Dark Times in the City

by Gene Kerrigan

  ‘I can go after him – I go after him, I’m dead. And it won’t take a war to do it – he’s already got his moves mapped out. He’ll already have some of my people in his pocket – there isn’t anyone I can trust.’

  Lar’s gaze was focused a couple of feet in front of him, somewhere in mid-air. ‘If I do what he says, I get to fuck off out of the country. And if I stand up to him, I get to lie beside Jo-Jo in Sutton cemetery.’

  ‘You’ve got money, you’ve got people.’

  Lar’s outfit had an inner circle of half a dozen, revolving around Matty Butler. Beyond those were the dozen or so in the wider team, and then the freelancers who signed up for particular jobs. Tucker would know every one of them.

  ‘For years, it was Jo-Jo ran everything. Without Matty, I’m—’ He gestured with both hands held wide. ‘And that little bastard knew that was where to hit me.’

  ‘You’re giving in?’

  ‘What else can I do?’

  Lar changed his mind next evening. He didn’t use the phrase blaze of glory but that was what it sounded like to May.

  ‘Whatever happens – if I can hold my nerve I think I can take that little bastard.’

  She asked what he had in mind, but there was no plan. Just a surly reaction against Frank Tucker’s demands.

  ‘I won’t piss off and vegetate. I won’t count the days. I won’t watch the Christmases clicking by until I stroke out.’

  It was the end of a long day, in which one draining hour of depression followed another. It was as if Lar had weighed the consequences of resignation against those of rebellion and he’d made a choice.

  May was in bed, Lar was standing by the bedroom window, looking at the lights of Howth village below and the darkness beyond.

  ‘People come to me, they offer me deals, they ask me to come into things with them, they tell me what they’re planning, like they want me to give them the nod. I need all that.’

  Lar turned to May. ‘It isn’t just the money. There’s things that wouldn’t happen without my say-so. I make a difference.’

  He turned back to the window. The sea had never been darker, the sky had never been more clear. The lights in the houses scattered around the hills below had never seemed more like jewels set on black velvet.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe that was the best way. Lying in the darkness, May Mackendrick pondered the choices. Rebellion and perhaps a quick retribution from Frank Tucker and his scumbags. Or years of festering resentment, vegetating in some foreign resort.

  Maybe Lar was right.

  Go for it, damn the risk.

  The odds were with Frank Tucker, but it was better than counting down the days.

  Lying there, listening to Lar’s breathing, May considered her own prospects. There was money safely put away, she was three years younger than Lar and she could see a very different life waiting.

  She would miss him.

  At breakfast, Lar was silent. May couldn’t tell if he’d changed his mind again.

  After she’d put milk on his porridge and poured his tea, she stood behind Lar and one hand gently stroked his hair. She said, ‘What would Jo-Jo do?’

  ‘Jo-Jo wouldn’t run.’

  ‘But how would he fight, what would he do?’

  If there was one image that outweighed all others in Lar’s memories of his brother, it was Jo-Jo in an armchair or sitting at a table, a book open in front of him. Jo-Jo was the bright one, Jo-Jo used his head.

  A year after Jo-Jo and his mother Pearl were murdered, Lar finally got around to clearing out their things. He shared some mementoes with family members and gave the rest to a charity shop. One drunken evening, playing one of Jo-Jo’s Marty Robbins CDs, he went through Jo-Jo’s books and chose about a dozen of them to keep on a small shelf in his living room. The John Grisham novel that Jo-Jo had been reading just before he was murdered, the three old Alistair MacLean paperbacks he’d had since his teens, James Plunkett’s Strumpet City, which Jo-Jo had read and reread back in the 1970s and had urged all his friends to read. There were a few books on Irish history and a tattered guide to hillwalking in Wicklow. Strumpet City reminded Lar of the stories of old Dublin that his grandfather used to tell. He liked the Grisham book but he thought the MacLean stories were old-fashioned. He didn’t open the history books. Then there was the little book he now took down from the living-room shelf.

  The Art of War by Sun Tzu.

