by Gorman, Ed
“What do you mean?”
“There’s an old Irish prayer. My granddad Padric taught it to me when I was a boy. Goes like this:
“May those that love me, love me.
And those that don’t love me,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn’t turn their hearts,
May He turn their ankles,
So’s I’ll know them by the way they limp.”
“If only that were true,” Vera said.
Doyle took her hand. “Look, sweetheart, the money isn’t going to be that big a deal. After Sol has it all converted into bearer bonds, they’ll be packed neatly in a suitcase. You’ll fly to the Cayman Islands on a chartered plane. I’ll have Sully go with you — ”
“Sully? Why Sully? He’s only a driver.”
“And a bodyguard. He’s dependable and very loyal to you. Naturally he won’t know about the bearer bonds; it’ll just be another suitcase. There are several Swiss bank branches in the Caymans; Sol will tell you which one to use. Sully will accompany you to the bank, where a large safe deposit drawer will be already be arranged. Have him wait outside the safe deposit vault; he won’t ask any questions. You’ll put the bonds in the drawer, get the key, and that will be that. Sully will fly back the next day with the key and leave you to have a nice carefree vacation. I’ll set you up with a suite at the Casuarina; that’s the place you like, remember? As soon as I can, I’ll join you.” Doyle lifted her hand and sucked on her forefinger. “Say you’ll do this for me, Vera.”
She took her finger out of his mouth and kissed it. “You know I will, Gus. I’d do anything for you, love.”
• • •
It took four days to accumulate all the cash into a central downtown bank, and another day for it to be tallied by auditors and bearer bonds converted for the total. The bonds were then moved by a private security firm to Doyle’s mansion, where they were put into his underground vault.
In the interim, Doyle took Sully down to a line of expensive shops on Michigan Avenue and bought him a wardrobe of fashionable vacation wear: sport coats, slacks, shirts — everything he needed to look good with the always elegantly attired Vera.
When they got back from their shopping trip. Doyle himself driving his prized Rolls Royce Phantom, Doreen came out to meet them in the porte-cochere. As Doyle got out and Sully came around to put the car away, Doreen said, “Sully, did you happen to see my yellow-tinted sunglasses in the Mercedes? I can’t find them anywhere.”
“No, but I’ll look for them, Miss Doreen,” Sully said.
“I’ll ride down to the garage with you in case they’re there.” She kissed her father on the cheek. “Vera wants to talk to you, Daddy. Something about her trip, I think.”
With Doreen in the front seat beside him, Sully guided the big luxury car around a drive that circled the grounds back to the garage building.
“What’s all this about you going somewhere with Vera?” Doreen asked, a little crossly.
“Beats me,” Sully said. “I was hoping you might know. We’re going to the Caymans.”
“For how long?”
“Not long for me. I’m coming back the next day. Vera’s staying on.”
“Something very weird is going on. Sol has been in and out of the house for two days now. And Daddy didn’t hold his usual Tuesday morning meeting with Mr. Quinn and Mr. Foley and the others.”
“I noticed that too. Very unusual.”
Doreen slapped his knee. “I’m not wild about you flying off to some romantic island with Vera.”
“Come on, Dorry. She’s your stepmother.”
“So? She’s not that much older than you. And more than easy to look at, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“You’re talking crazy. This is all business of some kind.”
“It’d better be,” she warned, not a little sternly.
Sully reached over and ran a hand up her skirt.
“Relax, baby. I’m all yours.”
• • •
The flight from O’Hare to Grand Cayman was non-stop, six hours, in a luxurious chartered Gulfstream V-SP jet. Sully personally handled all the luggage, including a new Hartmann leather bag Doyle had bought for Sully’s own clothes. In flight, Vera and Sully were served drinks and a three-course gourmet meal pre-ordered by Vera. A limousine met them at Owen Roberts International Airport in Grand Cayman and drove them to the ultra-deluxe Casuarina Resort and Spa, where a two bedroom beachfront suite had been reserved for Vera. As soon as they had checked in, Vera went into her bedroom and called her husband on one of a dozen disposable, untraceable cell phones she carried.
