Close Call (12 page)
“Apparently, now, the cabbie has had a rough night prior to this. He’s not about to go along with this idea of Liam’s. So he stops the cab, gets out, opens the back door, and yanks Liam out. As I said to my brother just now, ‘I don’t blame the man.’ I had a fare not pay me two nights back, and then throw up all over the back seat as well. A real gobshite. We put up with a lot in this business, you know,” he said, making eye contact with Doyle in the rear view mirror.
“Anyway, Liam’s real indignant, like. He says, ‘I’ll report you for this.’ ‘Report away,’ the cabbie says, ‘I should be the one reporting you,’ and he drives off. Liam’s about two miles away from home at this point.” The cabbie paused, pointing ahead. “We’re just coming up on Trinity College,” he said, interrupting his narrative so Doyle could get a look at Dublin’s educational landmark as they drove past.
Doyle said, “Thanks. Very impressive layout.” He settled back in his seat. “But tell me, what happened with your brother.”
“Well, Liam starts walking home, or staggering was probably more like it, when he suddenly hears Garda sirens blaring, heading his way. As potted as he is, Liam thinks the cabbie has gone and reported him for not paying his fare. He’s thinking the Garda, that’s our police, are after him. So he veers off the sidewalk and ducks down behind some bushes of this big house. It takes him a minute or so to realize he’s not alone. There’s a couple of young fellas hiding there close to him in the same set of bushes, one of them with a big gunny sack, the other with a flashlight that’s turned off. Fierce looking fellas.
“The sirens are getting closer. Liam’s in a sweat now. He says, ‘I can’t believe they’d be on me so quick like.’
“Your flashlight man says, ‘Shut the fook up and keep your head down.’ Or words to that effect. He then whispers to Liam that he and his mate have just burgled a mansion two streets over! Says the flashlight man to me brother,‘You think they’re lookin’ for you? Don’t flatter your fookin’ self. They’re after us.’”
Doyle leaned forward. “So, what happened?”
The driver executed a neat right turn across oncoming traffic before replying, “The three of them lay on their bellies in the bushes for about a half hour, quiet as cod, waiting for the guards to leave the area. Then they went their separate ways. Ah, Jaayzus,” he concluded, “that Liam tops them all.”
The cab pulled up at the curb. Doyle paid and tipped well, evidently well enough that the driver turned in his seat, smiled at Doyle, and extended his hand, saying, “Enjoy your stay here now. And tanks.”
With the famous Shelbourne closed for renovation, Shontanette Hunter had booked Doyle into a more modestly priced hotel, the Kenney, in Dublin’s Temple Bar. “On our budget, it’s just as well they’re working on the Shelbourne,” she’d said to Jack, adding, “but we’re not skimping on you.” This section of the city, he’d read, was thought of as Dublin’s Times Square, but he found it to be much less garish and noisy, though similarly crowded.
After checking in, Doyle napped for an hour, then rose refreshed to begin a walking tour of the neighborhood, a routine that always helped him combat jet lag. A stroll, an early dinner, a couple of drinks, and a solid night of slumber, he figured, would set him up nicely for his next morning’s meeting with Hanratty at the bookmaker’s Dun Laoghaire headquarters.
It was a cool, sunny afternoon, and Doyle walked down Dame Street to Trinity College. Opting to give the school’s library, housing the famous Book of Kells, a respectful pass, he walked through the beautiful campus before pulling up for a pint of beer in the Pavilion Bar. He next ventured into St. Stephen’s Green where he spent nearly two hours ambling about, occasionally stopping to sit on a bench and observe the numerous passersby, breathing in the scents of summer in this 2,000 year old city.
