Black Diamond

by John F. Dobbyn

  He just gave me a blank look.

  “Good. Then here it is. You have a fairly tight operation, Mr. Dowd. What’s your first name?”

  “Kieran. And what is your name?”

  “It still doesn’t matter, Kieran. I’m impressed with how you handled Black Diamond. That was a good test. But you should know you’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m what?”

  I bent down and picked a stick off the ground. I drew a horizontal line in the dirt below us, and handed the stick to Dowd.

  “Go ahead, Kieran. Write the amount you made on the deal with McGuiness for Black Diamond.”

  He just looked at me. I grabbed the stick back and wrote below the line, × 10. I handed it back to him. “Go ahead. It’s easily erased. It’s just dirt. Write the number.”

  He took the stick and wrote 50,000 euros. It was probably a lie, but no matter. I took the stick back and did the multiplication times 10 and wrote 500,000.

  He looked me straight in the eye, this time with a combination of curiosity and greed. “What’re ya talkin’ about?”

  “McGuiness is chicken feed. You can’t get blood out of a turnip. And you can’t get interesting money out of Suffolk Downs.”

  “And what’re ya suggestin’?”

  “I’m suggesting you’d do well to serve the interests of someone with contacts at every major track in the United States.”

  “You’re talkin’ about purses for winnin’ races.”

  “Of course not. You’re still thinking about chicken feed. I’m talking about wagers placed at the maximum odds with every syndicate in America. That takes connections.”

  “And you have the connections?”

  “So far we’re just breezing here. I’d like to see a level of interest on your part.”

  “Meanin’ what?”

  “Your operation can be improved before we throw the real dice. I need details. Let’s talk about Black Diamond.”

  I got an instantaneous twinge in the stomach. I might have started reeling him in before I’d really set the hook. I was getting nothing but confused looks from Kieran.

  “I’m waiting, Kieran, and I’ve never been known for patience.”

  “Let me think about it, mister.”

  “You see that gate I drove through. In ten seconds you’re going to see the rear end of this Jag drive through it again. It’s the last you’ll see of me personally. I have to admit, though, I’m not comfortable leaving you with this much information and no commitment.”

  Kieran was no dimwit. He read fluently between the lines. I could see it register in his eyes.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with the obvious. Black Diamond had no breeding and dismal workouts when he left Ireland. Somehow he acquired blazing speed during that race. Fill me in.”

  He looked around although we were the only ones in sight. “He had the speed all right, if not the breedin’. We knew it from the time he was a colt. He’s another Seabiscuit. With just as much heart. If the real times got out, he’d have been even-money odds. Less.”

  “So?”

  “So we let the racing press in here to clock him when we wanted to. We’d run him till he was tired, cool him out, and saddle him up again. Then we’d bring the press boys to the rail, and he’d put on a show. He never gave less than all he had, but by then he didn’t have much. They’d report the slow times in the racing press.”

  “And what about Suffolk Downs? He had to be breezed and galloped there. Why wasn’t he noticed?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is this side of the pond.”

  “And again, how much did McGuiness pay you?”

  He stuck to the lie. “Fifty thousand euros.”

  That was what I came for. He answered the question I didn’t ask. I needed confirmation that it was Seamus McGuiness behind the whole Black Diamond business. I could feel one more piece of the puzzle slip into place.

  I left Kieran Dowd with the vague suggestion that I’d be in touch with him when I had all the ducks in a row—whatever that meant.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was near six when I got back to the hotel. One call to the Boston office served to bring Mr. Devlin up to date and to ask Julie to book me onto the morning flight from Dublin to Boston. Mr. D. gave me the name and number of an attorney with one of the large law firms on Federal Street who handles international civil law. I was surprised and pleased to hear that it was a law school classmate, Charlie DiSilva, a smart lawyer and one I could trust.

