“Believe me, Michael, I just did what I had to do to keep my boys in line. It was nothing personal, it was nothing to do with you being a rat, er, I mean…”
“It’s all right…. So it wasn’t you.” “It wasn’t me.”
“So who was it?”
“Maybe you have old Belfast enemies.”
“I don’t. I was small-time. Nobody that would want to kill me that bad.”
“Maybe somebody who knew that there was a bounty on your head.”
I sat on the pavement beside O’Neill. The cops were starting that line thing they do, where they pace very close to one another, looking for evidence. Be over here sharpish.
“You’re telling me that it wasn’t you?” I muttered to myself. It was a rhetorical question, but O’Neill wanted to reassure me.
“It wasn’t me, Michael. I authorized just the one attack on you. That’s all. I don’t know about these others you’re talking about. Just the one attack.”
“The RPG hit at the boat,” I said.
“Aye, the apparently fucked-up RPG attack on the boat.”
I looked into his tired eyes. I believed him; there was no reason for him to lie. It was just that one op. Which unfortunately reopened the question, what the hell was going on? Two attacks in Dublin, not by Bridget, not by the IRA.
Someone as yet unknown. I put the .38 back in my pocket. I offered him my bloody palm.
“Listen, Body, I want to talk truce.” He shook my hand.
“Talk away.”
“Ok. I messed with your boy Seamus and you’re pissed off about that. But I have other things on my plate. Bridget Callaghan’s right-hand man, David Moran, wants to see me dead. He’s vowed to kill me when they get Siobhan back at midnight. If they don’t get her back, he’s going to kill me anyway. Now, as I see it, it would be bloody redundant of you to waste your time trying to kill me. You’ve more than paid me off for Seamus, ok?”
He nodded.
“So what do you want?” he asked.
“I want you to leave me alone. You don’t want me around. Ok. Give me twenty-four hours to leave Ulster. One way or another, I’ll either be out of here or I’ll be dead. Keep off the goddamn hounds until then.”
He straightened himself, thought about it.
“Michael, if you’re sparing me right now, and it sounds like you are, you’re a bigger man than I thought. I wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you; if the peelers hadn’t rammed the van, you’d be dead. It’s rare to see that these days. I know what they say about you, you’re a rascal and all that. But I give you my word that no one from the IRA or any other group that I have influence over will bother you in the time you’re in Belfast.”
“Including Seamus?” I asked.
“Including Seamus,” he confirmed. “Do you have the clout to do it?” He seemed offended.
“I do.”
“You’ll keep Seamus Deasey off my back?” He nodded.
“And there’s something else. I need Seamus to do me a favor,” I said with a little smile.
“From Seamus? Of all people in the world, you need a favor from Seamus? That’s not happening, mate,” O’Neill said doubtfully.
“Bridget Callaghan hired me to find her daughter. The person who lifted her was on that boat, the Ginger Bap. Kid called Barry. He’d been murdered, execution style. Seamus knew he was already dead. Don’t ask me how he knew, because I’m damned if I know.”
“Seamus is mixed up in the disappearance of Bridget Callaghan’s daughter?” O’Neill asked. The old man’s face looked even more ashen. His lip was trembling. He was clearly upset.
“I don’t know about that. But he knows something about Barry’s death. Maybe the gunman needed Seamus’s permission to kill one of his dealers.”
O’Neill scoffed. “Seamus couldn’t give permission to get a dog’s hair cut. I’m in charge round here and nobody asked me about it.”
“Well, he heard something. I need to know about it. Time’s running out. When Seamus told me where Barry lived, he told me specifically that the information wouldn’t do me any good. He knew Barry was topped. The cops hadn’t found him and the neighbors didn’t know.”
O’Neill looked thoughtful.
“You really think the person who killed this Barry is involved in Siobhan Callaghan’s kidnapping?”
“He has to be.”
“And Seamus knows who did it?”
“I went to the boat before it sank, nothing had been touched. The lock was all done up with wire. The last person there was the killer.”
