Obit (19 page)

“You don’t think something that long ago could be related to the shooting, do you?”

“I think the answer is more likely to be found in the past than in the present.”

So she told us again about the man with a strong Brooklyn accent who had appeared on Declan’s doorstep.

“He accused Declan of stealing, or called him a thief. He said something about Declan stuffing an envelope in his pocket. ‘How can a man sink so low?’ he said. Or: ‘That’s pretty low.’ And I knew he meant something more than what my mother meant by ‘low’ — chewing gum or having fringe on your lampshades and sofa. Anyway, they had their argument. I can’t remember what else they said. And they pushed each other around. Then the man went away, warning Mr. Burke to stick to his own turf, ‘not ours.’ The reason I remember that is I asked my father when I got home what turf was. And he gave me a whole bunch of meanings. I don’t recall any of them except the kind of turf the Irish used for fuel in their fires. So I had an image of Declan hunched over his fireplace, face lit up by flames, and the other man doing the same in his own house.”

“A turf war of some kind,” I mused.

“Men!” Maura said, catching Sandra’s eye. They shook their heads.

We walked Sandra home after dinner, and she told us she hoped to see us again before we left.

†

The next day was Monday, and Brennan called to tell me he had dropped his niece off at the local library, where she would spend a few hours looking at old newspapers.

“Shouldn’t she be in school? Or are they on spring break?”

“She should be in school, but one day’s mitching won’t hurt her. You’ll see what I mean. What are you up to tonight? Something entertaining, I hope.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. It’s father and daughter night at the opera. She’s a little proprietorial about the druidic tale, given that
MacNeil and I saddled her with the name Norma after we saw it in Milan. Don’t ever call her that, by the way. She answers to Normie, and that’s it.”

“Understood.”

“Anyway, I promised that if the opera was good — and I’m sure we’re agreed that it was, even if the night was a bit of a disappointment for you —” he snorted at that “— I’d take her to see it.”

“She’ll be enthralled. Have a grand time.”

We took a trip on the Staten Island ferry that afternoon and ate lots of junk food, but Normie’s mind was on higher things. She was indeed enthralled by the opera, as she reported to her mother when we got in. “They sang my song, ‘Casta Diva.’ It was beautiful. And the priestess — named after
me
— was in a sparkly robe and the lights were on her and she looked like a beam of light coming from the moon. We have to put the opera on at school, for our June concert! I’ll play Norma, because I already know all the music, and Kim can be the other girl. Father Burke can be the guy, the Roman, and Daddy, you can sing in the background . . .” It took nearly two hours to get her wound down and ready to sleep.

†

On Tuesday morning I met another young girl, and this one probably
could
stage-manage an opera at school. It started with a call from Brennan: “Our little detective is here, with a sheaf of newspaper clippings. Would you like to come over?”

Traffic was light for some unexplained reason, and I arrived in Queens in record time.

Sitting at the Burkes’ kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of her was an owlish-looking girl I remembered vaguely from the wedding. She looked like a young fourteen. “Deirdre, have you met Monty, my friend from Halifax? Deirdre is Pat’s daughter.”

“Hello, Monty. If you’d care to have a seat I’ll show you what I’ve found. Would you like tea before we begin?”

“Tea would be great. Thank you.”

Brennan winked at me and sat down. “I’ll have a cup too, Deirdre.”

“Certainly, Brennan.”

Once we had our tea, the child got down to business. She pushed her round glasses up on her nose and straightened the stack of clippings in her hands.

“I think I can save you some time. I assume you are not interested in gang rumbles, domestic shootings, or Mob slayings unless the gangsters happen to be Irish. Am I right?”

“You are probably right, yes.”

“You are not looking for a case in which the person was sentenced to death.”

“I hope not,” Brennan said quietly.

“You are interested in the waterfront but not in corrupt hiring practices and the investigations of that nature that were going on at the time.”

“That’s probably true,” I agreed, and wondered if I could hire this child in some capacity at our law firm, “but you can show them to us.”

“I will. But I think you’ll be disappointed. So I’ll start with the other things I found.”