  Not to lose time, I called Charlie from Dublin and gave him the background and what I needed. He wanted Colleen’s phone number to arrange to take a sample of her DNA to compare it to the child’s after exhumation. I gave him the number, but asked him to delay contacting her until I had a chance to break the news about Erin. I put that at the top of my list of things to be faced when I got back.

  I also gave both Charlie and Eoughan each other’s phone numbers so that they could coordinate directly. Eoughan thought that he could get a hearing on his motion for exhumation within a week. The DNA comparison and motion to release the body for shipment home could take another week.

  That done, I invited Ten Sullivan for a last pint or two at Mulligan’s Pub on Poolbeg Street on the south side of the River Liffey. It was in the center of the city, but far enough out of Ten’s neighborhood that he wouldn’t be known by everyone from the owner to the men’s room attendant. I needed a bit of privacy.

  We were into the third pint by the time I broached anything related to my other reason for being in Dublin. I had no intention of sandbagging him, but I needed information that would most easily flow in an atmosphere of relaxed companionship.

  “Ten, I keep running into this name, Seamus McGuiness.” I was looking at his features. “Look at that. Even you flinch when I say the name. Who is he?”

  He was smiling when he took a long draught of the bitter ale. “That wasn’t a flinch, Michael. Just a surprising shift of subject matter.”

  He took a long breath that came out in a deep sigh. “What can I tell you about Seamus McGuiness?” He seemed to say it to himself.

  “Everything. I need to understand him. He was probably behind the kidnapping and death of that little girl. I can’t go after him now. I have too many fish to fry already. But I may need to learn the truth to defend a client.”

  “Ah, the little girl. I’m sorry for you all on that score. And you could possibly be right about Seamus being involved somehow. But I’ll give you this from the heart. It’ll shock the piss out of me if you find that he was.”

  “Really. So far, everything points in that direction. Why would you be shocked?”

  Ten waived a big arm at the bartender with two fingers up. The bartender drew two more and brought them to the table. I sipped, while Ten took a swallow that brought the level down by three inches.

  “You can’t know what it was like during the Troubles, Michael. And I can’t explain it to ya. You’re too young, and you weren’t here. In those times, we could be in church. We could be in a meeting. We could be at home. And you never knew if the building would be blown to hell. It could be kids on the way to school, and a rain of bullets at someone else would cut them to pieces. You’re feelin’ a loss for the little girl, Michael. Well there was hardly a family that hadn’t lost more than one. And that on both sides. Seamus himself lost his wife and two little ones. The hatred was that thick you could cut it with a knife. The only thing you could seem to feel in those days was hatred, and fear, and loss of someone you didn’t think you could live without. Shite, Michael, the devil had a holiday every day of the week.”

  He stopped for a swallow of ale and a quelling of emotions too close to the surface.

  “I understand, Ten.”

  “No you don’t. But no matter. What I’m about to tell you is not to be talked about. Not here, or back home, or anywhere. Do you hear me?”

  “You have my word.”

  He nodded as
if he put stock in that.

  “Seamus McGuiness was a soldier. I’ll not say what organization, but he was on the side of the Catholics. He did his share of the fightin’. And I’ll not deny that any number of her majesty’s troops would be alive today if it weren’t for Seamus McGuiness. But there were others in his group—”

  He took another pause. I was taken back by how close to the surface old emotions lay in this man of the ring.

  “There were some in those days who lost their souls without losin’ their lives. And some of them are among us today. No conscience left in them at all. They have nothing left to fight for but their own greed and pleasures.”

  He leaned over the table toward me. “But not Seamus McGuiness.” His eyes almost bore holes through mine. “I’ll give you one story, and so help me God, Michael, if you ever repeat it—”

  “Never, Ten. My hand to God.”

