Blood on a Saint (40 page)

So on Saturday morning he picked up the phone and called Maggie’s number. A little girl answered. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Florrie or Celia? It’s Florrie, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s me! I know you. You’re Brennan. I remember your voice. Are you going to give me the song you promised?”

He scanned his brain to try to find the reference. “‘Pussy Got the Measles’?”

“Yeah! Are you going to . . . Celia just butted in and told me I’m not being very polite. So I’m sorry for bugging you about the song.”

“No, not at all. I did promise you and I am definitely going to give it to you. I’ll put some guitar chords to it.”

“Really? Wow, that will be great!”

He could not bring himself to use the child’s eagerness for the music to engineer a visit to the house in the face of Maggie’s resistance. “Tell you what. I’ll put it in the mail for you.”

“Okay! Celia! When a letter comes, don’t open it. It’s for me! Thank you very much, Brennan.”

“You’re welcome, Florrie. Is Maggie there by any chance?”

“Yeah, she’s just outside. She doesn’t have to work with the rats on Saturdays. I’ll call her. Maggie! Phone! It’s Brennan!”

So much for that. He steeled himself for a blast.

He heard the receiver banging against something, then heard Maggie. “You guys go out and make snow angels. I’ll come back out in a minute, after I deal with this.”

Deal with
him
, she meant.

“What were you saying to my sister?”

“The time I was there . . .”

“The time you wormed your way into my house and spent a whole lot of time with two very young girls. Right.”

“Please believe me, Maggie. I have only the best of intentions. I am harmless.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Perhaps they do. But I assure you I mean no harm to you or to your sisters. I am only trying to find out what happened to the young girl who was murdered in my churchyard.”

“And you think trespassing on my property and making promises to my little sisters that you have no intention of keeping is the way to investigate this murder? Maybe somebody should be asking where you were that night! Since you’re so interested in young girls!”

“Somebody did ask and, in fact, I was probably the person closest to the murder scene, with the exception of the killer himself. So, yes, the police did question me, as you might expect. They know I’m innocent. And I am not ‘interested in young girls’ in the way you are suggesting. But I think you know that, Maggie. I am very concerned about Ignatius Boyle and the trouble he might have brought upon himself, with his relationship to the victim, whatever it was, and with that photograph. And his answers about the night of the murder are not at all satisfactory. I do not think Ignatius Boyle is an evil man, but I know there was something going on.”

“And you want me to what? Help you frame Ignatius for the murder of Jordyn Snider?”

“Not frame him. Help me understand what happened between them. What is your own relationship with Ignatius?”

“I don’t have a
relationship
with Ignatius Boyle!”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate an improper relationship. I just meant: how do you know him?”

“You’ve insinuated enough. And none of this is any of your business. What?” She interrupted herself to respond to something happening off-stage. “Tell him to wait down there. No!”

There was a touch of panic in her voice. And was Brennan hearing things correctly? It sounded to him as if he heard Florrie saying to Maggie, “It’s okay. He knows Brennan!” But Brennan would never know, because Maggie returned her full attention to him and told him yet again never to call, never to show his face, and never to contact her sisters again, or she would have the police on him. Then she slammed down the phone. Once again, he was made to feel like a stalker, a pervert, a creep who made phone calls to young girls.

†

Brennan had more luck on the phone Sunday afternoon. The MacNeil called, apologized for missing Mass in the morning, and he absolved her in good grace. She had called to give him the good news that Monty was out of the hospital and, although still looking a little battered, was feeling fine. He would be at work on Monday because how could he justify whooping it up at the Flying Stag Monday night if he had taken a sick day from work?

“He’s playing at the Shag? How’s he going to do that? Isn’t his arm in a sling?”

“He’s not going to play guitar, sing, or blow the harp. That is all going to be done for him by somebody else. Another band.”

“So why is he going, if Functus isn’t playing?”

“Because the whole show is to honour Monty for his actions in saving Dominic. The bar owner wants to do a tribute to him, so we’re all going. And you too, we hope.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. That’s grand of them to do this for Monty.”

