Obit (8 page)

“So, who does he want to call?”

“I said he told me to feck off, not to ring directory assistance. But never mind that. Are you two solving the case here? Let’s move over to the other side, where there are three seats.”

“Paddy, you’ve been here all night. Go home and sleep.”

“You were here all night too. You need a break.”

“I’m on holiday, Patrick. I planned to be up all night, every night. And I have been. I can sleep any time. Off with you. Oh, and give Brigid a call and tell her I thought of something she can do to help.”

“What’s that?”

“Get her to sit down with the telephone directories and go through all the Murphys — every one of them — to see if she can
come up with a Cathal.”

Patrick agreed and headed out. Brennan and I resumed our deliberations.

“I suppose it’s pointless,” I began, “to ask if you know of any other woman in his life.”

“I can’t imagine him with another woman. But then, I couldn’t have imagined any of this.”

“Moving on to other possible motives and circumstances. Self-defence.”

“A possibility,” Brennan conceded.

“Perhaps someone he had a long history with.”

“Or a luckless stranger who jumped him outside a bar.”

“Let’s hope not. How would we ever trace something like that? But it’s unlikely. An incident like that would not have stayed alive in someone’s mind all these years, to the point where the person would craft this maddening little death notice and ignite the whole thing again.” I took my turn at the water fountain. “How about revenge?”

“We certainly can’t discount that. But who knows? We’re not up on the history. This is so frustrating.”

“Blackmail,” I ventured.

“He’d never pay it. Never. Can you picture yourself sidling up to Declan Burke in a dark quiet spot and trying to wheedle money out of him with the threat to go public about some —”

“There you go then. Attempted blackmail. Exit one ill-starred blackmailer.”

“We’re talking through our hats here, Monty. We don’t have anything to go on.”

We had to get a picture of the kind of man Declan Burke was, the life he was living when he first arrived in New York, the people he knew. And why had he come here in the first place? What precipitated his sudden flight from the land of his birth? I put another motive on the table: “Patriotism. Love of country, killing the enemy. Does that strike a chord on the harp for you?”

“He’s always refused to discuss that part of his life.”

We were about to learn that, whether he discussed it or not, that part of his life was a matter of great interest to a number of people on both sides of the Atlantic.

Chapter 4

It’s barely a year since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA
For I’d read of our heroes and I wanted the same,
To play up my part in the Patriot Game.

— Dominic Behan, “The Patriot Game”

March 9, 1991

Tom and Normie wanted to get on with seeing New York. The lighter, less lethal side. When I returned to Manhattan we embarked on a day of sightseeing: the Empire State Building, Central Park, Strawberry Fields. By mid-afternoon Maura and Normie were keen to shop. Tom gave me the thumbs-up; it was time for the boys to hit the Village and see a number of places associated with Bob Dylan, starting with the White Horse Tavern and the Café Wha? All this helped keep the kids’ minds off the harrowing event they had witnessed. We had dinner, then turned in early to catch up on our sleep.

The next morning, we were headed for the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge in Terry Burke’s car, with Brennan at the wheel. His face was pale and he was wearing sunglasses. An experienced New York driver, he ignored the traffic mayhem around him. Maura, though, had not yet adjusted. “I can’t believe these people. The minute — the very microsecond — the light turns green, they’re leaning on their horns. ‘Beeeeeep. Get movin’ — what are ya waitin’ for, Christmas?’ This
starts at five in the morning and goes on, well, till five the next morning. Constant noise. It’s a wonder they don’t all die of a heart attack at forty.”

“Ay, ya gotta chill out, babe,” he responded in a New York accent that was not his own.

Maura and the kids were going to see the American Museum of the Moving Image, in Astoria. Brennan and I were on a mission to
JFK
International Airport, to pick up a mysterious stranger. We dropped the family off with a promise to collect them on our return from the airport. I now asked the obvious question: “Who’s this guy we’re picking up?”

“Dec won’t even tell me his name. Or why he’s here. Just said they ‘served’ together in the old days. Didn’t say which Army had the benefit of their service, but I think we can safely assume it was the
IRA
. I got the impression this man was his commanding officer. Try to imagine the class of fellow who would be barking orders at my father.”