  The book had impressed Jo-Jo so much that he claimed Sun Tzu was almost a partner in the various businesses the family dominated in their area of northside Dublin – protection, cigarette smuggling, armed robbery, bootleg CDs and DVDs, the financing of drug deals.

  ‘Without his advice, I’d have been dead years ago.’

  The Mackendricks had family links with two outfits in the Finglas area, both of which Jo-Jo had guided through several rough confrontations with rivals. Freelance operators kicked in a cut from the robberies and drug distribution they carried out in the Ballycarrig and Glencara estates to the south and west of Finglas. Dealing with such people required nerve and decisiveness and Jo-Jo claimed he never made a big decision without consulting the little book.

  ‘No better pair for a bumpy ride,’ he used to laugh, ‘than the Chinaman and meself.’

  What would Jo-Jo do? First, he’d consult his Chinaman.

  When Lar began reading the book he decided that a lot of it was pointless. Which wasn’t suprising, given that this Sun Tzu was born five hundred years before Christ. Take the bit about how dust rising high was a sign of chariots advancing. And how low, widespread dust was a sign of infantry on the move. And it wasn’t just that the book was out of date, some of it was just shite.

  The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him.

  More than a bit obvious.

  To lift an autumn hair is no sign of great strength; to see the sun and moon is no sign of sharp sight; to hear the noise of thunder is no sign of a quick ear.

  Lar got that bit. It’s no big deal, doing stuff that’s easy. That’s what it meant – but, why not just say that? The Chinaman seemed to enjoy making things unclear. Like it wasn’t enough to give advice, he had to make you work for it.

  Lar used a green highlighter to underline a passage that clicked with him.

  All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable. When using our forces, we must seem inactive. When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away. When far away, we must make him believe we are near.

  For the first time since Jo-Jo’s death Lar felt like he was making some kind of contact with his brother. This stuff was beginning to make sense. It wasn’t like a DIY manual that might tell you how to work on a car engine. It was a way of looking at the world, a way of bringing out things you didn’t know you knew, putting all that shit into words.

  What would Jo-Jo do?

  Jo-Jo would take his time, give himself some room. He’d assess his forces and he’d find the best way to cut the throat of any fucker who tried to walk all over his life. That’s what Jo-Jo would do.

  Lar used the green highlighter again.

  Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.

  That was more like it. Advice plain and simple, no fucking about.

  Chapter 32

  Declan Roeper was twenty minutes late. He was glad to see that Lar Mackendrick looked impatient.

  Mackendrick was sitting in a shelter on the Clontarf seafront, hands in the pocket of his heavy overcoat, facing out towards Dublin Bay. He’d lost a lot of weight a few years back, but he’d put a little of it back on. There was a noticeable double chin beneath his ill-tempered face.

  As he reached Mackendrick, Roeper didn’t slow down, his stride long, his back straight. ‘Let’s walk,’ he said, and he smiled as he heard Mackendrick scramble to his feet and hurry to catch up.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘How can I help?�
��

  It had been a couple of decades since Declan Roeper had done any field training, slogging about in the Donegal mountains with a pack on his back, but he was still fighting fit. He increased his pace and listened as Mackendrick came alongside. No hint of puffing. Lar was in fair enough shape for his age.

  ‘I need weaponry.’

  ‘You think I’m some kind of arms supermarket? Aisle six, handguns and Armalites. Aisle seven, hand grenades, Semtex and C4.’

  ‘Name your price.’

  Roeper laughed. ‘Haven’t you heard? The IRA decommissioned, the rest of us went out of business. It’s all peace and brotherly love these days. Instead of shooting the Brits we snog them to death.’

  ‘Five clean pistols, no markings, no history. With silencers and ammo to match. And explosives – something big enough to take down a house.’

  Roeper stopped walking.

  ‘Jesus, Lar, which country are you planning to invade?’

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Your kind of people – you’ve never played with anything bigger than a few pipe bombs or hand grenades. What makes you think—

  ‘Cash, up front.’

  ‘Suppose I had access to that kind of stuff – why would I let a gangster get hold of it?’

