Night Of The Blackbird (25 page)

He nodded. “Your father had it on before you came down. Thank God I don't know anyone in the business now.”

“Now?”

He shrugged. “In my wild days, I knew several working girls. Hey, you know I did some pretty bad shit when we were kids. Drugs. Hell, they got me for vandalism, and armed robbery, though I wasn't the one with the gun. I shaped up with your dad's help. I have a beer now and then. No drugs. No guns. Okay, a little nicotine…” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit one as they headed down the street. “That's why your cop the other night made me nervous.”

“You're nervous about more than that, aren't you?”

Jeff waved his cigarette in the air. “Rumors, Moira. Nothing more than rumors.”

“And what are the rumors?”

He shrugged and inhaled deeply before answering her. “Jacob Brolin.”

“What about him?” She tensed, praying suddenly that this had nothing to do with her mother.

“Well, he's a bigwig. And a moderate. And you have a huge population tired of bloodshed and violence in Northern Ireland. But you've had decades now, too, of a group—an ever-changing group, of course—who still believe that only violence has the power to change anything. And you have to remember, the Republic of Ireland was won through violence.”

“Jeff, please, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Moira, don't be a dunce. Assassination.”

She stopped dead still on the sidewalk. “Assassination?”

“Moira, there could be a dozen lunatics in the street ready to do something violent, either because they're psychotic assholes or because they don't believe in moderation and negotiation.”

“So what does that have to do with us? If it's that obvious, surely Brolin knows it. He walks around with—” She broke off and started over. “Surely he walks around with a bodyguard. And he probably has a police escort, too.”

“Of course, of course. And I'm not in on anything, I swear it. There was just some talk about blackbird being some kind of a code word. And Kelly's being a place where people might meet and find one another.”

She gasped, staring at him in horror. “That's terrible! And it can't be true. We need to tell the police.”

“Apparently, they already know. Hence your guy ordering the blackbird the other night.”

She let out a long breath. “Rumor. Where did you hear this rumor, Jeff?”

“Oh, Moira—”

“I need to know.”

“There's the sandwich shop.”

“Jeff, I need to know.”

He sighed deeply. “Seamus. Seamus said he'd heard people whispering one night. It was dark…after hours. He didn't know what was going on, and he was afraid. He talked about it in the pub, thinking he was safer surrounded by friends. I told him to keep his old mouth shut.”

“Jeff, you should go to the police with what you know.”

“What do I know? That Seamus—who's half-deaf—heard whispers? Blackbird is the name of the band. And a drink. And the police are aware there could be crackpots in the city. What could I possibly tell them that they don't already know? I'd get myself arrested on some trumped-up conspiracy charge, and that would be that.”

“Jeff—”

“Your father's right, Moira,” he said, stopping at the door to the sandwich shop. “Don't trust any strangers. And be damned careful, even in the pub. If you want to know more, you're going to have to ask old Seamus. Now, there's a fellow who
could
go to the police—but he won't. Yeah, Seamus is one straight arrow. He came to the States, worked his ass off and became a model citizen. But I sincerely doubt that he'll talk to you, and I can guarantee he won't go to the police.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's dangerous to let anyone know that you know too much,” he told her.

“But if—”

“Trust me, the radicals, the moderates and even the just-don't-really-cares have excellent intelligence systems. The police are here already. We're usually filled with our regulars, the lunch crowd and the cocktail crowd. The dinner crowd, and those who come in for the music. And most of them look familiar to me after all this time. But I've been watching the people in the bar lately. Lots of strangers.”

“There are always strangers in the pub.”

“Yes, but trust me. There are more than usual. I bet even Brolin's people are here already. Jesus, Moira, trust me on this. Keep out of it—completely.”

“It's my father's pub.”

“Nothing is going to happen in your father's pub. And there's nothing that any of us could tell Brolin's people that they don't already know.”

“If everyone is so smart, how come so many people have been killed through the years?”

“Because there are too many people who see their side as a just and true cause, and they're willing to die for it. You need to keep your mouth shut, and Seamus needs to keep his mouth shut. Ignorance isn't just bliss, Moira, it's life. Okay, they're beginning to stare at me from inside for keeping this door open so long. We've got to go in. And I'll never say a word about any of this to you in front of anyone else. Now, what kind of sandwich you want?”

 

When she returned to Kelly's with Jeff, her father was gone. Chrissie had come in and was working the bar. Patrick and Josh were sitting at one of the front tables, drinking coffee and talking to a blond man of about forty-five, nicely dressed, long legs casually stretched out from his seat at the table.

The stranger saw Moira as she entered. He stood, bringing both Patrick and Josh to their feet.

“Moira, I don't think you've met Andrew McGahey as yet. He works with the Irish Children's Charities group. Andrew, my sister Moira. And you have met Jeff Dolan, right?” Patrick asked.

“Moira, how do you do?” McGahey said. His accent wasn't Irish. It was New York City, if anything. He went on to shake Jeff's hand. “Of course I've met Jeff. I've heard the Blackbirds many a time now. Wonderful group.”

“Thanks,” Jeff said.

“Coffee, you two?” Patrick asked.

Moira lifted her cup. She hadn't forgotten to stop for the gourmet coffee she had told her father she was craving.

“I'm fine,” Jeff said.

“Moira, did you have any more plans for the day?” Josh asked.