“My imagination fails me. How’s Declan doing now?”

“Still weak, but won’t let on. Demanding to be released. My mother was laying down the law to him when I left.”

We got to the airport, parked the car and headed for Terminal Four.

“How are we going to recognize this guy?”

“Declan said the man would know me. Must have given him a description.”

We stood waiting for the passengers to make their way through the system. Brennan took his sunglasses off and put them in his pocket. I was shocked at how weary he looked. The area under his dark eyes appeared bruised, in contrast to the pallor of his cheeks. “When’s the last time you had a night’s sleep?”

“Not within recent memory. I’d like to sneak off to the hotel. Pass out for a day or two, I’m thinking.”

“You should. Get this guy settled and disappear. You look like hell.”

“Here they come.” First off the Aer Lingus flight were a few impatient business people, who appeared to be Americans, looking at their watches and pressing their lips together. Then came a flock of priests
and nuns, gawking around them with excitement. “Can’t you see Mike O’Flaherty herding that crowd around?” I agreed. Father O’Flaherty, Brennan’s pastor in Halifax, lived for the opportunity to squire gaggles of Canadian tourists around Ireland. A group of Irish clerics would be the
summum bonum
of his vocation as a tour guide. The priests were of all ages, the sisters mainly middle-aged and older. They were met by two co-religionists who shepherded them from the terminal. Then a few families and tourists straggled from the plane. Our attention was caught by a big pugnacious-looking man of indeterminate age, dressed in a tight suit in an unbecoming colour somewhere between forest green and black. He was either bald or had shaved his head, and his nose appeared to have been broken at some point in his life. Had Declan met his match in this hard-ass? He looked around with hostility, and Brennan stepped forward.

“Would your name be Burke, by any chance?” A quiet, clipped voice came at us from the side. We both turned to face a man who stood about five foot eight inches high, with a wiry build, thinning grey hair and snapping dark brown eyes. The man was in his robust seventies, mid to late, and was attired in black clerical garb with a Roman collar. He was looking at Brennan. “I’m Father Killeen. Now, which one are you?”

“Brennan. I’m happy to meet you,
Father
. This is Mr. Collins. Montague Collins, a good friend of mine.”

“Collins, is it?” He searched my face.
“Miceál O Coileáin.”

Brennan just shook his head:
Don’t waste your breath; Monty doesn’t get it.

“Hello. Father.”

The old fellow did not say another word until we had walked to the car, put his bag in the trunk, settled him in the front seat, and driven free of the terminal. Then he began to reminisce in a strong old-country accent: “Brennan. Ah, yes. A dear little lad you were, too. You don’t remember me.”

“No. Did we meet?”

“Forty-two years ago.”

“Oh?”

“In 1949 at the Bodenstown March.”

“You met Brennan at some kind of parade when he was a child?”

The old man swivelled in his seat. “Mr.
Collins
. It was not ‘some kind of parade.’ This is the Bodenstown March we’re speaking of here.” He waited. In vain. “The annual march to the grave of Wolfe Tone.”

“Leader of the 1798 rebellion,” I said.

He looked gratified. “That’s right. The founder of Irish Republicanism. In the old days, the national Army arrived first at the grave, paid its respects, followed by Fianna Fail. Then, when they’d cleared off, our crowd arrived and slagged everything the first two groups had done! If you paid attention to who was there and what was said, you’d have a leg up on the coming year’s Republican policy. Like watching who’s lined up in the Kremlin on May Day.”

He lapsed into a contented silence for awhile, then: “That emphasis on your name, Mr. Collins, was not meant as a slur, and you have my apologies. Although I obviously took a different side in things when I became active, in my heart of hearts I believe we owed Michael Collins more than we could ever repay. He thought he was doing the right thing by signing the Treaty in ’21. Thought it was the best he could get at the time, and it probably was. And of course the year that Mr. Burke here was playing guns at Bodenstown, that being 1949, the Republic was a
fait accompli
.”