“We’re here, Gus,” she reported. “No problems. I asked at the desk and was told that the bank is open for another three hours. We’re going there now.”
“Good girl. How’s Sully doing?”
“Like a fish out of water, but he’s okay. I have to admit, it was a good idea sending him. I feel safer with him along. But it’ll be a relief to get this stuff into a bank drawer.”
“To me as well. Let me know when it’s done.”
After the call, Vera gave the cell phone to Sully and watched as he put it under his heel on the patio and crushed it to pieces. Gus, Vera knew, had done the same with a disposable phone on which he had taken her call.
The Cayman Island branch of the Private Bank of Switzerland was on Sheddon Road in George Town. “It’s very easy to find,” Sol Silverstein had told Vera when preparing her for the trip. “Just down from the American Express offices. You’ll ask for a Mr. Unterman. He’ll be expecting you. There’ll be a safe deposit drawer already rented and waiting for you in one of the private cubicles in their vault. Have Sully take the suitcase in and then wait outside for you. Just put the packets of bearer bonds into the drawer, close it up, and ring for Mr. Unterman. He will lock the closed drawer back into its niche and give you one of the two keys to the niche door; the bank retains the other key — the two keys are different, you see, and it takes both of them to open the door. You send the key he gives you back with Sully the next day. It’s all very simple, really.” Sol had given her a brief hug around the shoulders. “Don’t be nervous, dear. We’ll have this grand jury mess cleared up for Gus in a couple of weeks at the most. In the meantime, just relax and enjoy yourself.”
“I’ll try,” Vera said.
• • •
The federal grand jury testimony of Edward Quinn, Thomas Foley, Michael Dwyer, and Daniel Connor took place one week later, and consumed only two court days. None of the four gave any testimony that could in any way incriminate Angus Doyle.
But on the third day, a surprise witness did.
“State your name, please,” said the federal prosecutor after the witness had been sworn.
“Vera Kenny.”
“Were you previously Vera Doyle?”
“I was.”
“You were married to Angus Doyle, the subject of this inquiry?”
“I was.”
“Are you now divorced from Angus Doyle?”
“I am.”
“When were you divorced?”
“Five days ago.”
“And where were you divorced?”
“In the Dominican Republic.”
“Your honor,” the prosecutor said to the presiding federal judge, “at this time we offer the grand jury a certified copy of the Dominican Republic divorce of the witness, along with a ruling from the U.S. Department of State confirming that one-party Dominican Republic divorces are recognized as legal in the United States.” He then turned back to the witness. “Miss Kenny, were you recently in the Cayman Islands?’
“I was.”
“What was the purpose of your trip there?”
“To deposit a quantity of bearer bonds into a safe deposit drawer.”
“What was the value of those bearer bonds?”
“Ten million dollars.”
“Did you deposit them into the safe deposit drawer?”
&nbs
p; “No.”
“What did you do with them?”
“I brought them back to Chicago after my divorce in the Dominican Republic and turned them over to the Department of Justice.”
Again the prosecutor addressed the judge. “Your honor, we would now offer the grand jury a receipt from the Department of Justice for ten million dollars in bearer bonds received from Miss Kenny.” Facing his witness again, he asked, “From whom did you get the bearer bonds in question?”
“From my former husband, Angus Doyle.”
“The same Angus Doyle who is the subject of this grand jury inquiry?”
“Yes.”
“Now then, Miss Kenny, in return for turning over the bearer bonds to the government, and for your testimony before this grand jury, have you been promised anything in return?”
“Yes. The Department of Justice has guaranteed me full immunity from any federal prosecution, and the Department of State has promised me a permanent residence visa in a foreign country. I am also being given protective custody until I am safely out of the U.S.”
“That concludes the testimony of this witness,” the federal prosecutor said.