Back in his hotel room, Doyle listened to a message on his phone’s voice mail. It was from Barry Hoy, who described himself as “one of Mr. Hanratty’s assistants.” Hoy was calling to inform Doyle that his meeting with Hanratty the next day would take place “down at Kinsale. Urgent business took the boss there. He apologizes for the change in plans and looks forward to seeing you tomorrow. Oh, and he says bring your luggage along, you can overnight at his house near Kinsale. I’ll pick you up at your hotel at ten in the morning.” Doyle had to re-run the message twice, struggling to understand Hoy’s frequently impenetrable Cork accent. Finally, he slammed down the phone. “So, the one upsmanship begins,” he muttered.
Too tired now to maintain his anger for long, he went downstairs to the hotel’s recently refurbished bar. Doyle was surprised to be handed a cocktail hour menu comprised of Spanish tapas, “our newest wrinkle in the hors d’oeuvres line,” the bartender said. The tapas selection was varied and delicious. Doyle’s reaction must have been obvious, for the bartender smiled, saying, “Oh, yes, we’ve come a long way from just fish ‘n chips now. And how’s your drink holdin’?” An hour later, Doyle paid his bill, left a ten Euro tip, and went off to bed.
***
Hoy was right on time the next morning. At the front desk, the Kenney cashier informed Doyle that Hoy had already checked him out and paid the bill. “He’s waiting for you in front,” the young woman said. Hoy stepped forward to shake his hand, mumble a greeting, and put Doyle’s suitcase in the trunk of the dark blue BMW Sedan. He opened the right rear door, but Doyle said, “I’ll ride up front if you don’t mind.” Hoy opened the passenger side door. “Foin,” he said.
City traffic was thick and slow moving. They made better time on the highway as they headed southwest toward, first, Cork City, then on to the Kinsale area. It took Doyle several miles before he could adjust and become comfortable seeing oncoming traffic to the right side of his door.
Hoy was an excellent driver, not much of a conversationalist. Doyle asked how long the drive would take. “You’ll be there for loonch,” Hoy said, which Doyle had to think about before he realized the reference was to the mid-day meal. Doyle tried a few more salient questions. How long had Hoy worked for Hanratty? “Quite awhile now.” Did he enjoy his work? “Ah, sure.” Did his boss like racing? “The harses are fine with him, dogs too, other bets. They all bring in the mooney.”
Doyle gave up and fell silent. Hoy, seemingly relieved, turned on the radio to a program of traditional Irish music. They drove through several small patches of what the reticent Hoy muttered was “a bit of lashin’ rain.” Each of these brief, moist interludes was followed by vivid sunlight. Doyle sat back in the car’s very comfortable seat, enjoying the music and the view of the lush countryside. Hefty black and white cows, some appearing round as balloons, dotted the distant hillsides. Waiting at a stop light in one of the small towns on their route, Doyle glanced out at a store with a window displaying a variety of roasts and chops. He laughed aloud when he read the wooden sign that hung above this establishment. It read, “The Seriously Good Meat Shop.” On the main streets of several of these small towns, Doyle admired impressive old churches, some of which now, incongruously, were bordered by new petrol stations and convenience stores.
When Doyle attempted a question about Hanratty’s family, Hoy answered with a sharp look. Doyle looked at Hoy’s big fisted hands on the wheel of the speeding auto, at his large, set jaw. The man had wrists like axe handles. His knuckles were disfigured in a way that a former boxer like Doyle could understand.
They rode without speaking for most of the next four hours. Again, Doyle resorted to closely observing the countryside. Besides the herds of milk cows, there were numerous, paint-marked flocks of fat sheep under the watchful supervision of border collies. Nearing Kinsale, Doyle saw a number of new homes. Some were very modern looking. The construction of many others was apparently designed to reflect that of nearby houses that were more than a century old.
Doyle was surprised when, as they entered the outskirts of Kinsale, Hoy broke his silence. He announced, “That’s Charles Fort,” pointing across the lovely harbor to a large set of stone buildings on a hillside. “They built that fort before 1700 even,” Hoy volunteered. “The old courthouse there, down by Market Square, was there a hundred years before that. It was right off Kinsale that the Lusitania was sunk,” he added, before resuming his silent driving.
