Deadly Diamonds (18 page)

It was ten o'clock that night when Mr. Walker and Mr. O'Connor returned to the Gresham Hotel. There was a message in three words rather than one. “Yes. What now?”

At Mr. O'Connor's suggestion, they planned to meet with Mr. Barone at ten the next morning at the office of the Ulster Bank on O'Connell Street. The deal was struck. Mr. Barone would have one hundred thousand euros deposited in an account in the name of Mr. Walker immediately. He signed an agreement to deposit the remaining nine hundred thousand euros when he got to his bank in Boston the following day.

Mr. Walker had serious doubts about handing over the diamonds to Mr. Barone on the basis of words on a piece of paper. Nothing he had seen in Mr. Barone inspired trust. The deal was at a stalemate until Mr. O'Connor took Mr. Walker aside for a private word.

“Johnny, I know you need this deal. You're not going to find many other Barones out there. I'll give you something you can put your trust in. I'll send my best man back to Boston with Barone to see that he does his part. You don't know my man, but you know me. There's not a man from the old war days in the IRA I'd sooner trust with my life. He's smart as a whip and tough as a tank. It's your choice.”

Mr. Walker thought hard for a minute. He knew he was gambling with his father's life, but other options did not seem to exist. Again, he followed his intuition.

“I'm going to put my trust in you, Declan. Someday I'll repay the favor. What's your man's name?”

“Seamus Burke.”

That afternoon, Mr. O'Connor drove Mr. Walker to the airport in time for his flight to Sierra Leone.

“Johnny, I'll miss you. You've made my life exciting. Why don't you stay?”

“I can't. I have business in Sierra Leone. I have to know that my father's still alive. Maybe I can get a message to him. I know what it means to need hope.”

“I understand. Will you be back?”

“When you notify me the money's in my account. I'll come back to collect it. You can reach me at the Mammy Yoko Hotel.”

They shook hands. Mr. Walker went to the entrance of the terminal. Before he went in, he turned back with one last thought. “Maybe someday I'll even bring my father and my brother to this wonderful country. Wouldn't that be something, Declan?”

Less than a week later, Mr. Walker was back in Freetown, Sierra Leone, when word reached him from Mr. O'Connor. He had read in a Dublin newspaper that shortly after returning to the United States, Mr. Salvatore Barone had been found murdered in the trunk of his Cadillac.

PART THREE

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Boston, Massachusetts. The present.

The most pressing question was where to begin. Loose ends dangled in every direction. I did an inventory of the ones giving me the most spiking headaches. For one, we had a boy-client, Kevin, who stacked up in my mind as a major player in a game that I hadn't really identified. The question of how to defend him on a murder charge was a challenge since his whereabouts, in fact his alive/dead status, was anybody's guess.

On another front, the man who means more to me than all the rest of the characters involved in this mess unquestionably remained the target of an Italian organization not known to belay a grudge. That situation needed immediate defusing.

A further complication, if one were necessary, was how to pick up the reins of Father Ryan's defense on a trumped-up charge that stood to do increasingly more uncalled for harm to a good man the longer it remained open.

I felt strongly that based on something Seamus Burke had said on that flying drive to our little incident at the Seaborn Motel, a trip to Ireland would probably lie in my near future. On the other hand, one of those enumerated leaks in our boat needed immediate plugging before I went anywhere. Even considering an eventful upbringing in the rough-and-tumble bowels of Charlestown, Mr. Devlin had just taken the beating of his life. If there were one more, I'd most certainly lose the best friend I have on this planet.

That settled the order of priority. What had gotten Mr. D. into this mess in the first place seemed to be his visit to the rather shaky
witness against Father Ryan, one Finn Casey, also of Charlestown. I recalled that at Mr. D's request, Tom Burns had followed a thug later identified as Tony Napolitano from Casey's home to Collini's Bar in the Italian North End of Boston.

In the choice of which lead to follow first between Casey and Napolitano, Casey won hands down. Napolitano had been identified in Mr. D's telephone conversation with his friend, Don Santangelo, as the right-hand thug of Packy Salviti. Run-ins with Salviti had so far not only been unpleasant, but also unproductive.

Judging from the stone wall Mr. D. ran into when he approached Finn Casey in his own home, I knew I had to corral him on a more neutral turf. I knew in my heart he was lying about Father Ryan. His propelling impetus was easy. He was scared out of his wits by Packy Salviti's goon, Napolitano. The more obscure question was exactly why Salviti was putting the attack on Father Ryan in the first place. Casey may or may not have known, but it was worth a shot. A devilish notion began taking shape.

I checked out the neighborhood around Casey's address on Pearl Street. I knew he had a taste for the sauce. With a wife and child at home, the odds were that he was a regular at whatever neighborhood bar was closest to his house. In a working-class Irish neighborhood, it was no trick to find a bar within half a block's walk of his address.

It was shortly after two in the afternoon when I walked into Bob G's Shamrock Bar and approached the bartender. The lunch crowd had thinned, and I had his undiverted attention for some conversation. I ordered a pint of Sam Adams, and we got on a first name basis. I needed a message delivered with no red flags, and Bones, as they call him, the bartender, seemed to be my most promising route.

