by Rick Boyer
"Has either of you any comments about the mode of entry? Does it not strike you as interesting that this group appears to be adept at circumventing burglar alarms?"
They nodded at each other without hesitating.
"Well?"
"Well what? It's always interesting that the M.O. has a definite pattern. We're up against pros here, that's certain."
"Yes," I answered, "and pros good enough to crack an armory maybe?"
"Oh I've thought of that," said Brian.
"Of course. I thought of it right away," added Joe.
"Oh you did? But then neither of you apparently thought that the Rose could be running something out of the country—namely guns. Instead you thought I was off my nut. Since then we've uncovered a body, some tangible evidence of gun-running, and a direct threat to Yours Truly. The question is, how seriously are you guys taking this?"
"Very," they answered in unison. I was somewhat heartened, but not very. To me they still seemed a bit like Tweedledum and his big fat brother, dee.
"Before he left Joe hugged Mary on the couch and comforted her.
"I want you at ten-ten Comm. Ave. Tomorrow at ten," he said as he left.
On Commonwealth Avenue, right at the Boston/Brookline line, is a large store called Eastern Mountain Sports, abbreviated EMS. It sells down parkas, snowshoes, camping gear, and mountain climbing apparatus. The shelves are lined with pitons, nylon lifelines, ice axes, and small hammers to drive the pitons and steel rings into cliff faces. All this so people can scale sheer cliffsides and dangle about underneath ledges and outcroppings like spiders.
The people who die doing this stuff deserve it. It is nature's way of weeding out the insane.
Hordes of people flock to this emporium. Most don't pay any attention to the big dun-colored building across the street. It's blocky and ugly, and is conspicuous in having a splendid array of aerials and antennae on its rooftops. This is the headquarters building of the Department of Public Safety for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. One of the biggest divisions in the department is the State Police. Joe has an office in this big building. The day after we found Angel's severed head in the oven, I found myself on the third floor of this building seated at a table. Joe sat across from me. Next to me sat Sergeant Kevin O'Hearn. We were flipping through a big book filled with black and white photographs.
They were mugshots, but not of people. They were pictures of weapons: military small arms. I identified one picture and rapped at it with my fingernail.
"You sure?"
"Yep. Positive. I knew it looked familiar. It's the M-60."
"Now look in this section."
Kevin O'Hearn flipped through the pages. These were smaller automatic weapons, assault rifles and submachine guns. I stopped briefly at one called the Skorpion, a Czech machine pistol, then went on. It glanced for a few seconds at the Uzi, the fine Israeli machine pistol made under license in Holland. It is (so O'Hearn told me) the most widely used submachine gun today. The White House Guards tote them. Not it; the Uzi was too rounded. The gun I wanted looked as angular as a hunk of two-by-four. Then I saw it, complete with the big tubes.
"Here.'This one."
"Sure?"
"As sure as I'm sitting here."
O'Hearn gave a low whistle at Joe, than excused himself, saying he had to make a phone call.
I remember now I read where these are made: Powder Springs, Georgia. I could've saved you some time.?
"We wanted a positive visual identification. Kevin thought it might be the Ingram as soon as I told him about your escapade out west. The government's been looking for these things for two months now. You've made quite a discovery."
"They're hot I assume?"
"You could fry eggs on 'em."
"Can I go now? Mary and I are looking at dogs today."
The first rule when you lose a dog, either to old age, accident, or murder, is to get another one quick. We had an appointment to look at the new German sporting breed, the drahthar, after lunch.
"In a little bit. Major Downey would like to interview you first. He's on his way now."
"Does he work here or out in Amherst?"
"He's stationed at Fort Ord, California. He's a major in the United States Army, Ordnance."
"0h."
The phone on Joe's desk rang. He grunted into it and hung up.
"Major Downey and O'Hearn are down in the range. Come on down with me and you can see for yourself what man hath wrought."
"What do you mean?"
"Downey has a real live Ingram with him. You can see what one of the things'll do."
