“Meaning?”
“What was Vinny’s job?”
“Collins’s enforcer.”
“Shooter,” replied Johnny. “Vinny was the supreme shooter. He killed more people than cancer.”
“Do you have anything else you want to share with me?” asked Diane, and Johnny shook his head. “Would a little ‘afternoon delight’ perhaps stimulate some other recollections?”
Johnny silently took his wife by the hand and headed for the upstairs bedroom. “Skyrockets in Flight! . . .” he began, as he started to climb the stairs.
“ . . . Afternoon Delight!” sang Diane in reply, adding her own deliciously dirty laugh to set the mood.
56
Camden Street was turning into a British highway. Day by day, hour after hour, British military lorries, Crossley tenders, and armored cars came rambling through the old neighborhood, honking their horns, frightening children playing in the streets, drenching pedestrians with splashed rainwater—which would always evoke howls of derisive laughter from the Tommy in the driver’s seat.
They were coming from the Portobello Barracks, down past the Grand Canal, and their destination was Dublin Castle. They would range unmolested through the long, twisted thoroughfare that started out as Camden Street, then turned into Wexford, Aungier, and South Great Georges Streets. At Dame Street, they would make their safe left turn and find the front gates of Dublin Castle.
Unmolested.
The Second Battalion of the South Dublin IRA wanted to change that word.
It started with one hand grenade. The pin was pulled, and the grenade was tossed into a lorry, and soon the ambulances began arriving from the Meath Hospital.
There would be no more free passage down the middle of Camden Street for the British Army. There would be no more laughing at the locals—only nervous glances at the citizens in the street, wondering which one had a deadly grenade in his pocket.
The attacks became a daily occurrence. The British, so used to dealing with their local savages around the world, improvised. Soon the tops of lorries and tenders were covered with chicken wire. A grenade now bounced off and was returned to sender with a bang.
But the British weren’t the only ones who knew how to improvise. A fishhook made a nice catch on the wire mesh, and more ambulances would arrive from the Meath. The hunters had become the hunted.
Now, as they entered Camden Street, the proud British Army could hear the heckles of the street urchins: “Welcome to the Dardanelles, ya fookin’ English hoors!” Listen to the children, and you’ll know what the parents are thinking.
On other occasions, they would be serenaded by the same street kids, with the anti-British Great War ditty called “The Grand Ould Dame Britannia:”
What’s the news the newsboy yells?
What the news the paper tells?
A British retreat from the Dardanelles,
Says the Grand Ould Dame Britannia
The British just did not do well in the Dardanelles—Winston Churchill’s disastrous Great War misadventure—be it in Turkey in 1915, or in Dublin in 1919. The new Battle of the Dardanelles had begun, and the next move belonged to the Crown.
57
Sebastian Blood couldn’t get Castle Barbers out of his head.
He found himself taking walks over to Aungier Street to see what was happening in the shop. There was nothing suspicious going on, but it just didn’t feel right. Blood saw the local DMP constable on the beat, flashed his badge, and asked about the family that ran the shop. Constable O’Shea was nearing his pension, and the last thing he needed was some eager Orangeman RIC eejit fucking up his said retirement. “Good loyal men,” was all O’Shea offered. “And your name, sir?”
“Blood. Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood.”
“Good evening to you, Detective Sergeant,” said O’Shea, making a note to tell his nephew, Matty O’Shea, Second Battalion, South Dublin, IRA, about this nosey RIC detective.
Blood’s other obsession was this Mick Collins fellow, the one the kid in the shop seemed to think was so smart. Boynton told him the Collins file was over at the DMP station in Brunswick Street. Blood called for an appointment and was met at the front desk by Ned Broy. He took Blood to his office. “Tell me all you know about Michael Collins,” was his first demand.
“Michael Collins,” began Broy, “is the Dáil’s Minister for Finance.”
“What’s his background?”
“Cork farm boy,” Broy said, ticking each item off on his outstretched fingers. “Worked in the postal system in London between 1906 and 1915, fought in the GPO in 1916, served time in Wales, and has been involved in running candidates for the Dáil in the past couple of years.” That was enough, thought Broy. Let Blood figure the rest out.