“What?”

“Plans. For taping. The guys are off with the crew. They called in, and they're doing fine with the pub door segment. Was there anything else you wanted to do today?”

She'd forgotten about her own show. Forgotten that she'd detoured Josh and company from a delightful vacation to come home to film Saint Patrick's Day.

“Uh, no, not today. But,” she said hastily, “I think I can get an interview with Brolin. I have to call his people back in a bit for a time and a place, but I think it will work out.”

“You got Brolin,” Josh said appreciatively.

“I think,” she murmured.

“You didn't tell me that,” Jeff said.

“Or me,” Patrick said.

“Well, it just happened. This morning,” Moira murmured uncomfortably. She didn't mention her mother's role, not because she didn't want to give credit where it was due, but because she didn't know if Katy wanted people knowing that she had been, at the least, acquainted with Brolin in Ireland.

“Great,” Josh said. “If we're done for the day, though—or if I'm done, at least—I'm going to take Gina sightseeing.”

“Hey, thanks for the help down here,” Patrick told him.

“Not at all,” Josh said, waving goodbye.

“Where's Dad?” Moira asked.

“I'm not sure,” Patrick said, frowning. “He got a call, asked us to man things and took off like a shot.” Her brother looked unhappy. “I asked him what was wrong, and I was going to follow along, he was so damned white. But he told me he needed me here.”

“That's strange. You're sure he was all right?”

“No, he wasn't all right. But I couldn't knock him down and insist he tell me what was going on. He will, in his own good time. And by the way, Andrew came by today specifically to meet you.”

“Oh?” She looked at the blond man.

He smiled. A mature charmer, tall and good-looking, with a single dimple. He had an air of casual sophistication.

“I'm hoping you can help us along with your show, somewhere along the line.”

“Ah,” she murmured. “How?”

“Airtime.”

She nodded. “Of course. Did you mean…now? For this show?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no, we're just putting the whole thing together now. Your brother has been doing our legal work. I'm hoping to get Jeff and his group to do a special CD for me, with the proceeds going to my cause. Once we get it going, we'll be hitting the news stations, papers and all, but with your show…well, it would be nice to touch the heart of America's travelers. They usually have money.”

“What exactly is your charity doing?” she inquired.

“Moira, you're sounding like an inquisitor,” Patrick murmured.

“I need to know,” she told her brother. She didn't know what was goading her on, but she was being rude. “I want to make sure you're trying to teach kids about art and literature, language and mathematics, computer science. I mean, you're not conducting a school for the manufacture and use of weapons, are you?”

“Moira,” Patrick said angrily.

“It's all right,” Andrew said, smiling. He folded his hands on the table, looking at Moira earnestly. “There was a lot of violence in the seventies and early eighties, even into the nineties. Did you know that half the population of Ireland is under fifty years old? Bad times caused a lot of emigration. And a lot of orphans, or kids growing up in single-parent homes. A lot of poverty. Ireland is coming along financially now, both in the North and in the Republic. But we still have a generation coming into the working world that has grown up with little assistance. Young adults with little education and few skills. We're hoping to change that.”

“Well, then, when you get your charity up and rolling, I'll be happy to see what I can do,” Moira murmured. Patrick was still staring at her as if he wanted to kick her leg under the table. Even Jeff was watching her with a slightly rueful expression. Was she becoming ridiculously paranoid? Every politician in the world took a chance, trying to change things, even trying to make a better world. There was always someone out there with the capacity for violence.

“Thanks,” Andrew said. “Hey, I can show you one really special kid.” He took out his wallet. She almost jumped back, wondering for a moment if he was reaching for a gun.

He flipped open his billfold, showing her the picture of a young woman of about eighteen, with long dark hair. “Jill Miller. Both folks killed. She was blinded in the explosion that took their lives. A car bomb. Anyway, she's a wonderful natural musician. She plays the guitar like an angel. She's got the talent, and she wants to come to the States, to go to Julliard.”

Moira nodded. “Well, I hope she makes it,” she said softly.

“She will,” Andrew assured her. “The world is filled with trouble. Eastern Europe, Africa, and naturally we need to learn to help ourselves right here in the States, too. God knows, AIDS is an epidemic killing us all. But I think that this is a good cause. In my mind, there's never been anything to outdo the value of a good education.”

“Yes, of course,” Moira murmured.

“And it's not a bad thing for those of us who have done so well in the States to give back,” Patrick said.

“You're an American,” she reminded her brother.

“I'm American, as well, born and bred in New York, as I'm sure you can tell,” Andrew said. “But I'm first generation, just like you. My parents talked so long about doing something like this that I've finally realized they were right. Anyway, thanks for listening. And I'll appreciate your help, whatever you're willing to give.”

“Like I said, I'm very willing to see what you're doing.”

“And I'll want to show you—really show you. When the time is right.” He smiled at Moira, then turned to her brother. “Hey, Patrick, I think it's closing in on cocktail hour. I'd like to try one of those specialties of the house. A blackbird.”

Moira thought he was staring straight at her as he said the words.

A blackbird. Sure. They hadn't made any in years, but what the heck, it was becoming popular now.

“One blackbird, coming right up. You sit, Patrick. I'll make him his drink. I think I'm becoming an expert.”

As she rose, the pub door opened. Moira turned toward it.

Her father was standing there, his face gray, beyond ashen.