The range was located in a subbasement, presumably to deaden the noise of target practice. I heard the hum of ventilating fans and could smell the bitter odor of cordite. As a sometime hunter I liked the smell, though I could see why Vietnam veterans would hate it. Another smell I like is the aroma of Hoppe's powder solvent, used for cleaning shotguns. We approached a door and I could hear the solid blam of firearms. The sound was two-in-one because the shot was followed a millisecond later by the impact sound of the slug thumping against the inclined steel wall of the range eighty feet away. Joe opened the door and went in.
There were eight stalls to the range. Troopers and plainclothesmen occupied about half of them. They wore ear protectors as they fired their sidearms at the big suspended paper targets at the far end of the range. The targets were life-sized silhouettes of the human being. Parts of the body were outlined in white lines, with various scores. I noticed you got a lot of points for the head and chest, a bit fewer for the stomach and abdomen, and hardly any for legs, knees, and such. It was a rather ominous spectacle for the uninitiated. Most of the men were standing, but sometimes they dropped to a crouch and fired their weapons held in both hands. When they did this they emptied the cylinder, pumping off six shots very quickly. One pistol sounded particularly loud, and I remarked on it.
"Three-fifty-seven magnum. The slug can go through an engine block. But if you think that's loud, you oughta hear a forty-four magnum—"
"I have. One of the guys at the gun club has one. When he shows up at the range everybody else leaves."
We met Major Downey. He looked all business: crewcut, suntan, leathery skin, no fat, and a crisp khaki uniform with razor sharp creases. He shook my hand firmly and we all talked briefly about what I had related to Joe. Then I was told that an army intelligence team had a surveillance on the Buzarski farm. With the team were state troopers. The major took me over to a bench, upon which sat an aluminum case that looked like a suitcase. In fact, it looked just like a Halbriton photographer's case. Downey flicked open the latches and opened the lid. Neatly cradled inside a nest of cut-foam plastic was one of the weird-looking square pistols. It was identical to those I had seen in the crate in Buzarski's barn. Alongside the gun was the long metal tube.
"That's it."
"Doctor Adams, ten crates of these weapons disappeared two months ago from the armory in Schenectady, New York. They were purchased by the army for special assignments, and were being stored in the armory prior to being shipped to Fort Ord. The Em-sixties have been disappearing from a number of storage facilities. Perhaps you know that three years ago some were taken from the armory at Danvers."
"I remember that. They later turned up in Northern Ireland, by way of Holland."
As the major nodded, my thoughts returned to my strange assailant inthe barn, the one with the peat from County Donegal still on his boots. The Irish Connection. And yet he'd been hiding too. . . '
"If you gentlemen will follow me, I will show you why the government is so anxious for the return of these missing pieces," said the major in an official tone as he plucked the pig-ugly little gun from its fancy case. He pushed in a small button above the back of the handgrip and drew out the metal stock, the end of which he braced against his shoulder. He shoved a clip up the handle, pulled back the knob on the gun's top surface, and requested that a fresh target be reeled out on the wire. By this time
we were surrounded by the other policemen, who gazed at the contraption with curiosity and awe. When the target reached the far end of the range, having been cranked out there on a pulley like a clothesline, the major darted underneath the shooting bench, raised the machine pistol to his shoulder, and fired.
The range exploded in noise. I felt as if I were inside a boiler being riveted. The soldier had two of his left-hand fingers inside a small canvas strap that hung down from the barrel. He pulled down on this as he released the two bursts, but the small gun bucked up nevertheless, spewing .45-caliber slugs so fast it made one solid wall of noise. He swung his torso back and forth quickly during the bursts. The shredded target fell apart. He had cut it in two.
"Sombitch!" said a trooper.
"Jesus Christ Almighty," whistled another.
Downey released the clip; it clanked down on the floor at his feet.
"Empty," he said. "That's a major disadvantage of the Ingram. At eleven, hundred a minute, the cyclic rate is so high that a thirty-round clip empties in under one and a half seconds. But now I'm going to demonstrate the Ingram's great advantage? He took the metal tube from the case and twisted it onto the barrel that projected from the body by only about two inches, threaded. He shoved a second clip into the piece, ducked under t-he bench as before, and pulled the trigger.