Two hours later, the grand jury voted a true bill against Angus Doyle and indicted him for on twenty-one counts of federal income tax evasion, each count being a separate criminal felony.
• • •
Later that day, a federal strike force surrounded and closed off the estate and grounds of Angus Doyle, and Doyle himself was arrested, handcuffed, and taken away.
Doreen Doyle, in a daze bordering on shock, watched as federal agents began swarming into the house. She was standing out front when Sully and several agents walked up from the garage. Hanging around Sully’s neck was a Department of Justice photo ID credential identifying him as federal agent Harry Sullivan O’Keefe.
“You son of a bitch,” Doreen said.
“Give me a minute with her,” Sully instructed the other agents, gesturing them into the house.
“You dirty, low-life, lying bastard.” No longer in a daze, Doreen was glaring coldly at him.
“What is it that you’re angriest about?” Sully asked. “The arrest of your father? Or the fact that we had sex?”
“Forget about the sex,” she snapped. “I enjoyed it as much as you did. But without my father, I have nothing. I’ll be all alone — no family, no money — ”
“Not true,” Sully told her. “Check with Sol Silverstein. You’ll find that you have a five-million-dollar trust that your father set up for you shortly after your mother passed away. The government can’t touch it. You are very well off, Dorry. You can make a good life for yourself.”
“What about Vera? Do you know where she is?”
“She’s on her way to a foreign country where she will be under the protection of the U.S. Embassy. You’ll never see her again.”
“What will happen to my father?”
“He’ll probably receive a fifteen-year sentence on the criminal tax evasion charges, and new racketeering violations will be brought against him while he’s in prison. Your father is a major crime figure; he’ll probably never be a free man again. Get use to that, Dorry.”
“Stop calling me ‘Dorry.’
“All right. Miss Doyle, then. I’ll give you an hour to pack your things, then you’ll have to leave the premises.”
She smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose you’ll be driving me away, will you, Sully?”
“I’ll have another agent give you a lift to a downtown hotel.”
She started into the house. At the doorway, she stopped and turned back. “About the sex. I suppose that was just part of your job.”
“No. That was real.”
“Thanks for that much,” Doreen said. She continued inside.
• • •
The senior Department of Justice agent in charge of Operation Gus, as it was called, smiled broadly across his desk at Agent Harry Sullivan O’Keefe.
“One hell of a job, Sully,” he praised. “With all the other bits and pieces of intelligence you provided during your undercover assignment, we’ll be able to get Quinn, Foley, Dwyer, and Connor too. We may even be able to nail Solomon Silverstein on something. I think we can at least get him disbarred.”
“You’ll leave Doreen Doyle’s trust alone, right?” asked Sully.
“Absolutely. You kind of liked her, didn’t you? No, we don’t need it for our case. But we’ll attach everything else. And about a year from now, after we get everybody else, they can all have a big reunion at the federal Supermax prison in Colorado. And you, my friend,” he pointed a finger at Sully, “will get a nice commendation from the department.”
“That’s nice,” said Sully, “but I’m more interested in my thirty-two months accumulated salary — and the six months paid leave I was promised when I went under.”
“That money has already been credited to your personal bank account, as will your monthly salary while you’re on leave,” said the senior agent. “And that paid leave officially begins right now. Incidentally, I meant to ask you: When you returned from the Caymans, did Angus Doyle or Sol Silverstein ever seem suspicious about the safe deposit key you brought back?”
“Not a bit. There was no way they could tell that it came from a Chicago bank. It was just a key with a number on it, like any other safe deposit key.”
“That was a clever plan you worked up with Vera Doyle, switching keys so that they thought the ten million in bearer bonds that she took down there were still in the Caymans bank, instead of being turned over to us.” The senior agent whistled. “Ten million, Sully. A lot of money.”
“Yes, a lot of money.”
And even more, he thought, was the other fifteen million.
The two men shook hands and Sully left the office.