  “It was years ago. It was the height of the Troubles. There was to be a Protestant march on a street that divided the two sides. It was to be kept secret until the day of the march, but one of our—one of the boys on the Catholic side got wind of it. There was a meetin’. Some of the boys took their march as a brazen slap in the face, but what to do about it? There were going to be children and women in the march. Most of the boys said to hell with it. Let ‘em march. There were others, not many, said no. It’s a matter of honor. Shite, there was no honor in any of it. But it’s a great word for the killin’.”

  “Was McGuiness there?”

  “Will you let me tell it, Michael? Yes, he was there. He heard the plannin’. A few of them were gonna throw bombs from a certain rooftop to kill anyone, any age, in that crowd of marchers.”

  “Was Seamus in on it?”

  “Not by a damn sight. He faced every one of them to a man. He asked them to their face what the hell they’d become. He asked them, if they could do that to children, what kind of a country they’d be makin’. And it did not one damn bit of good. When they left that meetin’, Seamus knew exactly who was going to do what in spite of him.”

  Ten took another swallow. I could see in his eyes that he was back in those days. I kept the silence until he was ready.

  “That next day, the marchin’ started, to the surprise of no one. It started in the Protestant section and wound through the streets toward the Catholic border. I could see the men I spoke of at the top of the buildings on the corner. They were ready and waitin’ to toss the bombs. I could just see the first of the marchers roundin’ the bend up the next block. I said a prayer, ‘Sweet Jesus, prevent this.’ I’d just said it when the whole damn block shook. There was an explosion a block away. It was an old empty building. No one around to be hurt. Some of the soldiers and police ran to it, while the others disbanded the march and sent everyone home. They all went home with their lives.”

  “Are you saying—?”

  “I’m sayin’ there wasn’t a man in that group that didn’t know it was Seamus set off that blast, and why he did it.”

  “Did he get away with it?”

  “It’s not likely you’ll ever see it. But if you ever do see his back without his shirt on, you’ll know the price he paid at the hands of his own for the lives of the other side.”

  There was nothing either of us could say for the next minute. We finished our pints before shaking hands in the parting. I recalled the words of Superintendent Phelan of the Garda who put me in touch with Ten Sullivan, “If nothing else comes of it, you’ll have made the acquaintance of a man worth remembering.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  By late afternoon, I was packed and ready to catch the late-evening plane out of Dublin Airport. My last act at the Gresham was to tip the concierge. Since I’d arrived, he’d been ready with directions, information, chat, or a bit of Irish humor, depending on my need of the moment.

  “Safe trip, Mr. Knight. Come back to us. Can I get you a car to the airport?”

  He took my bag and saw me off with a smile. On another occasion, the smile would have brought me a glow and good thoughts for what lay ahead. As it was, I sank back into the car seat with the hollow feeling that whatever I’d accomplished in Dublin would bring nothing but the pain of confirmed loss to Colleen. I tried to force myself to think beyond that moment when I’d have to wrench out her last ember of hope for seeing Erin alive. In place of hope I could offer her a funeral. Whatever the hell “closure” meant, it seemed overrated.

  I was gently jarred out of my dark thoughts by the voice from the front seat. “Mr. Knight, would you permit me a short detour?”

  I checked my watch. “How short?”

  “No worries. I’ll have you there and time to spare.”

  I drifted back and just put my mind in neutral until I felt the car pull to a stop in the yard behind a small cottage. Even in the dark, I noticed that we were now well into the countryside with no other buildings or sign of life in sight. I watched my driver get out and open the car door beside me. “I think you should come with me, Mr. Knight.”

  That gentle invitation put every nerve on combat alert. Four words sprang to mind. “Dear God, not again.”

  I looked up at him. “Do you suppose you could tell me who’s staging this command performance?”

  He kept a gentle voice. “Think of it more as an invitation than a command.”

  Ambush though it probably was, his voice had a calming effect. I followed him into the darkness of a one-room cottage that looked like a scene out of The Quiet Man. The only light in the room came from a stone fireplace half the size of one wall with a peat fire that sent warmth through the entire body, as only a peat fire can.

