“Yes ma’am.”
“And I’m going to count the nights till the second Friday in October as I go to sleep.”
“Twenty,” I said as I opened the door for her.
“And isn’t it all your fault for making me drink that second jar?”
She closed the door before I could answer.
I walked down the stairs and strolled back to Clyborn to catch a cab.
I SUPPOSE, the Adversary murmured, THAT YOU FEEL VERY PROUD OF YOURSELF.
“As a matter of fact I do.”
YOU THINK YOU OVERWHELMED THAT POOR SHY CHILD.
“You got it.”
YOU ARE SO DUMB THAT YOU DIDN’T NOTICE THAT SHE OVERWHELMED YOU.
“Not true.”
YOU’RE A TOTAL EEJIT.
I considered his charge. Maybe he was right.
“Well, if she did start it all, then so much the better for me.”
SO YOU THINK YOU’RE HOT SHIT NOW THAT YOU HAVE BEEN THE OBJECT OF LUST.
“Love,” I insisted. “Passionate love.”
SHE’LL GET TIRED OF YOU WHEN SHE FINDS OUT WHAT A DUD YOU ARE.
My worst fear. How did he know about it?
I flagged down a cab.
“I wasn’t a dud tonight,” I replied.
The Adversary laughed cynically.
He did not get in the cab with me however.
As I drifted into sleep in my apartment, I remembered tenderly, the demanding warmth of her lips, the linenlike softness of her skin, and the defiant firmness of her breasts. I dreamed of manic, playful love with her under the stars.
7
NEW FBI STING
Operation Full Platter
Targets Traders
Informed sources revealed yesterday that the FBI is continuing its investigation of the Chicago commodity exchanges. A new sting, dubbed “Operation Full Platter” will soon produce, according to these sources, massive indictments against commodity traders.
“We’re tired of these guys ripping off their clients,” the source said. “This time we’re going to nail them good.”
The source refused to confirm that the Bureau is continuing its tactic of using informants wired with tape recorders in its investigation. Those who have followed FBI methods in recent years, however, assume that they have yet another “wired informant.”
“That’s the only way they can get indictments these days,” one observer commented. “This one had better come up with solid evidence against some big fish. Their last effort was a fiasco.”
The source in the U.S. Attorney’s office insisted that this time the Bureau would indeed bring in “big fish.” “People’s eyes are going to pop when they find out who’s in our net this time. Some real celebrities.”
Joel Redmond, President of the Chicago Board of Trade, said that he objected to another sting operation. “Our commodity markets are the biggest in the world and critically important to the economy of Chicago. I can’t understand why the federal government is so interested in harassing us and trying to destroy us. We do a pretty good job policing ourselves. On the basis of their past performance I’d say that they are not going to catch anyone whom we haven’t caught already or will catch eventually, except maybe some clumsy novices who haven’t caught on to the rules yet. I can’t understand why the feds spend so much time on us and so little on the drug gangs.”
Indictments are expected to be handed down within the next two weeks.
I threw the paper aside in disgust and returned to my morning cup of tea. Redmond had them cold. Their elaborate scams might pick up a few goofs and a few innocents. They wouldn’t get any of the big crooks because the big crooks were too smart to say anything to anyone, much less Jarry Kennedy. The Bureau must be hard up if they were using a crazy like him as their wire.
Why bother?
Well, because their investigations and indictments would get them lots of publicity, and the dismissals and acquittals would appear in small paragraphs on the inside pages of the papers and would not rate a clip on the five o‘clock or ten o’clock news. Moreover, they could create the impression that they had “reformed” the commodity exchanges among those citizens who didn’t know how the exchanges worked. If they went after the drug gangs, they would fool no one as long as the drive-by shootings continued.
Justice American style.
Well, I could breathe a sigh of relief. The “source” had promised a celebrity. I certainly wasn’t a celebrity.
Was I?
Prominent Chicago Writer Indicted
I wasn’t a prominent writer, even if I had published a handful of short stories and my first novel would appear just before our wedding. That wouldn’t make me famous, would it?
In the world of headline writers that would be enough.
I discovered that sweat was pouring out of my body.
Well, I told myself glumly, the publicity might help the book.
Then, as I turned on the shower, I told myself that I was acting like a damn fool. Not even the Bureau would be crazy enough to think I was a big fish.
I had awakened in great good spirits. Nuala was as passionately in love with me as I with her. Moreover, I would surely be a good lover for her and she for me.
You KNEW THAT ALL ALONG, the Adversary, who had somehow slipped into my apartment, grumbled after I had tossed the morning papers aside.
“There’s a difference between knowing it and experiencing it,” I insisted. “That’s why it was a religious experience for me.”
PLAYING WITH A WOMAN’S TITS IS RELIGIOUS? he sneered.
“Yes, but you wouldn’t understand it.”
I’m not sure I did either, but I knew that I had crossed a major barrier. No more fear of the wedding night.
Well, not much anyway.
Content with myself and my male skills, I was in no mood to begin my day’s chores. The ringing telephone stirred me out of my complacent fantasies.