“Well, he’s been bringing business in to the place for twenty-five years! But, more than that, they like him there. And the best is —
ta
da
! The band for the night is Dads in Suits!”

“Tommy Douglas’s band. Great!”

“Tommy is over the moon. They’re having the show early to comply with the liquor laws, because the boys are still under age. Starts at seven, over by nine. See you there.”

“See you there. Oh, I was nearly cavalier enough to hang up the phone without wishing you a happy St. Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh, Father, you shouldn’t have.”

“Well, I didn’t. Send flowers or chocolates, or anything thoughtful like that. But on our next visit to Dublin, I shall take you and Montague to the shrine of St. Valentine, where relics of the great saint are kept and are venerated. Who says romantic Ireland’s dead and gone?”

“I’ll hold you to it. But, to give credit where credit is due, I believe you have successfully invoked the saint in your ministry to us even without a visit to the shrine.”

“Maybe so.”

“Brennan, about all that, bringing us together, I will never be able to thank you enough. I don’t even know where to begin. You . . .” There was a catch in her voice, and then she stopped.

“No need, my pet. See you tomorrow night.”

†

Brennan would not have thought it possible that he would be showing his face again at the Flying Stag after his all-too-memorable evening there six weeks ago. But he was very keen on the tribute to Monty, and this would be his first opportunity to hear Tom’s band. It was quarter to seven, and he was in the process of shedding his clerical collar and substituting a sweater and jeans when his phone rang, and he picked it up.

“On my way,” he announced.

“Father Burke?”

“Yes? Sorry there. I thought it was going to be somebody else.”

“I have to speak to you.”

“Certainly.”

“Do you know who this is?”

Not until that moment, but now he knew. It was Ignatius Boyle.

“Uh . . .”

“It’s Ignatius.”

“Oh, yes, Ignatius. How are you?”

“Not good.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Can I talk to you tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me at the statue.”

“Sure. Em, what time? Now?”

What was he going to do? He did not want to miss any of the tribute to Monty. But he absolutely could not miss whatever Boyle wanted to tell him. If the man was in the mood to talk right that minute, there was no guarantee he would be of the same mind at another time.

But Boyle surprised him. “When you answered, Father, you said, ‘On my way.’ I think I have caught you on your way to another commitment.”

“Well, I . . .”

“That’s all right. You have your ministry, and I respect that. We can meet at a time convenient to yourself.”

“Are you sure, Ignatius? I don’t want to put you off.”

“No, no, Father, I’m not on a schedule of any kind. You just tell me what time. But it is important that we speak soon.” Boyle’s voice had taken on a nervous edge, and Brennan began to worry again that he might lose the opportunity.

He tested the waters by saying, “Ten o’clock at the statue?”

“That will be fine, Father. Bless you.”

“And you, Ignatius. The blessings of God on you.”

“Thank you, Father. Ten o’clock.”

†

When Brennan arrived at the Flying Stag, the Collins-MacNeil family was already in place. The staff had put two tables together for the family, the members of Functus, and Maura’s pals Fanny and Liz. And Brennan; there was a seat waiting for him, with a glass of draft settling nicely on the table in front of it. He would enjoy it, because it would be the only one for him tonight. Monty and Maura were sitting side by side; little Dominic was on Monty’s knee. Monty’s face was bruised and cut, and the arm was in a sling. But he had the look of a very happy man. Normie fluttered around the baby, smoothing his hair, adjusting his clothing, producing toys from her bag to amuse him. Constable Truman Beals, dressed down in civilian clothing, saluted them from across the room. The place was packed.

Tommy and his band were setting up, and Brennan could feel the excitement coming off of them. This was their first bar gig. Tommy was a smaller, but not much smaller, version of his father, with wavy dark blond hair and sky-blue eyes. The band wore dark suits, white shirts, black ties, and porkpie hats. They were not yet of age, hence the early show time, which would feel like the middle of the afternoon to the blues crowd. Brennan suspected the Stag was not too concerned one way or the other, as long as the band members did not openly indulge in any forbidden fluids. Brennan did not see Constable Beals coming for them, or for the bar staff, with handcuffs.

