Talion Justice

by Rick Bosworth

  “It’s important work, Leigh, work that needs to be done,” she said, smiling and setting the bottle back on the table. Prisha had just lobbed her first bomb of the evening. Leighton loathed to be called Leigh. Tilly and Poppy winced when they heard the slight. Leighton appeared not to have heard it, however, and continued to work on her wine and glance about the restaurant.

  “You were in the city on 9/11,” Prisha continued. “You know better than most the importance of what I am doing—for our country.”

  Leighton waved Prisha off with a subtle flick of her wrist. “I knooow, Prisha. War on Terror. Blah, blah, blah.” She slugged the last of her wine and knocked her fork to the floor when she returned her glass to the table.

  Tilly dutifully retrieved Leighton’s fork, wiped it with her cloth napkin, then gently placed it back on the table.

  “I mean…” Leighton interrupted her thought to give herself a shaky pour from the second bottle. “I guess I mean… I just can’t imagine being a government employee, is all.” Leighton took a long sip and scanned the faces of Tilly and Poppy. They nodded in agreement. “Like—didn’t you want to be an actress or something? Remember all the time you spent at MSM? You minored in theater. I always thought you should do that. But that’s pretty hard, isn’t it?”

  A flash of white rage blinded Prisha. She leaned across the table and locked eyes with Leighton, who still wore her smirk. Not for long.

  “So, Leigh, what’s the latest with Thatch?” Prisha asked in a playful tone. “Have you seen him lately?”

  Prisha already knew the answer to this question. Thatch was Thatcher Kenworthy, Wall Street wonder boy and Leighton’s old college sweetheart. He had recently graduated from multi-millionaire to billionaire, thanks to the sale of his brokerage house. Prisha had seen the New York Times piece on him. He still looked great: tan, fit, just the right amount of gray at the temples.

  Leighton withdrew back into her seat at the mention of Thatch. He was her kryptonite. Prisha pressed on.

  “I saw the article in the Times. Sold his company for 1.2 billion. Good for him.” Prisha sipped her wine modestly. “He looked great, too. He was always such a good-looking guy, wasn’t he, Leigh? It was a shame you two broke up. A real shame.”

  Leighton and Thatch hadn’t just broken up. This had been Prisha’s master stroke. It had taken her over two years to seduce Thatch, who had attended Columbia right across the street from Barnard. She’d studied him, his needs and vulnerabilities. Guys like Thatch had just about everything. So Prisha had focused on giving him things even the perfect Leighton could not. Prisha was a dark, exotic fruit and, unlike Leighton, eager to please him. She did things to Thatch that Leighton would never do. Thatch was young and full of himself, and Prisha had had him hooked by senior year. She’d insisted he break it off with Leighton, and he had willingly complied. Prisha had immediately distanced herself from him, and they’d graduated estranged from one another.

  But Prisha had accomplished her mission. She’d had her revenge on Leighton. Treachery trumped pedigree.

  Prisha watched Leighton closely now, smiling and sipping her wine. She had found her mark, and she kept at it, adeptly picking at the Thatch scab until Leighton began to sob and broke for the ladies’ room. Tilly and Poppy exchanged awkward looks. Poppy checked her phone. Tilly kept her eyes on the ladies’ room.

  “Anyone for another round of sirloin tips?” Prisha asked, flashing her brightest smile. “I’m starving.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  September 17, 2016

  Scituate, MA

  It was a beautiful day to fly a kite.

  The midday sun danced around the cotton-puff clouds, bathing the field in early fall warmth. A steady breeze off the Atlantic kept the heat at bay and the kites in the sky. At least, Quinn Doyle’s kite, that is. He was an experienced kiter and flew a dual-line delta kite that resembled a stealth bomber. I stumbled with my single-line “Charlie Brown” kite, ignoring Doyle’s instructions and dive-bombing it to earth on several occasions.

