahan O'Day. Fortunately, Wilbur Gargan arrived with menus and recommended the crab cakes as the dish of the day. By the time they acceded to his spherical authority, the moment of intimacy had passed and O'Gorman got down to the business he wanted to discuss with her.
“I've picked up some rather disagreeable information. There's a British SIS agent operating here in Paradise Beach. I suspect he killed Zaccaro and stole the money.”
He told her about Jackie Chasen's glimpse of the Chinese Type 64 silenced. It did not register. He could see Melody thought this was another romantic O'Gorman notion. Like most Americans, she had no idea of the savagery of the war the British and the IRA were waging in Northern Ireland.
“Couldn't someone else have the same gun? Mick O'Day? Bill O'Toole? Some mafioso enemy of Zaccaro?”
“Extremely unlikely. We've been trying to obtain one or two of them for five years. They serve only one purpose, assassination. The Chinese are not mass-producing them.”
She remained stubbornly skeptical. “What am I supposed to do about it?”
“I was hoping you could mention the probable presence of this fellow to Senator Ted. As coming from me,
through IRA intelligence. A little pressure from him might persuade your State Department to protest to the Brits. If the Brits are as obnoxious or deceitful as I expect they'll be, the Senator might become irate enough to urge the FBI to flush him out.”
through IRA intelligence. A little pressure from him might persuade your State Department to protest to the Brits. If the Brits are as obnoxious or deceitful as I expect they'll be, the Senator might become irate enough to urge the FBI to flush him out.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever,” Melody said briskly, her Washington persona suddenly in place. “The last thing we want is a squad of straight-arrow G-men messing around here while we're trying to get the guns ashore.”
“I don't mean literally flush him. I mean the FBI might leak to the senator and then to you his cover. Billy and I would take care of him pronto.”
“I thought you understood the senator has to
distance
himself from this business.”
distance
himself from this business.”
“Exactly. But for certain people, I would think he might feel obliged to reduce the distance somewhat.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a dossier on you too. We have our own version of Interpol. Hamas, the IRA, the Red Brigades, are constantly exchanging information. You were on Chappaquiddick Island when the unfortunate Mary Jo Kopechne took a nap in the backseat of the wrong car. I would imagine you know things that Senator Ted would do almost anything to keep secret.”
Melody's blond good looks seemed to darken, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. “I suppose he'd do a great deal for me. But I've never asked him for single favor.”
“Isn't this whole thing a favor? The warehouses in Boston? The names of the right customs inspectors?”
“I got them, using his name. If anything blew, he would have been able to say he knew nothing about it.”
“Isn't this more of the same? You can call the State Department in his name. They must be used to you throwing his weight all over Washington.”
“Maybe I could, maybe I couldn't. I'm not sure I see the necessity.”
“It's very simple. If we don't get the money back,
there'll be no weapons. The Cubans are not altruists. They're donating the cocaine because they have it coming out their noses. But weapons are another matter entirely. They're also desperate for dollars. Their revolution is falling on its ass, thanks to Castro's arrogance. They have a bigger, fatter
nomenklatura
than Moscow. That's one thing we'll never tolerate in a socialist Ireland.”
there'll be no weapons. The Cubans are not altruists. They're donating the cocaine because they have it coming out their noses. But weapons are another matter entirely. They're also desperate for dollars. Their revolution is falling on its ass, thanks to Castro's arrogance. They have a bigger, fatter
nomenklatura
than Moscow. That's one thing we'll never tolerate in a socialist Ireland.”
There was not a flicker of agreement in Ms. Faithorne's cold blue eyes. It occurred to O'Gorman that Melody considered Ireland not worth even a dollop of censoriousness, even if they
nomenklatured
every member of the IRA and their uncles and their cousins and their aunts. In her global revolutionary view, Ireland was more a nuisance than a vanguard nation. Was that opinion rooted in her obviously low tolerance for her relativesâand other Irish of the American branch? Or did the roots go deeper, to the first encounters of the Boston aristocracy with the horde of starving Irish who poured into their pristine metropolis in 1847?
nomenklatured
every member of the IRA and their uncles and their cousins and their aunts. In her global revolutionary view, Ireland was more a nuisance than a vanguard nation. Was that opinion rooted in her obviously low tolerance for her relativesâand other Irish of the American branch? Or did the roots go deeper, to the first encounters of the Boston aristocracy with the horde of starving Irish who poured into their pristine metropolis in 1847?
“I don't see much point to this conversation. It's so one-sided,” Melody said. “In Washington, when we ask a favor, we're usually in a position to do one in return.”
“If ever an opportunity arose ⦔
“My husband and I have just had a very unpleasant quarrel. He's threatened me with deadly force.”
“Why in the world?”
“Because he's apparently regressing to the same level of stupidity as the rest of the family.”
The crab cakes arrived, along with a bottle of white wine. The cakes were surprisingly good and so was the wine, an Australian chardonnay. Melody ate them without comment and drank quite a lot of the wine. O'Gorman barely had a chance to refill his glass.
“I did something five years ago that seems to bother him. I presume it won't bother you.”
She told O'Gorman how and why she had informed the Internal Revenue Service about the bearer bondsâand her husband's skewed reaction to this act of unquestionable
justice against an Irish
nomenklatura
that had ruled and looted the state of New Jersey for decades.
justice against an Irish
nomenklatura
that had ruled and looted the state of New Jersey for decades.
“Now Leo's threatening to tell Bill O'Toole. I have to confess I'm more than a little frightened. Can you help me?”
O'Gorman ordered another bottle of wine. Maybe it was time for them both to get drunk. He saw what she wanted him to do. Arrange for an IRA hit man like Kilroyâbut somewhat more intelligentâto remove Leo McBride from the scene. Was it her way of validating her revolutionary credentials with him? If so, it was a total failure. Her story of the betrayal of the bearer bonds was causing a tidal wave of revulsion to thunder through O'Gorman's Irish soul. It was such an English thing to doâthe Anglo-Americans were at least as morally smug and uncaring as the English English when it came to the Irish. The micks were a lesser breed beyond the law, to be dealt with as carelesslyâor ruthlesslyâas the African Hottentots or the Australian aborigines or the American Iroquois.
With a supreme effort, O'Gorman concealed his revulsion behind the mask of the gunman. Her revelation had altered the balance of power between them. He was no longer the supplicant. He was the favor grantor extraordinary, with a godlike ability to solve her marital unhappiness and her fears of sudden death with a nod of his head.
“I think what you're suggesting could be arranged,” he said. “Provided our gratitude for your extraordinary efforts on our behalf runs deep enough. I can promise you that I'll do everything in my power to make sure it does. Assuming that your efforts reach that extraordinary level.”
“I'll call the State Department this afternoon.”
The second bottle was almost gone. He let his hand wander across the table to rest on Melody's slim fingers. “May I also say my heart goes out to you. It wasn't easy for you to do what you've doneâabout the bonds. It testifies to a remarkable ability to face history's demand for
justice, no matter what it costs you personally.”
justice, no matter what it costs you personally.”
Melody's eyes filled with drunken tears. She was snookered. “The moment I saw you, I said to myself, âThere's a man I want to hold in my arms.'”
“You shall, my dear, sooner rather than later.”
Not for the first time, O'Gorman amazed himself by his ability to assume the role that a woman wanted him to play. It was especially remarkable here, dealing with a woman whose exquisite Wedgwood face he wanted to smash to smithereens. Perhaps he could arrange for others to do the smashing. Mick O'Day or Bill O'Toole or Leo McBride. But first he had to play the romantic gunman until he got what he wanted from this Anglo-American slut.
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