What emerged this time was one of the strangest noises I've ever heard. It was like the faint sound of a buffalo stampede or like sheet metal being ripped behind a thick felt curtain. And behind this noise was another: a thin whistle of almost electronic purity. It made almost no noise whatsoever. But yet the slugs still poured forth. We saw the target's top half sliced to ribbons. Also, we heard the only loud noise there was: that of thirty lead slugs, each as thick as the tip of my little finger, thunking into the metal wall. That sound was loud—as loud as two jackhammers. But the tiny weird gun, for all its kicking and bucking, was almost totally silent.
"Well Gawdammn!"
Downey wore a self-satisfied smile, pleased at having so impressed his audience. It was almost a smirk. I decided I didn't much care for the major.
"I'm sure most of you are aware of silencers, and how they reduce muzzle velocity almost to the point of uselessness. But this"—and he rapped the metal tube with his hand—"is designed so that it actually increases the energy of the fired rounds. Don't ask me how 'cause I don't know. But it does. So there you have it: a silent machine gun that can be carried under a coat."
"Unbelievable," said O'Hearn. "Jesus, I hate to think what they'd mean in the wrong hands."
"Which, having been stolen, they are," replied Joe.
We made our way up to Joe's office. I plunked down into a chair and listened to my ears ringing. I told him I had no idea the funny-looking little pistol was so deadly. I thought it was just a cheap pistol. . .a junky version of the army .45 auto sidearm.
"Nope. The reason your description caused such a flurry is because every major police bureau in the country has had a circular from the army, sitting on their desks for these last eight weeks. The Ingram machine pistols, departed from Schenectady, turn up in western Massachusetts. They are heading east then, probably on their way to Ireland.,And incidentally we have no idea who your midnight companion could be. Neither do the Boston Police."
"Is that surveillance team going to pick up the young brat—Buzarski's son-in-law?"
"Last we checked the barn was clean as a whistle, so we've got no cause. We're just all hanging back in the bush observing the place through heavy lenses. We're also going to go after the Rose again."
I leaned back in the chair with my hands clasped behind my head and stared at the ceiling. It was one of those horrendous affairs with fiber panels with tiny holes in them. I had a thought or two, but said nothing. So far Schilling had remained at least one hop ahead of me. The only way to turn the tables was to put myself in his place, to think the way he would think, do what he would do, and intercept him.,
"Is Hannon putting a watch on your house?"
"Yep. And I'd like one put on The Breakers too. If it can't be done by public cops I'll hire some. I'm pretty sure he's found out by now that I have two homes. Of course the grim warning of Angel is clear: I back off or maybe one of my family is next."
"And are you going to back off?"
"Absolutely. Wouldn't you? You saw what happened to Danny Murdock. How'd you like your sister, Mary, to get the same?"
Joe shuddered.
"That's smart; let us handle it. I'm also going to request extra protection in Concord for you, and we'll keep an eye on the cottage too. Where you going?"
"I'm going for a run and a steam bath at the Y, then home. And listen: if you're anxious to ever have a chance to talk to the Newdecker brat, I'd do it mighty quick. When Jim Schilling has squeezed the utility out of people they have a nasty habit of vanishing in gruesome ways. I appreciate the help; come out tonight and we'll hunt up some Chinese. The buffet special is on in Lexington. I'll pay."
I left the building and drove over to the YMCU gym on Boylston Street. I glanced at the watch: 11:45. Tommy Desmond would be there. He never missed his noon workout.
I parked the car in a sleazy lot just on the edge of the Combat Zone and gave the attendant five bucks.
I found Tommy working the speedbag. He circled the tiny teardrop-shaped bag doing a slow foxtrot, pawing at it with his mitts in small circles like a kid imitating a choo-choo train. The bag bounced under the platform and spoke like a conga drum: whackata-whackata-whackata-whackata, faster than the eye could follow.
I told him I wanted to buy him lunch and talk. He nodded. An hour later we were in J. J. Foley's bar and grill, wrapping our faces around a couple of cheeseburgers and inhaling beer.