“Could I see his file?” Broy took Blood to the same Fenian room where Collins had spent the night and unlocked the door.
“Be my guest,” said Broy. “His file is in here someplace.”
“Not very efficient,” offered Blood.
Broy grunted. “You’re in Dublin now, not Belfast.”
Blood was left alone in the room, and he finally came across Collins’s file. He saw there was a warrant out for his arrest for jumping bail in Sligo. He was dismayed that there was no photograph of the mysterious Minister for Finance.
Blood returned to Broy’s office. “Why hasn’t this bench warrant been enforced?”
“Collins is elusive,” said Broy diffidently.
“Or maybe you Dublin boyos are incompetent.”
There was a stony silence between the two men. “Have a good day,” said Broy, as he returned to examining the papers on his desk.
It was rush hour as Blood started heading up Grafton Street on his way to his lodgings at the Ivanhoe Hotel on Harcourt Street, off Stephen’s Green. Just before he was to cross Cuffe Street, he decided to take one more look at Castle Barbers before he called it a day. It was nearly half-six, and he could see Joseph Kavanagh sweeping the floor and tidying up for the next day’s work. Joseph finally pulled the shade on the door and went outside so he could enter his flat from the doorway on the left, and Frank was right with him. But Frank said something to the father and started walking down Aungier Street. At the corner of York Street, he entered the Swan Bar.
Blood couldn’t believe his luck. A fourteen-year-old kid going for a drink. The barman pulled the pint of porter and placed it in front of Frank. Blood threw a coin on the bar and said, “That’s with me.”
Frank looked up to see who his benefactor was. He was shocked to see that it was Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood. Flabbergasted, all he could muster was, “Thanks.”
“I’ll take one of those, too,” Blood said to the barman, suddenly full of camaraderie. When his pint was delivered, he lifted it and clinked Frank’s glass. “To the Crown!” he said softly, in a conspirator’s tone.
“The Crown,” Frank feebly replied as the barman walked away casually. But the man was as alert as a parish priest hearing a mortal sin in confession, so he perked his ears up to catch all that was going on.
Blood pulled the porter silently into his mouth before saying, “Francis, can I have a word with you?” Frank nodded, but he was annoyed that a stranger would call him “Francis.” Blood lowered his voice. “There’s much Fenianism in this neighborhood. Can you help me out here? It’s like the Dardanelles out there. No one is safe.”
Frank’s pint sat untouched before him. He wished that his father or his brother were here. What he really wished is that Mick Collins was here to tell him what to do. “I don’t know anything,” he finally said. “You know too much in this neighborhood, you could end up in a box with a rosary wrapped around your hands.”
Blood gave a tight smile. “Well,” he finally said, “think about it. Any help you can provide will be appreciated and compensated.”
Frank didn’t understand the word. “Compensated?”
“There’s money in it for you and your father.” Frank, stunned at t
he offer, numbly nodded his head. Blood smiled and put his hand on Frank’s arm. “Remember,” he said delicately, “there’ll always be an England.”
Just then, there was a terrific blast as another hand grenade of the Second Battalion found its mark in the middle of a British tender. Blood leapt up and headed out the door. Frank finally picked up his pint and dropped it in one long gulp. He nodded at the barman, who looked at him warily. Outside the bodies of three British soldiers lay in Aungier Street, dead. Blood was leaning over them, too late to help. The pint hit Frank nicely in his teenaged brain, and he smiled woozily. He suddenly realized that he had been saved from Detective Sergeant Blood’s touch by the bold citizen soldiers of Michael Collins’s IRA.
58
October 10, 1919, was Eoin’s eighteenth birthday, and he was going to celebrate by having dinner with Róisín. He picked her up at the Mater Hospital at 6:00 p.m., just as the Angelus was ringing about Dublin. “Jaysus,” she said. “Those fookin’ church bells depress me.”
“Maybe I should save your soul,” said Eoin, “by thumping your craw for you!”