“Dermot Coyne.”
“Good day to you, Dermot. This is Annie.”
A West of Ireland accent. But did I know any Annie from the West of Ireland?
“Good morning, Annie,” I said.
“How you keeping, Dermot.”
“Couldn’t be happier,” I said bravely, despite the article in the paper.
“And herself?”
“She’s just brilliant.”
“Grand, glad to hear it. Gerry and I thought we’d give you a ring.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Everything’s coming along fine for the wedding, is it now? The child isn’t skittish, is she?”
Then I knew who it was. Annagh McGrail, herself’s mom. And Gerry was her father Gerroid.
It would be a long, indirect and obscure conversation, on my meter (since I was paying for their phone) and at the end I wouldn’t know any more about what they wanted to say than I did at the beginning.
“Not that one, Annie,” the name seemed disrespectful, but I’d been trapped into using it. “We’re looking forward to seeing you the week before the wedding.”
“Och, aren’t the two of us frightened about the trip, and ourselves never being to America and never even flying in one of them airplane things?”
She did sound like her youngest daughter. I had been a ninny not to recognize her voice.
“You’ll love every second of it. Wait till you see the wedding dress!”
“Have you seen it now?”
“‘Course not, but it has been described to me at great length.”
“You’re sure herself is keeping well?”
I must listen to what the woman means, not the words she’s saying.
“She’s working hard at her job and at her singing, but she’s in grand shape.”
“Shape” might not have been the best choice of words.
“Sure, aren’t we both glad to hear that?”
Now I got it. Their eldest son had stirred up worry. Bastard.
“We had a grand time with Larry and h
is wife on Sunday,” I said, making the Yank mistake of trying to force the issue. That never worked with an Irish person, especially an Irish woman.
“Isn’t that grand? And isn’t Larry a terrible successful man?”
“He is that.”
“Doesn’t he take a kind of paternal interest in all the younger children?”
“And don’t younger children often resent that kind of interest from an older brother or sister?”
A rich laugh, so much like herself’s that it was almost scary. I had said the right words.
“Don’t they ever, Dermot Michael? Still and all don’t the older ones sometimes know what they’re talking about?”
“Occasionally my older siblings do have a good insight or two.”
“Sometimes they see problems that you younger folk don’t see.”
“That’s true.”
“And then sometimes they don’t.”
“Usually.”
Again she laughed happily.
“I suppose that’s true, Dermot. Still they have to say what they think, don’t they now?”
“Very carefully and very cautiously and usually not at all.”
Yet another laugh.
“Och, Dermot, aren’t we both terrible happy that you and Nuala found each other. You’re a grand pair altogether.”
“Thank you very much, Annie. I know I’m awfully lucky. I’m not sure that Nuala is.”
“Go long with you now, Dermot Michael, isn’t that one lucky to have found someone who will put up with her.”
We both laughed and promised to see each other soon and hung up.
Now what the hell was that all about?
I decided I’d call Nuala and find out. However, the delivery room knocked at my door. Two packages. Brochures for our honeymoon and the first jacket for Nuala’s disc. The artwork was perfect: herself in her minimal white knit summer dress with the spaghetti straps, strumming her harp. Her eyes were deep, deep blue with a faraway mystical look. They grabbed your attention immediately, even if the rest of her didn’t. In pseudo Celtic letters, the only words on the cover were NUALA ANNE! It was a real grabber. Any person of Irish origin who came upon the disc would not be able to resist it.
Before I called herself, I phoned Prester George and arranged to meet him in front of the Cathedral at 10:30. Then with some trepidation, I dialed her office number at Arthur’s.
“Marie McGrail,” said this Yank voice.
“I must have the wrong number. I’m looking for Nuala McGrail.”
“You’re not supposed to call me at work,” she said primly, the brogue returning.
She did not sound too unhappy, however.
“Except in an emergency.”
“What’s the emergency?” she asked anxiously.
“I had a phone call from your mother. The way she talks makes your most convoluted discourse look crystalline.”
“Ah, won’t you ever have a hard time understanding that one, and you a poor Irish-American who doesn’t have the Irish language … What did she say?”
As best as I could remember the conversation, I recounted it.
“Isn’t she saying that they don’t give a good fock about the bullshite that me asshole brother is spreading in the family?”
“That’s what she’s saying?”
“Depend on it, Dermot. They love you, like I said they do. Still and all, they’re a bit worried about what your man will do next … Now I have to get back to me work.”
“You have a lesson with Madame tonight?”
“I do.”
“We could see Horseman on the Roof afterwards. Then I could take you to Grappa for a bowl of pasta.”
“Only a small bowl. If I get fat, I won’t fit in my wedding dress.”
“With yourself running every morning, there’s small chance of that happening. Besides I have the first jacket for your disc.”
“I don’t want to see it!”
“Up to you. I won’t bring it along.”
“Don’t you dare not bring it along! … Now I’m going back to work.”
“Yes ma’am.”