"Liatis is in trouble again, Doc. You heah?"
"No. Same thing again? Bar fight?"
He nodded.
"Punk started it. As usual."
"And Liatis finished it."
"Uh huh. Four seconds. Cops aren't sure the kid'll live though. It's serious this time. He could go to trial and everything. Even all his friends on the force can't save him."
"Jesus. Chest kick?"
"Naw. Throat punch."
"He's got to quit getting bombed in those sleazy bars, Tommy."
He nodded sagely and chewed.
Let me tell you: if you ever find yourself in one of Boston's sleazy bars in the Combat Zone and a short, stocky man with a drooping moustache and thick accent asks you what you think of the Patriots' chances, or who you're voting for, or anything. . .your best bet is to place your drink back on the bar, make hand signs as if you're deaf and dumb, and back out of there smiling and bowing, And take the next plane to Fresno.
When he asked me what it was I wanted to talk about I mentioned NORAID, the IRA, arms smuggling in general, and my strange nocturnal meeting in the Buzarski barn. Tommy's big blue eyes changed. They took on a steely coolness, rather like the Vaughan Lewis Glacier. They had a piercing, laserlike gleam of intense feeling that could cut through a bank vault door. Sensing his change in mood I made it emphatically clear that I didn't wish to pry into his personal life or activities, or those of his friends and acquaintances. I just wanted an idea if the man I had met was, in his estimation, an IRA Provo.
His replies were cool and clipped, though polite. No, he thought. The IRA was infinitely more sophisticated than most people thought. What I had bumped into sounded to him like a half-assed outfit, though certainly a dangerous one. He advised me as a friend to heed the man's warnings. But if he is IRA, he'l1 kill you next time, Doc. Count on it. If not, he still might. But I know for a fact that most of the guns used in the North are smuggled through New York and New Orleans now—even though the money comes from here. Also, they're getting more and more of their stuff from other terrorist groups like the PLO. Hello, Joe!"
"Hi ya, Tommy. May God bless—"
His name was Joe Berry, and he wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and had snow-white hair capped with a snap brim
hat. His nose was long and cherry red. Tommy bought him a beer and he sat down, listening to Tommy telling me about the British domination and exploitation of the Northern six counties.
"Fookin' Brits!" he piped.
The waitress had stopped by our booth an inordinate number of times.
Her name was Mauneen—she told Tommy this. She was very pretty. She was pretty all over, as a matter of fact. She couldn't take her eyes off Tommy. She was looking at him the way a cat looks at tuna fish. She leaned over to collect our plates,. staring at Tommy dead level and moving the damp rag around on the Formica as if she were working a Ouija board.
"Did you like it?"
"Excellent," I answered.
She didn't hear me; she was looking at Tommy.
Tommy's eyes were darting between her face and chest, face and chest. He wore a huge smile.
"But Tommy," I said, "the guy gave me back my gun. Tommy?"
". . .Oh from Cork, eh? Hey Joey, Maureen's from Cork. Oh yeah. Hey, don't they make 'em pretty in Cork, eh?"
"And not only that, but the guns could be going somewhere else. Like maybe South Africa, or even Quebec. Tommy?"
"And you're staying in Wollaston now are you? Well, I live there too—oh yeah."
Several patrons were holding their empty bottles aloft. The batman was glaring impatiently at Maureen.
"Uh Tommy, just one more, uh. . ." I began.
To hell with it. I gave Joey the money to pay for the meal and began to slide out of the booth. He nodded and winked at me.
"Happens alla time to 'im. Like a fookin' broken reoord—"
"Uh huh. I know. See you, Joe."
"Same to you. Watch yerself!"
I left J. J. Foley's and retrieved the car. At home, Mary showed me one of the big Chinese pots.
"Angel's head's in there, Charlie. I want you to dig a deep hole in the garden and bury it."
She had worked days on the pot.
"You sure?"
"Uh huh. And I'll tell you something else. I'm never going to feel good until they're found. I could kill them myself."