She slapped the first clipping on the table like a card in a poker game. “O’Farrell, John. Convicted in the beating and robbery of a storekeeper in Briarwood, Queens. Sent to Attica.”

“What was the storekeeper’s name, and what kind of store was it?”

“Mervish, Eli. Corner store. Cigarettes, groceries, candy, that sort of thing I gather.”

“All right.”

The next one was slapped down. “Doherty, Thomas. Convicted of shooting a security guard on the Lower West Side of Manhattan. Guard left disabled. Doherty sent to Attica.”

“Does it say anything about Doherty? Any interesting connections, or was he just a lone bank robber?”

“He had done it before.” Deirdre squinted at the paper. “In fact he had just been released from prison two weeks before this crime.”

“Which happened when?”

“September 5, 1952.”

“Never mind. That means he was inside in July. Next?”

Slap on the table. “Connors, Gerald. Convicted of robbery — armed robbery. Struck near-fatal blow to head of port watchman during a theft of weapons. Sent to Attica.”

I looked over at Brennan. His eyes were on the clipping. “Let’s hear more about this one, Deirdre.”

Her lips curled up in a little smile. “Yes. This took place on the Brooklyn waterfront, Pier One. Some crates of guns — Smith and Wesson something or other — were supposed to be shipped to Japan, but they were stolen from the shed. The watchman got clobbered, and the thieves got away.”

“How many thieves?”

“Connors and one other guy they never caught.”

Brennan was sitting absolutely still, staring past the young girl and her papers.

I questioned her again. “The date, Deirdre?”

“The robbery took place July
12, 1952
.”

I slipped the paper out of her hand. Two men with their faces covered had pulled up in a truck outside the gate of the pier, got out of the truck, and were stopped by the port watchman on duty, Enzo Rinaldi, who grabbed one of them. The other had a gun. They tackled him, clubbed him over the head and left him unconscious. They were able to get into the shed, which had been left open. Police suspected an inside job but Rinaldi was not under suspicion. The two men removed three crates of .32 calibre Smith and Wesson “Chief’s Specials” before fleeing the scene. Constable Seamus O’Brien stated this type of revolver was designed for close combat and extremely rapid fire. Police were able to place Connors at the scene because of torn clothing that matched items found on the pier, and he was arrested a few days later. Connors never admitted there was another man involved in the heist. Police believed the weapons were moved to another pier that same night and loaded on a ship bound for the Republic of Ireland. Connors was twenty-three years old, married, with two infant children.

“Do you want to see the rest of these?” Deirdre asked. I had almost forgotten she was there.

“I think we have what we’re looking for, but let me glance at the others.” It didn’t take long. We had found the real “Danny,” the man Declan was working on all those nights at the White Gardenia, with Evie as an extra attraction. What had she said? The man was younger than Declan, but older than she was? Of course. She was only nineteen
or twenty; twenty-three qualified as “older.” Connors turned out to be a stand-up guy, doing his time without informing on Declan. I looked again at the clipping. The court heard evidence of Connors’s previous good character. He had no prior record. The sentence was seven to ten years. The words of the obituary chilled me when I ran them through my mind. Never got out of Attica. Why?

Brennan sat at the table staring at his hands. This was pretty much what we had expected, with the exception perhaps of the watchman bludgeoned and left unconscious, but it was obviously painful for Brennan to have his suspicions confirmed. I thanked Deirdre, and Brennan gave her a distracted smile. She left us with the assurance that she would be happy to assist if we needed her again.

“Well,” I began.

“Why did he never get out of Attica, Monty?”

“That’s the next item on our agenda.” I picked up the clipping and took note of the defence attorney’s name: Myron Rose. I also jotted down the name of the one police officer mentioned, Seamus O’Brien.

“Armed robbery,” Brennan said. “They could have killed the man.”

“I’m sure they didn’t plan it that way, Brennan. They probably panicked. The story says it was an inside job. The warehouse was left unlocked, so they thought they’d get in and out —”

“It’s never planned that way, is it? Yet everyone goes in carrying a gun. Jesus.”

“This must have been the one big scheme your father had to compensate the
IRA
for the money he took with him, and maybe get the death sentence lifted. If he could pull it off, he’d be clear. That would be the end of it.”