  ‘I’m paying above the odds.’

  ‘That stuff’s not for playing with. Besides, there’ll come a time when the complacency is gone, when there’s a new IRA and serious people need serious material.’

  ‘In the meantime, serious people need serious money.’

  Roeper began walking again, more slowly this time.

  Mackendrick said, ‘I need the material two weeks from today.’

  *

  Using clean mobile phones – prepaid, off the shelf, untraceable, untappable – Lar Mackendrick conducted negotiations with Frank Tucker over a day and a half, before they reached agreement.

  ‘We need to get the mechanics of this thing right,’ Lar said. ‘I can’t just walk away. I need a couple of weeks.’

  ‘You can’t string things out, Lar.’

  ‘Three weeks – maybe four. I’ve got people to talk to, things to – look, this is a complicated business. If I just walk away, a lot of people get screwed. People I owe money to, people I’ve made promises to – then there are people who owe me money, they need time. I’ve got to get things in order.’

  ‘There’s no point dragging things out – nothing’s going to change.’

  ‘That’s not what this is about. We’re agreed, deal done – I just need some time.’

  And Lar gave him the sweetener.

  A petrol-smuggling operation, back and forth across the border, using a farm in the area where Monaghan pokes up between Fermanagh and Armagh. Although the farmer had twice been arrested and questioned, there were no charges and no one knew of Lar’s involvement. Not the police on either side of the border, not the smuggling outfit in the north, and only one of the Monaghan people.

  ‘I could have kept that quiet, held on to it. Instead, I’m giving it to you. I’ve thought this through and I don’t like it but it’s the sensible thing to do. I hate your fucking guts, but I’ve got to do business with you – and this is a goodwill offering. Take it, and let me wrap this up with a bit of dignity.’

  He sacrifices something, that the enemy may snatch at it. By holding out baits, he keeps him on the march. Then, with a body of picked men, he lies in wait for him.

  Frank Tucker didn’t get back to Lar until the following day. ‘Okay, three weeks.’

  ‘A month – tops.’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  ‘Probably I won’t need the full month, but I’m in London all next week – my wife had the trip planned and I’m not cancelling – and it’ll take me two or three weeks to wrap this up at the other end and that takes us into Christmas. What’s the difference?’

  There was an amused twist to Frank Tucker’s voice. ‘Okay, Lar. But not a single day into the new year.’

  ‘And that two grand a week?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘I want three.’

  Frank Tucker laughed. ‘Don’t push it, Lar.’

  They settled on two and a half.

  Walking back towards Fairview, Declan Roeper and Lar Mackendrick crossed the road and found a quiet corner of The Yacht. After the barman had brought their coffees Roeper said, ‘Lar, you’re the enemy.’

  Lar Mackendrick made a dismissive noise. Roeper leaned closer and said, ‘We’ve done a bit of business, strictly small-time. But you’re talking now about serious firepower. I’m in the patriot game. And, bottom line – you’re part of what’s wrong with this country.’

  Lar Mackendrick smiled. ‘Come on, Declan. Everyone’s got an angle. Half this city was built on crooked land deals and politicians selling bent planning permission. How much of the building trade operates off the books? How many of the big family businesses were built on bribery, extortion and tax evasion? All those big-time tax frauds the banks organised – you see any bankers in jail? The difference is I steal thousands, they steal millions.’

  Roeper looked like a man who’d been walking up an endless hill – worn out, but reluctant to write off all the time and effort, barely hanging on to the belief that he’ll ever see the summit. ‘This country used to be something special – it had a spirit. Now it looks and sounds like anywhere else. The kind of money that used to buy a house, they started paying that much for a car. The kind of money that used to buy a car, they started paying that much for designer handbags. Even when the economy goes into the tank, all they can think of is getting back to the good old days of infinite squander. Offer them sacrifice – they think it’s the height of patriotism to recycle their champagne bottles.’

  ‘When’s it ever been any different?’

  ‘We’ve got a whole new gentry. Fake tans and fake tits. Sleazy parties and bowls of happy powder to impress their friends. And you and your like are happy to kill each other for the privilege of serving their needs.’