  To anyone not paying close attention, Quinn Aidan Doyle looked like an ordinary man. A man of average size and weight, in his prime, and no more than one hundred sixty-five pounds. He had a wide face, dark blue eyes and jet-black hair, which was now streaked with gray in his sixty-eighth year. His eyebrows had gone bushy, and he had taken to wearing knotted wool scarves and matching flat caps. But the eyes had not changed. There was something behind those eyes, something that could chill the blood of men twice his size. Dangerous men who knew the real thing when they saw it. The same eyes that twinkled at a good joke or a snort of smooth Irish whiskey. Doyle’s men followed him out of love and fear, but mostly they respected him as a just boss who dealt straight. Those who didn’t see him that way never stuck around. They had a habit of disappearing.

  For decades Doyle had led the largest crew in South Boston, and on the streets was considered the Irish Mob boss in Southie. He had proven shrewd enough to keep one step ahead of the feds, and ruthless enough to keep his crown from all usurpers.

  Doyle had given it all up within a year of my disappearance, though, proving you can leave the mob standing upright. He’d closed out all his accounts and left the city for Scituate, a pleasant seaside town thirty miles south of Boston near Plymouth Rock, where the Mayflower arrived. Scituate was part of the “Irish Riviera,” a collection of seaside towns south of the city that the Irish have dominated since the end of World War II. In fact, the latest U.S. Census Bureau statistics showed Scituate to be almost fifty percent Irish, making it the most Irish town in the United States. All of this was just fine with Quinn Doyle.

  Sarah’s first call when she left my hospital bed had been to Doyle. The two were very close. Doyle took the news of my re-emergence with restrained composure, as he was a man accustomed to dealing with surprises, both good and bad. My summons to Scituate was not issued until a week after Sarah and Doyle’s phone call, which told me Doyle had struggled with his decision as to whether he ever wanted to see me again. But then word had come down through Sarah that he did, and the Amtrak ticket had followed. Doyle liked to avoid commercial air travel as much as possible. Too much scrutiny.

  The Acela train was a good way to travel the East Coast corridor. I had taken it several times for trips to New York when I was still employed at the CIA. I got off at the end of the line, South Station in Boston, and Doyle had a town car and driver waiting for the forty-five-minute drive down I-93 South to his seaside condo in Scituate.

  The driver was not from a service, but one of Doyle’s men. That was obvious from his countenance and appearance. We drove in silence, which was fine by me. I was nervous, but not in the oh-shit-I’ve-been-called-in-to-see-the-big-boss kind of way. I knew I had done Doyle wrong, going dark on him for five years, but I feared his disapproval, not reprisal. He had been like a father to me when I desperately needed one. We had remained close through my resignation from the army, which, in hindsight, was when the wheels had started to come off my wagon. Our estrangement tracked my withdrawal from the world. I’d learned through Sarah how Doyle had tried to find me, how much I had hurt him. I owed Quinn Doyle and explanation. And an apology. I would offer both. I hoped he would accept them, and that it would be enough.

  The large man pulled the town car into the condo’s parking lot and motioned for me to get out. He pulled my one duffel from the trunk and dropped it at my feet, then climbed back into the car and drove off without a word. I watched him go.

  There was a perfectly manicured golf course at the lot’s edge, which made me snicker. Doyle had never picked up a golf club in his life. But I could see what he liked about the place. It was right on the Atlantic Ocean and surrounded by marshland and a state park to the south and west. I grabbed my bag and turned to the water. I breathed deeply; the salty brine stung my nostrils. The muted crash of the surf filled my ears. I’d left Boston in the eighth grade and had been back only sporadically since. I couldn’t recall my last visit. But standi
ng there in the parking lot I knew this place was home to me, and always would be. I closed my eyes, took a few more deep breaths of salt air, then hefted my bag and stepped through the building’s front doors. I crossed the marble-tiled lobby and took the elevator to Doyle’s penthouse condo on the sixth floor.

  Doyle opened the door on the second knock, then stood in the doorway and took me in. His eyes widened at the sight of me. I was still getting used to that, the instant shock on the faces of people who had known me before. I guess five years on the streets had aged me. Perhaps it was something I chose not to see in my own mirror. Seeing it in the faces of others was hard to ignore, though.

  I stiffened at the sight of him. Pangs of guilt and remorse for what I had done knifed my gut. I smiled feebly. Doyle hadn’t changed. I had. I wondered if I would ever be able to set things right between us. Not back to the way things were, that wasn’t possible. But a reboot maybe.