Since Finn Casey and I were close to the same age, and since the chances were outstanding that both he and Bones had gone to the local Charlestown High School, a rough plan began to fall into place.

When Bones and I had chatted ourselves to somewhere between acquaintances and reminiscing buddies, I asked if “my old classmate,” Finn Casey, ever came in. It did not knock me off the stool to learn that he was a regular.

I mentioned that I'd been working in Chicago since graduation from Charlestown High. This was my first chance to get back to The Town, as locals like to refer to Charlestown. I only had a day at home, and son of a gun, wouldn't it be great to get together with Finn for a couple of drinks to rehash those great high school memories. My figuring was that Casey's high school days were probably the happiest times of his life. And if that didn't do it, the prospect of a couple of drinks certainly would.

My new pal, Bones, thought Finn would go big for the idea. He happened to have his phone number by the bar telephone.

Within ten minutes, from my seat at a table in the dark back end of the bar I could see a man of the right age and the typical facial lines a career of hard drinking can etch, approaching Bones.

Bones pointed, and Finn Casey came my way. On Bones's advice, I had a full bottle of Tullamore Dew, one of Ireland's finest whiskeys, uncorked beside two glasses on the table.

I stood with my hand out to my “classmate,” and dredged up the best imitation of a Charlestown accent I could muster.

“Hey Finn. The Finnster. Been a wicked long time.”

His first glance was at the bottle, and then at me. I could see him searching what he could see of my features, which was not much in that darkness, and trying to pull back a name from our high school days.

I gave him a clue. “Yeah, it's me. You remember, Patrick, Pat, from homeroom senior year.”

I figured if there was not a “Patrick” or three in the senior class of Charlestown High School, I was in the wrong town altogether. To jog his memory, or imagination, further, I poured two very substantial shots of the Dew.

“Sit yourself down, Finn. Let's drink to—um, who the hell was that guy we used to laugh about—taught, um, English, was it?”

I noticed by the speed and accuracy with which my new classmate found his mouth with the Dew, he'd have happily toasted the Commander of the Ulster Constabulary.

I continued to babble in generalities about those wicked great
high school times, while Finn continued to accept and consume each refill.

By the fourth round, he was in a maudlin state of sharing the misfortunes of the post-high school years and recounting all that life had done to impede his personal rise to fame and fortune. I noticed that two particular barriers to success in his life were significantly left unmentioned. One was whiskey. That was no surprise. The second was his alleged abuse by Father Ryan.

I ignored the first and probed the second in subdued tones.

“Hey, Finn, I was at Mass this morning at our old church, Sacred Heart. I heard the damndest thing. I heard you said you were molested by Father Ryan. No kiddin'?”

I slipped it in as delicately as you can slip an eight-hundred-pound gorilla into a conversation, but it straightened him up. I only prayed it didn't snap him out of the sweet buzz that had him conversational. I poured him another substantial shot to get him past the shock of the jarring shift of subject.

His silence told me that I was losing him. I tried to keep the flow going. “That was a real shocker, Finn. Who'd a thought? He seemed like such a great guy. Wasn't he giving you boxing lessons?”

More silence. His eyes seemed to sink deeper into his head, and I thought he was losing focus. I tried a diversion. “Hey, you were a pretty good boxer in those days. Didn't you fight that Italian kid?”

Nothing. He was sinking deeper into himself. More Dew would have been counterproductive. I realized I was stymied. Time to cap the bottle and cut my losses.

“Well, Finn, old pal. It was good to see you again.”

“That's the damn hell of it.”

“What?”

He checked back over his shoulder. We were alone in the bar except for Bones at the far end. The faint light picked up pools of moisture collecting in both eyes.

“Damn it! I had to do it.”

“Had to do what, Finn?”

“You got a wife and a kid? What the hell would you have done?”

“Done about what, Finn?”

“I hadda do it. That scumbag, Napolitano. That hood. He woulda killed 'em. He told me that.”

The tears were flowing freely now. He dropped his head onto his arms on the table. I leaned in close and whispered.

“Tell me about it, Finn. Maybe I can help you.”

He just shook his head and sobbed. I gave him a minute and then took his shoulders and gently held him back to face me. “Finn, I can help you. But you've got to tell me about it. What did you do?”

He focused on my eyes with the most desperately pained look I'd ever seen. The words were fighting to get out, but they were bottled up in fear. I pulled his shoulders close to me so I could speak directly into his ear. Without eye contact, I thought it might have brought back the safe feeling of confidentiality of the confessional. I fired my last, best shot.

“Finn, I can help you. I can relieve your pain. I can get protection for you and your wife and your daughter. I can do it. Can you hear me?”

For seconds I had no idea whether or not I was getting through. I could feel the struggle going on inside of him through the layers of clothing.

Then the dam cracked slightly open with that one whispered word. “Yes.”

“It's true, Finn. I can. I can do it right now. But you've got to say it. You've got to tell me what you did. I'll understand.”

His shoulders were shaking almost to the point of convulsion. I could feel the struggle for freedom from the grip of his personal devil that was going on inside of him. I just held him until he suddenly froze. The words burst out of him.

“I lied. God forgive me. I lied. He never done anything to me. I lied. And I can never take it back.”

“You can, Finn. You can make it right. I'll help you. But you've got to say it. Why did you lie?”