“Maybe somebody blabbed,” he said, coming to the conclusion that had also occurred to me.
“Belfast’s a pretty closemouthed town,” I added with a touch of skepticism.
“Aye, but it’s not like in your day, Michael. We can’t go around murdering witnesses anymore, not with the cease- fires.”
“Will you help me?” I asked.
“Michael, we’re both intelligent men. You and I know that it’s in our own best interests that Bridget Callaghan gets her daughter back in one piece. If finding who killed that boy can bring you closer to Siobhan, I’m sure Miss Callaghan will look more favorably upon us rather than her other potential business partners.”
“I’m sure she would.” He nodded.
“Give me a minute,” he said. He pulled a cell phone out of his inside pocket and dialed the number. He turned the volume loud so I could hear the conversation too.
“Seamus, it’s me,” O’Neill said.
“Are you ok? Been hearing lots of things,” Seamus said with a tiny trace of disappointment in his voice that both O’Neill and I picked up on.
“Seamus, you listen to me and you listen good. I have heard that you have been fucking playing me. I have heard that you have been trying to make a fucking monkey out of me,” O’Neill began.
“What are you talking about?” Seamus complained.
“You better start packing your bags, Seamus, because I’m putting a contract out on you right now. You only wanted
Michael Forsythe killed because he was close to finding out that you were involved in Siobhan Callaghan’s disappearance. That whole fucking operation at the boat was to cover your white Irish arse.”
“It’s a lie. I had nothing to do with that wee girl’s disappearance,” Seamus protested.
“Did you not? Well, I have information to the contrary. You wanted that boat sunk, you wanted Forsythe dead because one of your dealers lifted her. You wanted Forsythe out of the picture because he knew the fucking truth.”
Body’s eyes twinkled with merriment. He was enjoying this.
“That’s bullshit, I didn’t know the boat was going to sink. I swear to God, Mr. O’Neill, I knew nothing about any kidnapping,” Seamus said in a panic.
“How did you know Barry was already dead on the boat? How did you know he was fucking dead?”
“Gusty McKeown did it. Him and some fella from out of town. Gusty got the guns from me. Wanted a whole lot of guns. I had to ask him what it was about and he told me they had to top some wee fuck for reasons that he wasn’t allowed to divulge. So I said what wee fuck is that and he tells me and I say that’s my wee fuck and I ask for extra as compensation, you know. But I says ok cos they wanted Russian machine guns and Glock pistols and the whole works and were paying top dollar. With the guns and the compensation, it was fifteen large. I swear to God I was going to give you your cut, but I just hadn’t got round to it.”
O’Neill put his hand over the receiver and looked at me. “Is that what you need?”
“Where would I find Gusty?” I said. O’Neill spoke into the phone again.
“Where would I find Gusty?” he asked Seamus.
“Shit, I have no idea, Mr. O’Neill, he lives in the…oh, wait a minute, I think Andy knows something. Hold on…. Mr. O’Neill, Andy says he’ll be at the fights at the Dove Tavern on Brazil Street.”
I nodded at O’Neill. That’s what I wanted.
“Talk to you later, Seamus,” O’Neill said and hung up his phone.
He looked grim. He had discovered a lot about Seamus. The poor wee blabbermouth would be lucky if he saw out the night.
“You going over to the Dove?” he asked me. “Aye.”
“You’ll need a password to get into the fights. It’s always a historical figure. This week I think it’s Henry Joy McCracken.”
“I just say ‘Henry Joy McCracken’?” “Aye, that’s it.”
O’Neill put out his hand. I shook it and helped him to his feet.
“I like you, Michael, I’m glad things worked out the way they did,” he said. “You are not lacking in honor.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I better get cracking. You, too, if you don’t want those peelers down your neck.”
“Good luck. And remember, Forsythe, this is my town. I hope you don’t keep leaving a trail of bloody destruction in your wake.”
“Well,” I said, reflecting upon his words, “the night is young.