“I can thump my own craw, thank you very much.” Róisín looked cross but then broke out in a big smile. “Happy birthday, Eoin,” she said as she gave him a nice wet kiss, then immediately cut to the chase. “Where will we eat?”
“How about Vaughan’s Hotel?”
“Is it safe enough?”
“For now,” said Eoin.
They soon found themselves on Mountjoy Street, crossing in front of the Black Church en route to Parnell Square, when they ran into Dilly Dicker, who was coming from her red-brick, two-story home at number thirty. “Dilly,” yelled Eoin, “how are ya?”
“Eoin,” said Dilly with equal enthusiasm as she embraced her colleague.
“How are the mails?” inquired Eoin.
“Hush!” said Dilly laughing. “The Big Fella will kill us!” Dilly had been on many a mail-lifting caper with Eoin, even traveling to Holyhead on the night mail boat disguised as a man to lift important Dublin Castle posts.
“Dilly, this is my friend Róisín.”
“Hello, Madeline,” said Róisín coolly. “I think it was that job out in Donnybrook the last we met.”
Eoin didn’t know that Madeline was Dilly’s real name. Collins had come up with “Dilly” as a term of affection. What was amazing to Eoin is how much Dilly and Róisín looked alike. The two 20-year-olds could have been sisters.
“Yes,” said Dilly, “it was Donnybrook. Hiding the guns in Batt O’Connor’s house.”
Róisín nodded. “It was an interesting adventure,” she finally said.
“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” said Eoin.
“We do,” said Róisín, without enthusiasm.
“You and Mick were great in that National Loan film,” said Dilly, turning her attention to Eoin and changing the subject.
Before Eoin could answer, Róisín said, “We liked your rendition of ‘A Nation Once Again’ on the piano.”
“I got carried away,” admitted Dilly. “Eoin and Mick looked like such businessmen on the screen. The crowd really got into it. It was a grand occasion.”
“Well,” said Róisín, “we’re off to Vaughan’s for supper.”
“If you meet up with Mick,” said Dilly, “give him my love.”
“Oh,” said Róisín, “we will, we will!”
As they continued their walk to Vaughan’s, Eoin said to Róisín, “You weren’t very nice to Dilly.”
“I was polite enough,” said Róisín, before adding, “Have you ever noticed that the Munster Hotel is right across the street from Dilly’s digs? Cozy arrangement.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dilly at number thirty, Mick at forty-four.”
“What are you saying?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“I don’t.”
“Do you think Mick is shaggin’ Dilly?”
“What?”
“You know, dickin’ Dicker.” A gleam came into Róisín’s eye. “I think they don’t call it Mountjoy Street for nothing!”
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Eoin in exasperation.
“I’m sorry,” Róisín said, flushed. “It’s just my time of month.”
“What time is that?” asked Eoin, confused.
“You are an imbecile,” snapped Róisín. “No, you’re worse—you’re an Irish imbecile!”
Eoin was clueless as to what he had done. “What’s gotten into you? What did Dilly or I ever do to you?”
“You and her seem to be really good friends.”
“What do you mean by that?” Róisín shook her head. “You,” said Eoin belatedly, “are a mortal sin waiting to happen!”
Róisín stopped in her tracks and kissed Eoin roughly on the mouth. “You bet I am!” She took Eoin by the arm, and they continued on their way to Vaughan’s. They found a table for two in the dining room and ordered their supper. Afterward, as they were preparing to leave, Collins and Kitty Kiernan came in. “Well, well,” said Róisín.
“Well, well, what?” said Eoin.
“Oh,” said Róisín, “don’t be naïve.”
As they were exiting, they stopped at Collins’s table. “Hello, Mick,” said Eoin. He paused for a second before adding, “Mick, there was a man in my room when I woke up this morning.”
“Who?” said Collins, concerned.
“Me!” crowed Eoin. “It’s my eighteenth birthday today.”
“Well, happy birthday, Eoin lad,” said Collins laughing. “You remember Kitty from Longford.”
“I do, indeed,” replied the lad. “How are ya, Miss Kiernan?”
“Happy Birthday, Eoin,” said Kitty.
“And Róisín,” said Collins. “You look lovely tonight. Kitty, this is Róisín O’Mahony, who does great work for us at the Mater.”