  ‘And what’s your dream? Blow the whole thing up?’

  ‘Don’t be simplistic.’

  ‘Thirty years you spent blowing things up, shooting people dead in front of their wives and their kids – and you’re lecturing me on the spirit of the fucking nation?’

  Roeper took a sip of his coffee, leaned forward and held Mackendrick’s gaze.

  ‘I’ve got people who sacrificed everything. People who could have had good jobs, a good living – they’re getting old now and they’ve nothing to show for it.’

  ‘Which is why we ought to do business. You need the money now.’

  ‘It’s not all about money. I need to know what you need the explosives for.’

  ‘Can’t tell you.’

  ‘This stuff doesn’t grow on trees. It cost a lot to import, back in the day – and it costs a lot to store securely, until everyone gets over the lovey-dovey shit and we need it again. It would cost even more to replace.’

  ‘Name your price.’

  ‘I need to know what it’ll be used for.’

  Mackendrick hesitated. Then he said, ‘A diversion. I’ve got a job coming up in the centre of the city – I need a big distraction. Something so big that it throws a shadow over the city for an hour or two. And while the cops are dealing with that, they won’t have time to notice what’s happening in the back-streets.’

  Declan Roeper’s smile was bitter. ‘Everything’s turned on its head, these days. My old comrades are playing footsie with the Brits, and it’s the ordinary decent criminals who’re giving the establishment nightmares.’

  ‘You approve?’

  ‘No.’ Roeper’s smile was gone now. ‘But a whole lot of smug people are going to have their assumptions shattered. That I like.’

  ‘How much is this going to cost me?’ Lar Mackendrick said.

  Chapter 33

  Lar and May Mackendrick flew to London for a couple of days and stayed at the Kensington Jury’s. On the first afternoon, Lar li
nked up with a friend down from Formby, in Liverpool. In the bar of a hotel on the Strand, the friend introduced Mackendrick to two former officers from the Metropolitan Police who now operated an unlicensed private inquiry agency. Mackendrick laid down fifteen thousand sterling in cash and passed over a list of sixteen names and addresses – Frank Tucker’s inner circle. He specified the depth of surveillance required, covering routine movements over a couple of weekend mornings. No locals to be employed on the surveillance.

  ‘Tucker gets a whisper of this, the balloon goes up.’

  After some discussion he was told that level of work meant that the previously quoted price of fifteen grand was a serious underestimate. The job would require an extra ten thousand. Mackendrick agreed. The additional money would be delivered by courier next day.

  While May headed for Harrods on the second afternoon, Mackendrick kept an appointment at O’Neill’s Pub on Euston Road.

  ‘Call me Michael,’ Dolly Finn said. ‘My papers say Michael Sheehan.’

  Without someone as hard as Dolly Finn it wasn’t a plan that Lar had, it was a reckless gamble.

  ‘You settled down here yet?’

  Dolly was tucking into the all-day breakfast. Lar had a mineral water. In the background, Bono was warbling about it being a beautiful day.

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Going home for good is still out of the question?’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

  In recruiting foot soldiers for the job of taking down Frank Tucker, Lar Mackendrick was flying blind. There wasn’t anyone inside his outfit who mightn’t have been squared away by Frank Tucker. Approach the wrong person and Lar would be dead by nightfall. Matty had known who the up-and-comers were in the city. Lar’s knowledge was limited.

  Almost a year had passed since Lar had told Karl Prowse to fuck off when the young smartass called and offered him a piece of a jewellery robbery. Karl said all he needed was someone to help sell the stuff. Lar had hung up. A month later, Karl Prowse made the papers when a murder charge was dropped. Karl was pulled in after a Chinese student was mugged in St Anne’s Park and died two days later. On the day the case opened, the prosecution disclosed that the two witnesses who had identified Karl as the assailant were refusing to verify the information they’d given in statements to gardai. The judge ordered them onto the witness stand and threatened them with strict penalties and they all swore they couldn’t remember anything about the crime.