We drove on without conversation for a few minutes, then Brennan began to recite:
“Vere dignum et justum est, aequum et salutare —”

Our passenger responded:
“Te quidem Domine omni tempore sed in hac potissimum die gloriosius praedicare, cum Pascha nostrum immolatus est Christus.
I always loved the Easter preface. Little wonder, given the historical significance of Easter for our people. Not your fault, Mr. Collins, that you were raised over here without a sense of history. Ah, how I miss those Latin prayers. I say the old Mass every chance I get.”

Brennan directed a look of surprise at me in the rearview mirror. The man really
was
a priest.

Father Killeen said: “It stands to reason Declan’s son would have been an altar boy. I hope you’ve stayed true to the Church, Brennan, a good Catholic, not like so many today.”

“I have,” Brennan assured him.

After a few more miles Brennan said: “We have one stop to make, then we’ll drop you off at the hospital, Father. Where will you be staying?”

“Your pater has made some sort of arrangement for me.”

“Good. He’s under police guard, you know. They have a man posted outside his room.”

“I should have no trouble getting past him.” Father Killeen smiled. When we got to the movie museum, Maura and the kids were not in sight, so I got out of the car, went inside, and spoke to the receptionist. I sweet-talked her into letting me in to find my wife and children. I pulled out my wallet and offered to leave my credit card with her but she smiled and told me to go ahead. Good thing: I didn’t see the card in my wallet. I would worry about that later. It didn’t take long to locate the family; they had one more exhibit to see, so I went back to the car. They trooped out a few minutes later. As soon as Father Killeen saw Maura, he gave up his front seat and squeezed in the back with me and the kids. Maura protested, to no avail.

“Don’t be worrying about me; I’ve known rougher transport than this.”

Brennan made the introductions: “Father Killeen, this is Maura, Tom and Normie.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The priest smiled as he listened to the kids discussing the film clip they had edited, and arguing about which movie was the greatest of all time. When we reached the hospital, Brennan got out, took the old fellow’s suitcase and made for the entrance. Father Killeen climbed out of the back seat, then turned and spoke through the open car window. “Your husband’s a fine man,” he said to Maura.

“You’re too kind, Father,” she replied in a voice loaded with meaning.

“I hope to see you and the children again before long, Mrs. Burke. And you, Mr. Collins. Good day to you now. God bless you.” The priest walked jauntily towards his meeting with his old comrade in arms. Brennan was waiting for him at the hospital door, and they disappeared inside.

Maura twisted in her seat and made a face at me: “Maybe you’ll connect with a compliment some other time, Collins.”

I looked to my kids for support but realized they hadn’t heard the exchange, so engrossed were they in some brochures they had obtained from the museum.

Brennan strode out to the car a few minutes later and took his place behind the wheel.

“How did the reunion go?” I asked.

“Effusive on the part of Killeen, wary on Declan’s part. I couldn’t follow it all, since Killeen started off in Irish. Of course, Dec wouldn’t have caught it all either. Never heard more than a few words of the old tongue from him once we emigrated. Da gave me the eye. I took the hint and left.”

When we were on the seventh floor of the hotel Brennan headed for his room, saying: “Da’s getting out today so we’ll all go over there this evening. Wake me at half six.”

There was a Broadway musical Maura wanted to see,
The Secret Garden,
which boasted an all-female creative team: composer, lyricist, producer and director. We scored four tickets and enjoyed the show. Supper was deli food in the hotel suite. I went down the hall to knock on Brennan’s door. It took him a few minutes to answer; when he did, he looked as if he needed another week of sleep. “I’ll meet you in your room after I have a shower.”

He joined us a few minutes later, looking considerably more chipper after a dousing and a shave. The five of us ate sandwiches, and we brewed some coffee. When I had eaten my fill I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and, just then, the telephone rang. Maura picked it up.

“Monty?” I heard her say. I stopped the brush in mid-stroke. “No, Monty can’t come to the phone right now. He’s suffering from a very painful condition and he’s too embarrassed to go and have it treated.”
Oh, Christ.
“What’s that? Brennan? Yes, he’s here and he appears to be asymptomatic. So far. I’ll put him on.”