***
Kinsale’s long waterfront was crowded with slowly moving cars, looming, growling, tour buses, the narrow sidewalks packed with people. Dozens of moored boats bobbed in the blue green water. It was from this port, Doyle knew, that countless thousands of Irish emigrants had sailed on jam-packed boats to America, fleeing famine, religious persecution, and absentee landlords with their long history of imposing economic deprivation. Those that were able to leave were referred to as Wild Geese by families and friends left behind. Doyle wondered if his ancestors hadn’t walked, frightened and reluctant but desperately determined, onto sailing ships in this very harbor, ships that would tear them away from all they’d known.
Hoy eased the blue BMW through the crowded, narrow streets, pulling up before Kinsale’s Shamrock Off-Course Wagering Shop.
“I’ll leave you here then,” Hoy said. “The boss’ll be expecting you upstairs. Just tell the lad at the door who you are. Don’t worry about your luggage.”
***
Niall Hanratty came around from his large, paper-strewn desk, his hand extended. He was an inch or two taller than Doyle, perhaps twenty pounds heavier, in apparently good shape. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up, revealing thickly muscled forearms, much like those of Doyle’s maternal grandfather, who had been a Wisconsin cheesemaker. Hanratty’s eyes and eyebrows were black, as was his combed back, carefully trimmed hair. “Mr. Doyle,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Sorry to have changed the place of our meeting, but it could not be avoided.”
Doyle said, “It worked out okay. I enjoyed the trip down from Dublin. This is my first time in your country.”
“But not the last, I hope,” Hanratty answered. “Now, could you do with some lunch?”
On their way out the front entrance of the betting shop, Hanratty stopped at the top of a wooden ramp. Coming up it in a wheelchair was a heavy set young man who smiled at them, saying, “Good day to you, Niall.”
“Hello, Maurice,” Hanratty replied, reaching down to shake the man’s hand. “Have you done your research on today’s races, then?”
“Indeed I have,” beamed the man, beginning to roll himself through the doorway.
As they walked down the street Doyle said, “Are all of the betting shops here handicapped accessible?”
“All mine are,” Hanratty said. He grinned at Doyle. “That lad back there? Maurice Banion? Sure, I’d build a highway if I had to in order to get him into the shop. He’s one of my biggest volume customers. And he’s among the very best for losing money to me.”
Maurice Banion, Hanratty went on to explain, had been stricken with Parkinson’s Disease “a few years back. He’s on some medication for it that his Da, one of the richest men in Cork, tells me has helped Maurice somewhat physically while at the same time turning him into a gambling addict. The medication contains something called dopamine agonist. I’m not sure if I’m pronouncing that right.
“All I know,” Hanratty continued, “is that Maurice showed up one day about two years ago. His chauffeur struggled to get the lad’s wheelchair up the steps and through the door of the shop. Maurice lost 29,000 Euros to me that afternoon. He was betting wild—dog races in England, ‘chasers in Scotland, some soccer matches in England. And having a hell of a good time doing so, I might add.
“Oh, he was an obvious treasure. Especially after his dear old Da showed up the following week to tell me that any losses incurred by Maurice were guaranteed by him. ‘The poor lad has only a few years to go,’ Da says to me, ‘and I want him to enjoy them as best he can.’ We shook hands, then, me thinking, ‘Christ, let’s do all we can to prolong this valuable life. I quickly had the wheelchair ramp in place. We serve Maurice lunch and dinner. He’s happy as a lark. And one of the worst gamblers on this or any other island, I would venture to say.”
Doyle was ordinarily hard to shock, but this approach to commerce struck him as being beyond the border of callous. He looked at Hanratty with new disrespect.
They approached a small restaurant overlooking the harbor. It was crowded with a combination of tourists and locals. The hostess greeted them by saying, “Your table’s ready, Niall.” He said, “Thanks, Mairead. And how are you keeping?” She said, “Not too bad at all” as she led them to a corner table at the back window overlooking a small courtyard.