Oh, there might be a problem after all. Normie had a request: “Can I have a beer too? That one looks good. It looks like apple juice.” Her parents delivered the bad news. It was against the law to serve alcohol to a minor, and she had nine years to go.

“That’s okay. I’ll have what you drink when you’re not drinking, Father. What’s so funny?” she asked, as everyone in hearing range burst into laughter. The child’s little face blushed pink. “I just want a ginger ale.”

“You can have one, angel, and it’s on me. So are the laughs. Make it a double,” Brennan told the waiter.

Before the band’s first number, the bar’s owner got up in front of the microphone to say a few words. Brennan had never met Wayne Kovacs, but had seen him in the place on previous occasions. He was a big, burly fellow with a shaved head and a goatee; the sleeves of his grey sweatshirt were cut short, and his arms were festooned with tattoos. He looked well able to handle the day-to-day crises of a down-market blues bar.

“Evening, folks,” Kovacs said. “I think we all know why we’re here tonight. Not that we need a reason beyond the usual. But we do have a special reason to be here, and that’s to pay tribute to a guy who’s very well known to us at the Stag. How long have you been playing here, Monty? Twenty years? Twenty-five?”

Monty gave a little “could be” shrug.

“So we’ve got kind of used to Monty here. We know he’s a good guy, and now we know he’s a really, really good guy. I won’t use the word ‘hero’ because I saw in the news that he doesn’t get off on that word. And, well, when you think about it, what he did was not all that strange.” Kovacs surveyed the room and nodded his head a few times. “I mean, come on, how many people in this room have ended up under a truck at some time in their life? Yeah, we’ve all been there, right?” Laughter around the room. “For one reason or another. Some of us are mechanics, working on and under trucks. Though I never got the impression Monty was all that mechanically inclined. If it’s not a musical instrument, Monty can’t work it. Am I right?”

Monty allowed as how that was all too true.

“Back in the bad old days, before our highly respected officers of the law — ” he nodded in the direction of Truman Beals and his companions “ — our boys in blue, started cracking down on drunk driving, and well they should, I can remember times when Monty rolled out of here and couldn’t get his car started. But maybe that’s just because he couldn’t get the key in the ignition. Anyway, mechanics. Other guys in here might have been under a truck, stripping it for, well, let’s just call it redistribution. Say no more about that. And others of us have been just plain unlucky, winding up under the wheels of a truck that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or we were so plastered, we fell under the wheels of a passing truck, and, well, that’s just how it is. What can you do? Pick yourself up, take another drink, and write a twelve-bar blues about it.

“So that’s the rest of us. But that’s not Monty. Monty threw himself beneath a moving eighteen-wheeler, and clung on to parts of the undercarriage he would not even be able to name. He risked his own safety and his very life. What could have happened to him if he fell off and the driver made a turn, or . . . well, we don’t want to think about the things that could have happened. He did it without hesitation. Why? He did it for his son. His little guy Dominic had run under the tractor-trailer, got caught up in the landing gear — that’s the legs that come down when the semi-trailer’s not attached to the truck part, Monty — so, yeah, Dominic was suspended from the landing gear, and Monty did what he did. And there’s Dominic right there, not a scratch on him.

“I won’t hold things up any longer. Everybody lift your glass in a toast to Monty Collins.”

Everyone in the room joined the toast. “To Monty!”

“And now it’s time for me to get out of the way. Because our band tonight is Dads in Suits, headed up by Monty’s other son, Tommy Douglas Collins. And they are fuckin-A! Hit it, boys!”

The crowd welcomed the band with raucous applause, and Tom launched into “Born with the Blues.” The boys were brilliant. Between songs, people came up to Monty and slagged him about the competition. Monty was beaming, particularly when Truman Beals came over and said a few words. Monty mouthed the words along with him; he had heard it before, and he looked as if no higher praise had ever been uttered: “Some of those tunes, not all, but some, if I close my eyes, that kid can almost pass for somebody who’s not a blue-eyed little white boy.”

At break time, Tom floated by on clouds of glory and accepted accolades from one and all. Then he said, “Gotta go.” He looked around. “Where’s the . . .”