I fantasized about her for a few moments and then dashed into the shower so as not to be late for my meeting with the Priest. In the shower I realized that Laurence McGrail was hell-bent on making trouble. What if the feds really went after me?
The phone rang. No towel, no robe. I need a woman to keep my house in order. I dashed out of the shower and grabbed the phone.
“Dermot Coyne.”
“You waited long enough to answer it,” herself told me.
“I was in the shower.”
“Sure, you shouldn’t be talking to a woman with none of your clothes on … Dermot Michael, I’m sorry I was curt with you when you called before. I’m really glad you’re taking me to the movie and to Grappa. I want to see you every day for the rest of me life. Thank you. Good-bye, Dermot Michael.”
She hung up.
My face was warm and I was grinning when I went back to shower. I was still grinning as I dressed and walked over to the Cathedral.
“You worried about the upcoming nuptials?” George greeted me.
George has, as much as I hate to admit it, an absolutely first-rate mind. He was wearing tan slacks and a white knit shirt with some sort of weird animal above the pocket, rather different than the clothes Joe Curran must have worn in front of the Cathedral. It didn’t seem to bother the folks coming out of church who smiled and greeted him with the same words that their predecessors greeted Father Curran.
“Good morning, Father.”
Pure adoration for the smart and zealous young priest.
“Only worried,” I replied to his question, “that two weeks and two days are too long a time.”
“No fears?” he asked, examining my face with his shrewd eyes.
“Why should I be afraid?”
“No reason. A lot of men tend to lose their nerve as the big day draws close. We’ve had two cancellations the last two months.”
“Why?”
“They keep telling the bride how nervous they are and finally she says well, if you’re so nervous, let’s put it off. The guy jumps for joy because he’s hoping that’s what she’ll say.”
“Kids?”
“Nah, yuppies, late twenties, early thirties, been living together for a while or at least sleeping together a lot.”
“So what’s to be afraid of?”
“Loss of privacy, marital sex, conflicts, failure, commitment, mostly the latter. Typical male reaction. One of the negatives of living together. No mystery left.”
“What do you tell them?”
“It’s obvious. The real mystery only begins after commitment. Big macho bums can’t figure out what that means.”
“It seems clear enough to me.”
“Yeah, little bro, you lucked out with that one, not that it will always be perfect. There’ll be ebbs and flows, ups and downs.”
“With Nuala that happens every half hour.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I imagine it does … Well, what’s on your mind this morning.”
“I want to see the bullet holes on the steps.”
“Herself into another one of her psychic things? Well here’s one and here’s another. I don’t think I believe in any of that stuff about the shoot-out in the hardware shop across the street, where the parking lot is now.”
The whole city block across from the Cathedral had been cleared and was now a parking lot. It ought to be, I often thought, a plaza. Cathedrals ought to have plazas. Park the cars underground. Only trouble is that it would cost tons of money.
“Bakeshop, big bro. George William Mundelein had to fall on the steps of the old Chancery, which was right here where the school is now.”
“Really? I guess I knew that … about the Chancery. Never knew about Mundelein falling down the steps … He was not a nice man, little bro.”
“I guess not.”
“Nuala?”
“Yep.”
<
br /> “Oh, oh! Does she think it is important?”
“Doesn’t she always?”
“Where’s the famous cornerstone?”
“Over here.”
I looked at the weathered stone.
Every knee should bend
heaven and
on earth
“It’s from St. Paul to the Philippians,” George observed. “The reference is to the Holy Name of Jesus. The legend is that ‘those in’ on the second line were chipped off by a ricochet and ‘those’ in the last line by another bullet. But most likely the only word missing is an ‘in’ from the second line. And weather or slush from street salt could have done that or vibrations from construction on the State Street Subway fifty years ago.”
“No one around here remembers anything?”
“Little bro, that was seventy years ago. We’re Americans; we don’t remember last year.”
“Yeah.”
“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.
“Do you remember a priest named Joe Curran?”
“Curran? … I don’t think so. There are a couple of Currans around but no Joe Curran.”
“1927?”
“THAT Joe Curran. He was one of my predecessors, seventy years ago. A great character. A legend. Died maybe twenty-five years ago. Can’t Nuala reach him across the boundary?”
“She doesn’t do that kind of thing. I want to talk to a priest that might have known him.”
“Let me see … Yeah, Leo Nolan up at St. Mary’s by the Brook is the curator of the legend. He was with him on his first assignment out at St. Bart’s. Knows all the stories.”
“Would you give him a ring for me? I want to talk to him.”
“Sure.”
“Now.”
George raised his eyebrows, but led me into the rectory and made the phone call. Father Nolan would see me at 1:30.
“I’m not supposed to ask what this is all about, little bro?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“I don’t see how it could be.”
“Be careful.”
“I’m not taking any chances just before my wedding,” I said as I walked towards the door of the rectory.
“Yeah … What was the name of the guy they shot across the street?”
“Sullivan. Sweet Rolls Sullivan.”
Irish Whiskey Page 10