Kitty nodded and Róisín gave a tight smile. “Nice to meet you, Kitty.” She turned to Collins. “We bumped into Dilly Dicker on our way over here, Mick. She asked us to send her love if we ran into you.”
“That’s very nice of you,” said Collins evenly, a bit baffled by Róisín’s tone.
“Well,” Eoin cut in, “good night. See you tomorrow, God willing.”
The “good nights” were liberally exchanged between the four of them, and Collins added a hearty “Happy Birthday!” Eoin and Róisín found themselves walking towards Sackville Street in silence. “Do you think Mick is doing Kitty?” Róisín finally asked.
“Róisín! What’s in God’s name has gotten into you?”
“Well,” she said coyly, “they do call him the Big Fella.”
“Mick does nothing but work, for God’s sake. Why are you, all of a sudden, so interested in that dirty stuff?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I’m afraid for you.”
“For me?”
“What if something happens to you?”
“If it happens, it happens.”
“But what about me?”
“You’re young and beautiful. They’ll be sniffin’ around you before I’m cold in the Glasnevin ground.”
“I don’t want to be sniffed about,” said Róisín. “I want us to be happy.”
“We’ll be happy when Ireland is free.”
“I can’t wait another seven hundred years,” snapped Róisín.
Eoin took her by the hand, and they turned into Bachelors Walk so he could pick up the late post at the office. “I can’t wait that long, either,” Eoin said. “But for now, we’ll just have to muddle through.”
“I think I’m beginning to hate this country,” said Róisín, wondering if their love would ever have a chance to truly blossom in this Dublin City, now so ripe with revolution that it was beginning to rot.
59
Eoin was a notoriously early riser, so he was surprised when he was woken out of his sleep by Frank. “Eoin,” he said solemnly, “I have to tal
k to you.” Eoin couldn’t imagine what Frank wanted to talk to him about. “We had a customer in the shop from Dublin Castle,” said Frank. “A detective named Blood.” Eoin was silent, just taking it all in. “He bought me a drink last night at the Swan.”
“What did he want?”
“He wants me to inform on the neighborhood,” said Frank. “He said he’d pay. Apparently all those bombings are having an effect on Dublin Castle.”
Eoin got out of bed and started dressing. “Don’t mention a word of this to anyone else—even Da,” he told his brother. “Keep yer gob shut until I find out what’s going on.”
When Eoin arrived at Crow Street, he told Liam Tobin about his conversation with Frank. “I’ve never heard of this fellow,” said Tobin.
Eoin immediately went to his index cards and pulled out the one with Blood’s name on it. There was nothing but his rank and Dublin Castle phone extension on the card. “We don’t even know where he lives,” said Eoin.
“I want a report on this as soon as you know something,” said Tobin. “Check with Broy and Boynton.”
Eoin went to the Bachelors Walk office to pick up the first post and returned with it to Crow Street. He sorted the letters in the usual way. Besides the usual carbons from Broy and Boynton, there were also notes on Blood. Boynton said that Blood had a special interest in Collins, and Broy reported that Blood was over in Brunswick Street snooping around Collins’s file.
Eoin went back to Tobin. “That’s three reports—Frank, Broy, Boynton—about this Blood in one morning.”
“Type it up,” said Tobin, “and put it in Mick’s intelligence pouch for the day.”
Eoin met Collins at Vaughan’s at nine o’clock that night and gave him his intelligence update, with a special emphasis on Detective Blood. “Hmmm,” said Collins, “this boyo has the nose of a bloodhound.” He laughed at his own joke. Eoin was so tired from the long day that he just looked ahead blankly. “He’s somehow tied to you and the barber shop,” said Collins. “I’m concerned for you and your family, but I also have an office there on the third floor.” Even Eoin had no idea what was going on over his head in Collins’s latest office. “We’ve got to know all about him,” said Collins thoughtfully. “Find out from Boynton where he lives, what he likes, his vices, his quirks. I want this done yesterday. Do you understand?” Eoin nodded. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll know what we’re up against.”
The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Page 19