  Doyle motioned me in. The condo was beautiful, floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic ocean views. I recalled Doyle loved his jazz, and he had a smooth playlist going in the background. We sat at a table by the window. Doyle brought us each a cup of black tea. He mostly kept silent, but through his eyes I could see his mind was racing. Calculating. Deliberating. I filled our awkward silence with my apology, then an accounting of my actions. I offered no excuses, just explained my withdrawal and loss of faith as best I could. My homeless vagabond years, wandering around the south, then the southwest, finally ending up in LA before returning to Washington, DC, where I was attacked and left for dead.

  I thought I saw Doyle’s eyes soften. Maybe it was just the sun’s reflection. Doyle held his silence and watched the ocean waves crash ashore. The soft jazz played on.

  “You should’ve told me, Frankie,” he said at last, turning his head from the window to face me. “Just disappearing on me like that.” Doyle shook his head, held and released a protracted breath. “I thought you were dead, for Christ’s sake. I mourned you. Like a father losing a son.”

  I apologized again. I knew he was right. I wondered how much forgiveness this man had left in his heart.

  “If you had just called me, Frankie. You know I would’ve helped you. Got you out of whatever shit caused you to run.”

  I had told Doyle of my crumbling marriage and the loss of my job, but had left out the secrets I had recently learned from Nicole and Doug Mitchell. It was too much, too soon.

  “What happened in DC?” Doyle asked. “Who did that to you?”

  “I don’t know. Some homeless guys. Looking for something to steal. I don’t remember much of it.”

  “Sarah said you almost died, Frankie.”

  I nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  I saw in his face that Doyle knew of my cancer.

  “Sarah already told you, didn’t she?”

  Doyle nodded. “I’d rather hear it from you, Frankie.”

  I told him of my diagnosis, the odds, that the leukemia would likely kill me within five years. Doyle grimaced; his lower lip trembled. He looked away for a long moment. He asked me who else knew. I told him Sarah, Nicole, my mother Emily, and now him.

  Doyle sipped his tea, thinking. “You know Sarah is taking this pretty hard. She’s always loved you, Frankie.” He paused. “She’s the sister you should’ve married.”

  He was right.

  “How is Emily? How’d she take it?”

  I told him. My mother had taken my return and cancer diagnosis as one would expect. Anger, then hurt, disappointment, then sadness. No understanding or acceptance. She was withholding her forgiveness for the pain I had caused her. I accepted it as my penance.

  Doyle pursed his lips. “Emily—she always blamed me for Arthur’s death.” He went silent at the mention of my father for a long moment, then continued with a wave of his hand. “Emily should’ve never taken you out of Southie. You two should have stayed—with me. None of this would’ve have happened.”

  He was probably right, but if I’d stayed, I would have followed my father into a life of crime. Led one of Doyle’s crews. Maybe met the same fate as Arthur: a couple of bullets behind my ear.

  Doyle got up, collected our cups and walked back to the galley kitchen across the big open room, where he placed the cups in the sink. He stood there, head down, arms locked, hands gripping the counter. After a moment, he pushed off the counter, walked towards me and pulled up ten feet away.

  “What a fucking mess, Frankie,” he said, shaking his head. He said it again, trailing off to a whisper. Doyle looked out the window. I kept my eyes on him. “Sarah said you’re doing this treatment thing, right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.” I could have added the word eventually, but didn’t.

  “Good,” he said. He finished crossing the room to my side. “You’re sticking around?”

  I nodded. Doyle smiled. He left the room, leaving me still sitting at the table by the window. I heard him on the telephone but could not make out what was said. He returned about thirty minutes later with a kite in each hand, said it was a beautiful day to fly a kite.

  We left the condo and walked past the eighth-hole green into the state parkland. A short hike through the woods brought us to an open field of wild grass and clover. Doyle’s kite took wing effortlessly. He deftly maneuvered it with the strings he held in each hand. I watched the kite dance at his command. It was a beautiful sight.

  My own kite defied my efforts. Despite Doyle’s instructions, it jerked about, inevitably crashing to earth. After the third such display, I gave up.