  The driver pointed to one of two wooden rocking chairs that faced the fire. It wasn’t until I was seated that I noticed the man in the other rocking chair. He looked tall even in a slouch, with a body that was muscular but somehow depleted of the energy to move.

  “You’ll forgive me for not risin’, Mr. Knight.”

  The flickering light from the fire picked up the deep lines in his face that bespoke suffering from some cause that was not obvious.

  “How do you know me?”

  That brought a smile that had nothing to do with humor. He took a deep breath before speaking. “You’re better known than you know, Mr. Knight.”

  That brought no comfort. “And do I get to know your name?” I asked, though I knew to a certainty the answer.

  “My name, for the little importance of it, is Seamus McGuiness.”

  I had the quiet urge to check my watch for the flight time, but there was something about that face and voice that grabbed and held my entire attention. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

  “I’m glad we met, Mr. McGuiness. I don’t know exactly why, but I’d have felt I’d missed something if we hadn’t. And just in time. I have a flight in two hours.”

  “I hope not, Mr. Knight.”

  That was a stunner. “And why would that be? I came here for one reason. I’ve gone as far as I can with it. I have business at home. Perhaps you’re aware of that.”

  He seemed to force himself to shift from one uncomfortable position to another at great expense to his store of energy.

  “I’ll not be wastin’ your time. God knows there’s precious little of it. I’ll be askin’ a service of ya.”

  “Mr. McGuiness, I’d probably be willing to do whatever it is you want at any other time. Right now, something’s pressing.” I had my upcoming conversation with Colleen in mind and no desire to postpone it. I stood up.

  “I’ll thank you to sit down, Mr. Knight. I’m nearly finished.”

  “Why me? You have all of Ireland to call on. And I have a plane to catch.”

  He was seized with a fit of coughing. When he leaned to the side, my eye caught a drop of liquid splashing on a pool under his chair. When I focused, the fire lit up the deep crimson color.

  “Mr. McGuiness, you’re bleeding. Is there a hospital or a doctor?”

  He just waved off the idea and shook his head be
tween coughs. “No time. Why you, you’re askin’. Because if you’re half the man Ten Sullivan thinks you are, you’ll not deny a man’s last request.”

  I must have looked blank, because he forced a grin. “Pardon the dramatics. But I have to settle this now.”

  The pool beneath him was growing steadily. His strength, such as it was, seemed to be flowing out with every drop of the liquid.

  I relented enough to ask, “What’s the request?”

  He seemed to drop back against the back of the rocker to gather strength for his next words. “I’ll ask you to get back in the car. Just go with Mr. Kearney.”

  “And?”

  “That’s all I’ll be sayin’. Just go with him.”

  I looked at the man who was apparently Mr. Kearney for illumination. He said nothing.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Knight, that Mr. Kearney knows almost as little as you do. And so it must be. A bit of faith. Just go where he takes you. And quickly, if you would. Not much time.”

  It went against everything inside of me to leave any man with the life pouring out of him with every new drop of blood. On the other hand it already seemed too late. He pressed me once more with what seemed like the last words he had the strength to speak.

  “Go now, Mr. Knight. And God be with you.”

  “I think God knows I’m completely in the dark, Mr. McGuiness. I’ll do what you ask. I’m praying that He’s with the both of us.”

  He smiled a resigned and even contented smile. “In a very short time, I’ll convey your prayer to Him personally.”

  I got back in the car with Mr. Kearney with just one clear thought in mind. There’s not a chance in hell I’ll make my flight out of Dublin. The many ramifications of that thought bounced around my consciousness as we drove over country roads barely the width of a car. It was at least twenty minutes later when we pulled up in front of what looked from the dark outline to be a church.

  Mr. Kearney opened the car door for me, and led the way up the few stone steps to the church door. Mr. Kearney, who seemed to know at least that much of the plan, rapped loudly on the heavy wooden door.