They ordered drinks, iced tea for both, and food—“all the fish is grand here,” Hanratty advised—before they got down to business. A slight smile appeared on Hanratty’s long face when he said, “I’m impressed that cousin Celia decided to dispatch an emissary to talk to me.”
Doyle let the “emissary” go by. He said, “I think she did it out of respect for you, as a relative and minority stockholder. I know she’s written to you about her plans for Monee Park, but maybe not in the detail I can provide. Let me tell you what the situation is over there.”
Over the next hour, and a superb lunch, Doyle carefully presented Celia’s argument for not selling Monee Park. Facts and figures came trippingly off his tongue. Hanratty asked a question now and then, but for the most part listened silently. He occasionally made a notation in a small notebook he’d placed on the table.
They’d finished their coffees when Hanratty said, “Well, you’ve given me a lot to think on, Mr. Doyle.”
“C’mon, Niall, let’s drop the mister.”
“All right, Jack,” Hanratty said, eyes briefly alight in his dark, handsome face, “I can do that. What I can’t do is give you an answer right off the reel. I suggest this: you stay at my house tonight. It’s very near. Tomorrow, we’ll go up to the Curragh, and see the racing, and do a bit of talking there.”
Disappointed at the delay, but not wanting to show it, Doyle said, “I’ve always wanted to see that racetrack. All right.”
Hanratty said, “I’ll call ahead and tell the wife you’ll be coming. She’ll set you up. I’ll join you out there for drinks by five or so.” They shook hands outside the restaurant before Hanratty began walking to his office. Doyle watched as the blue BMW drove up to the curb almost at once, the stoic Hoy at the wheel.
The Hanratty residence was located some six miles outside of Kinsale, north, along the coast. Hidden from the road by a tree-lined berm, it sat on a small cliff that jutted out toward the sea. It was a three-story beige brick house, liberally windowed, with a swimming pool on its south side, and a large atrium on the ocean side facing a manicured lawn that ran to the cliff’s edge. Hanratty’s wife Sheila met Doyle in the atrium after a maid had shown him up to his second floor room and he’d unpacked and freshened up.
Sheila Hanratty was a short, plump, blond woman whose bangs bounced above her blue eyes as she rose from a couch to greet him. Her round cheeks were heavily freckled, as were her forearms. She wore a short-sleeved, navy blue blouse over white pants. Her handshake was firm, and while she looked at Jack appraisingly, it was not in a cold manner.
“You’ve come a long way, Mr. Doyle,” Sheila said. “Welcome to Ireland. Welcome to our home.” He told her how impressed he was by the house, and she then gave him a tour of the first floor. It was, throughout, expensively but comfortably furnished. It was obvious that she took pride in showing it to Doyle, noting that “we had it built for us nearly four years ago now.” After a few moments, she added, “I’m from Bray, a town right over from Niall’s Dun Laoghaire. We’ve come a long way from there,” she added softly.
They spent the next hour talking in the atrium with its view of the sparkling, restless sea. Doyle asked about their family. “Three boys,” she answered, “two off at summer camps, the youngest visiting my parents over near Kilbrittain. They’re retired there, in a house Niall had built for them.” Sheila asked about Celia and Bob. Her eyes widened when Doyle described Bob Zaslow’s deteriorating physical condition. “I had no idea that was going on,” Sheila said. “That must be an awful thing to be facing each day.”
Hanratty arrived at five, as promised, and they had drinks on the long, low terrace outside the atrium. Dinner was roast lamb, new potatoes, a salad of organic vegetables, then plates of fruit and cheeses. Doyle pronounced himself “satisfied beyond satiated. That was a wonderful meal, Sheila,” he said, noticing how Niall nodded slightly in appreciation of the compliment.
It was still light when the two men walked down the two flights of wooden stairs to the beach. Sheila stayed in the house, helping the maid as she cleared the dinner dishes, then calling her parents to check on her son. “To tell you the truth,” she’d confided to Doyle, “I’m uncomfortable having servants. I don’t like even calling them that.”