  “Kiting is all about faith, Frankie,” Doyle said, maneuvering his strings like a puppeteer. “Faith and trust. Faith in the winds. Trust in the quality of your equipment and your skill level. Faith and trust. A man needs both in this life, Frankie. You’d do well to remember that.”

  A gust of wind came off the ocean, putting the kite into a dive. Doyle danced, leaning and dipping his body, hands moving rhythmically, eyes fixed skyward. He put the kite straight and true, then continued.

  “You’re a lot like your father, Frankie. Art was a good man. But stubborn. And aloof. Liked to do things himself, his own way. Alienated the other guys on his crew. And so, when he needed help, none came.”

  My gut tightened. My father could be a bastard, true, but hearing Doyle speak of him like this was like chewing beach sand.

  “A man is not an island, Frankie. He’s got to have trust and faith. It’s easy to isolate and destroy the lone warrior. I’ve seen many badass men take two behind the ear, meeting their maker at the hand of a lesser man. Island men separate themselves from the herd. Make themselves vulnerable to the hyenas of this world—susceptible to treachery and deception, betrayal and intrigue. Present themselves as clean targets to their enemies.”

  Doyle took his eyes off his kite to make sure I was listening. I was.

  “Sun Tzu said ‘An army may be likened to water, for just as flowing water avoids the heights and hastens to the lowlands, so an army avoids strength and strikes weakness.’ Do you see what this man is saying, Frankie? You must be flexible like water, not hard and immovable like the stone.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you? Even as a kid you always attacked things head-on. Frontal assault, Frankie. It won you your Medal of Honor and saved the lives of your men, sure. And you’ve always been brave; no one who knows you doubts that. But this approach is foolhardy and destined for martyrdom. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Doyle had survived decades as a mob boss, a profession that typically had a much shorter lifespan. I had to concede his point.

  “‘Bravery, without forethought, causes a man to fight blindly and desperately, like a mad bull. Such an opponent must not be encountered with brute force, but may be lured into an ambush and slain.’” More Sun Tzu. Doyle admired the ancient Chinese general and philosopher, and could cite long passages of his opus, The Art of War, from memory.

  “I know you, Frankie. And I kno
w there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  September 18, 2016

  Scituate, MA

  Doyle and I circled one another like boxers the remainder of that first night. He probed and I parried. He grew accustomed to the idea that I was indeed alive and in his living room. The same for me. I broke off around ten, exhausted, and bid him goodnight. He put me in the guest bedroom. I showered and dropped onto the bed. I heard Doyle’s muffled voice on his cellphone in the living room. I was asleep in an instant.

  We had a late breakfast: fried eggs, blueberry pancakes, and a side of bacon with black coffee. Doyle was a fantastic cook and I emptied my plate twice. We were cordial, better than the day before. Doyle’s mood appeared to have brightened. I felt more comfortable in his presence. He told me he had to run some errands today, that he’d be back in time for dinner. I wondered if this had anything to do with the telephone calls last night.

  Doyle tossed me a spare set of keys to the condo. Told me to get outside for some fresh air but to not leave the area. I agreed. He pointed at me with a raised eyebrow. I promised I wasn’t going anywhere. He gave me a tight smile and left.

  I washed the dishes. Got dressed and went outside. It was overcast and still. The flies were out. I walked past the golf course to the park, then to the field Doyle and I had visited yesterday. I kept going, following the single-track hiking trail wherever it took me. It was still early enough on a Sunday morning. I had the park all to myself.

  I walked in the woods all day. The trail turned out to be a three-mile loop. I came around once, got my bearings, and looped it again. I dawdled along, stopping as I pleased. It sprinkled rain for a bit, just enough to cut the flies back some. But mostly I thought and remembered. My trip to the White House. The president telling me how proud he was of me. The faces of the two soldiers who’d died in silence by friendly fire. Resigning from the army and giving it another shot at the CIA. Prisha Baari taking my job and benefits because I wouldn’t play her game. Nicole’s infidelity and betrayal. My surrender. It was all so surreal, as if I was watching a movie of someone else’s life pass before my eyes. Then there was my son Teddy. That was real. That was something I could not ignore.