• • •
A week later, in the Air Emirates travel office in Manhattan, a lovely Arab woman dressed in the airline’s stylish ground employee’s uniform, smiled at Sully and said, “Your visa to the United Arab Emirates is valid for six months, Mr. O’Keefe, but is renewable every six months thereafter. You’ll find that the U.A.R.’s visa restrictions are very flexible; our small federation is actively encouraging Western tourism and retirement considerations.”
“That’s good to know,” Sully said.
“Now then, for your flight over, Air Emirates offers a variety of fares. The most comfortable accommodation, of course, are our new private suites which can be closed off from the rest of the cabin, and which are equipped with individual storage space, a coat closet, vanity desk, and personal mini-bar. Their extra-large seats recline to become a fully flat bed, and the front wall is a wide-screen LCD monitor featuring six hundred channels of entertainment in all languages. Gourmet food service is available on call at any time. The flight time is twelve hours forty-five minutes, and you will be met in Dubai by a chauffeured Bentley sedan. The ticket price is 12,322 U.S. dollars, plus sixty-three U.S. dollars tax. Shall I book a suite for you?”
“Please do,” Sully said, handing her an American Express Platinum card. Vera had wire-transferred fifty thousand dollars to him and he was standing there in a Canali suit, Hathaway shirt, Gianfranco Ferre necktie, and Ferragamo shoes. Might as well get use to going first class all the way, he thought.
As he waited for his ticket to be processed, Sully took from his pocket and reread the letter Vera had sent to him.
You’ll love Dubai, darling. I’ve already leased an absolutely gorgeous apartment for us at the Jemeirah Beach Residence Hotel, with a terrace overlooking the Arabian Gulf where we can sit and have cocktails while the sun goes down. This city is fantastic, restaurants, clubs, entertainment, shopping like I’ve never imagined. We’ll have a wonderful life here, Sully. Hurry over to me. I’m hungry for you...
Ticket in hand, Sully left the Air Emirates travel office and walked down 59th Street in the direction of his hotel to pack for the midnight departure of his flight.
Vera was right, he thought. T
hey could have a wonderful life together in Dubai. Fifteen million U.S. dollars would buy a lot of good living.
As long as Vera never found out about Doreen.
• • •
CLARK HOWARD has been a prolific short story writer since selling his first story on July 5, 1955. Although he has ventured into the fields of Westerns and war stories, the main body of his work has been in the crime and mystery genres, where he has won the Edgar and five Ellery Queen Readers awards, and garnered nominations for Shamus, Spur, Anthony, and Barry awards. Most recently he received the first Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Dagger Award for Lifetime Achieve ment in the field of mystery writing. He has also received Edgar nominations for books in the true crime genre. His work has appeared in anthologies worldwide.
O’NELLIGAN’S GLORY
By Michael Nethercott
One
It began with a phone call for my dead father.
“Plunkett and Son Investigators,” I answered.
“Buster! How ya doing, you dirty old — ”
“No, this is his son Lee.”
“Really? Cripes, kid, you sound just like your old man.”
At thirty-one, my claim to being a “kid” was somewhat tenuous. And as for sounding like my father, I guarantee he had more gravel in his gullet then I could ever muster.
“Buster’s deceased,” I informed the caller. “About a year now.”
“Aw, no! I can’t believe it! Buster was a bull...” Then the voice softened. “I should have stayed in touch. This is Jojo Groom. Remember me, kid?”
My father’s life seemed to revolve around guys with names like Jojo and Slick and Lefty. His own moniker, Buster, had replaced the unfortunate Leander, his birth name, which for some reason he decided to pass on to me. My rough and tumble sire — World War I doughboy, city cop, private gumshoe — was every inch a Buster; whereas I, with my large round spectacles, slight frame and 4F classification, seemed tailor-made to be a Leander Plunkett. I’d shortened things to Lee to ease my burden.
“Sure, I remember you, Jojo.” He was an old police buddy of my father’s. “Dad always spoke kindly of you. I tried to call you for the funeral, but...”