“But it wasn’t the end of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He pissed the Mob off while he was at it. That night at the club, Patrizio Corialli said Declan had stepped on their toes. They may have had their eyes on this shipment of guns, and Declan moved in on their territory.”

“Their turf. That may explain the visit from the man Sandra saw during your teen years. A Mob enforcer?”

“Chances are. Did my old fellow know what he was getting into?”

“Never know with Declan, do you?”

“You said a mouthful there.”

“Whatever the situation, it seems Corialli isn’t holding a grudge.”

“Let’s hope we can all achieve forgiveness of such biblical proportions. Let’s call it a day here. I wish we weren’t so short on time. We need a day to blow off steam. But we don’t have it. Or I don’t. You do. Take a day off, Monty. For Christ’s sake, you come down here, shots fly past your family at a wedding, your wife reams you out —”

“Nothing new there.” I stared into my teacup but found no answers in the dregs. “I’ll go track down the lawyer.”

†

Myron Rose had died in 1984, but his law firm was thriving. I stood in the twentieth-floor office of a concrete and glass high-rise on Sixth Avenue and gazed down at the landscaped plaza and blue fountain pool below. I had just identified myself to the firm’s managing partner, Deborah Feldstein. She told me the Gerald Connors file was in storage, and it was confidential anyway. I understood that. She did, however, have a master list of all files and contacts. She would not give out any information, but she offered to try to find a member of the Connors family. If the person wanted to call me, fine. What exactly was my interest? I could have woven some kind of fantasy to cover my real purpose but I saw no reason to lie. I offered a short version of the truth, leaving out Declan’s name. She nodded and said she would make her calls as soon as she had a free moment.

†

That evening Maura, Normie and I walked to D.J. Reynolds for an early supper. Normie brought a book she had purchased earlier in the day; she could not put it down. That was fine with me; we wouldn’t have to hear “Can we go now?” halfway through the meal. Her mother and I each ordered a pint and settled in. The waitress had recently arrived from Ireland, and she had a few amusing tales for us about being a neophyte in New York.

“Not everybody had such a rollicking good time when they
washed up in the land of opportunity,” Maura remarked when the woman had moved on to another table.

“Oh?”

“No. I had lunch with Teresa today. Took her out for a treat and we dropped Normie off to play with Terry and Sheila Burke’s youngest daughter.”

Normie’s head came up momentarily from her book. “Christine. She’s cool!”

“Teresa and I had a lovely time,” Maura said. “But when the conversation turned to early days in New York, I was able to discern that it was not all the sweetness and light you’d expect from life on the run with Declan Burke.”

“Imagine that! What did she say?”

“She didn’t say anything specific about his activities or his ‘troubles,’ so we’re none the wiser there, but she did reminisce a bit about life in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Hell’s Kitchen? I thought they’d been in Sunnyside all along.”

“Oh, no. They got off to a rough start.”

New York City, 1950

“Marry the likes of Declan Burke and you’ll rue the day.” How many times did I hear that? Well, the day is here. We’ve just washed up on the shores of America with nothing but a rosary and the dirty, stinking clothes on our backs. Declan and me, five children, and we don’t know a soul. I thought nothing could be worse than saying goodbye to our home in Dublin, roaring down the highway to Cobh in the middle of the night and leaping onto the ship just before it left port. Then came the interminable trip across the ocean with everyone weeping and whinging and sicking up. But this is worse. I’d as lief be back in the train station than in this place. Grand Central was grand indeed, the Shelbourne Hotel compared to this. Seven people in two rooms, the place is filthy, and the toilets and bathtubs are down the hall. We have to drag the children to get them down there. Then you see some class of enormous, terrifying insect scuttling about whenever you turn on the light. And the ructions that go on! All manner of gougers and gurriers run wild in the hallways day and night. If Mam and Da could see us now, residents of a tenement in a place they call Hell’s Kitchen.

Oh, didn’t I give out to himself last night? I all but pinned him to the wall with my fury. “You got us into this, you get us out of it.” He doesn’t need me to tell him what I’ll do if he doesn’t get us a decent place to live; he’ll not see us again until he creeps back onto Irish soil carrying that gun he smuggled out.