Tobin shook his head. “No, Eoin, we’re in the devil’s business. So is Ryan.”
“It’s just the neighborhood,” said Eoin. “I don’t know it, and I don’t like it.”
“We have lots of friends there,” replied Tobin. “Some of the whores have been very good to us.” Eoin shot Tobin a look. “What does it matter where a Webley comes from?” asked Tobin. “Out of the hand of a dead Tan, or out of the pocket of a drunken British Tommy getting his willie wonked?”
“You’re right,” Eoin finally admitted.
“You should talk to Deputy Shanahan,” Tobin said. “He knows where all the bodies are buried in the Kips.”
Eoin hit the pavement and was on Foley Street within fifteen minutes. Before entering Shanahan’s Pub, he looked around. This had been his grandfather’s neighborhood—and his great-granny’s, too. Both had died before he was born, but he felt a close kinship to them because they had given life to his dear Mammy. No ghosts appeared for support, so Eoin decided to shun the January frost and find Phil Shanahan.
He hadn’t been in the pub since his birthday the previous October, when he’d met up with Dan Breen and the friendly DMP. He asked for Shanahan, and the barman curtly asked, “And who might be asking?”
“A friend of Tipperary Dan.”
The barman disappeared and returned a few moments later with Phil Shanahan, TD for Tipperary. “Eoin, lad,” said Shanahan, “how are you?”
“Fine, Deputy Shanahan.”
“Call me ‘Phil.’ “
“Fine, Phil. How’s our bould Daniel?”
Shanahan put his left index finger to his lip and said, “Shush!” He looked around at the mostly empty bar. “He’s recovering well—and well hidden! He thinks the world of the group that Dick McKee put together to save his life.”
“This is about McKee,” said Eoin. “Rather, it’s about his murder.” Shanahan’s eyes grew wide. “He was murdered at the Castle, but the murder really started here, in this neighborhood. We t’ink a ‘John Ryan’ is the snitch.”
Shanahan chuckled. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all. The last time Shankers said ‘No’ to British blood money, he didn’t understand the question.”
“Does he come in here?”
“Oh, no,” said Shanahan. “He’s barred. I wouldn’t allow a shite like that to come in here. If he entered that door right now, I’d shoot him dead,” he added, patting his waist where his revolver rested.
“What’s the word on the street around here?”
“Is this for Mick?”
Eoin nodded. “He wants the tout.”
“I hear it’s Shankers,” confided Shanahan. “I hear he was shooting off his mouth around the corner at Hynes Pub, over on Gloucester Place.”
“So you t’ink he’s good for this?”
“He’s your man,” said Shanahan. “He lives with his wife at 15 Railway Street. He’s a bastard.” Shanahan paused for a minute, before adding, “Even if he didn’t betray McKee and Clancy, he has it coming for some of the other stuff he’s done. If you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” replied Eoin.
129
The day was bitterly cold, and Eoin was happy to learn that his evening intelligence briefing would take place at Dr. Gogarty’s home. At 15 Ely Place, one could always depend on the good doctor’s hospitality and that of his generous liquor cabinet. When Eoin arrived, Collins was already there, chomping down cakes and drinking sweet tea. Before he could ask, a hot toddy filled almost entirely with brandy was presented to Eoin.
Collins rubbed his cold hands together. “Alright, Eoin lad, let’s get down to business.” Gogarty got up to leave the room but was intercepted by Collins. “Oliver! Sit down, for fook’s sake. If I can’t trust you, who can I trust?” He turned to Eoin. “What’s the news of the day?”
“Shankers Ryan is the news of the day,” Eoin replied.
“That cunt,” Collins said.
“Our boy at the Castle—and Phil Shanahan—says he’s the one who snitched on McKee and Clancy.”
“Well,” said Collins, “he’s got to go! Where’s the best place, do you think?”
“In his comfort zone,” replied Eoin. “Right in the middle of Nighttown.”
“Work it out,” commanded Collins, before adding, “Nighttown won’t miss another hoor.”
“Ah,” said Dr. Gogarty, “the hoors of Nighttown. Reminds me of my misbegotten youth!”
“Do you know Becky Cooper?” asked Collins.
“I do, indeed,” laughed Gogarty. “Intimately!”
“Well,” interjected Eoin, “Shankers Ryan is the brother of Miss Becky.”
“Go ‘way!” said Gogarty, shaking his head. “Twenty years ago, she was something to look at. We had to fight off the British army to get to the hoors!” Gogarty was having a wonderful time remembering his sordid past. “What was the ditty from that time?
Italy’s maids are fair to see
And France’s maids are willing,
But less expensive, ‘tis to me,
Becky’s for a shilling.”
That got a big laugh out of Collins and a major blush out of Eoin. Dr. Gogarty was delighted. “Speaking of whores,” he said with a laugh, “Bernard Shaw just wrote me that he recently saw Churchill in London. They were at a dinner party, and he overheard Churchill say, ‘Let the Sinn Féiners stop murdering and start arguing.’”
“There’s been feelers,” said Collins, “but nothing concrete—or should I say nothing serious yet.” Collins rammed another cake into his mouth and washed it down with his sweet Irish tea. Collins had a penchant for cakes and sweets, and Eoin wondered if it was the sugar that was putting pounds on the Big Fellow.
The conversation was broken up by a terrible banging on the front door. All three men rose at once. The source of the noise was obvious—rifle butts being used as rams. “Quick!” said Gogarty. “Go into my surgery.”
Gogarty watched Collins and Eoin disappear and then calmly went to answer the door, shooing away his maid. “What the hell!” he said, opening the door. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“There are rebels in this house, and we want them,” said the officer in charge.
“Rebels, my arse!” Gogarty shouted. “Lord French will hear about this. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the officer, “and that’s why we’re here!”
“I see,” replied Gogarty, a bit more calmly.
“We have orders to search the house. Who is here right now?”
“My servants, and I have a patient in my surgery.”
“Show us to your surgery,” the officer demanded, and he trailed Gogarty to his office in the back of the house. The door to the surgery burst open and Collins lay on the table, covered with a sheet. His eyes were covered by a cloth. Eoin stood by, dressed in white.
“This room is sterile!” said Gogarty, the foremost ear, nose and throat specialist in Ireland. “My patient is coming out of anesthesia. I just removed polyps from his throat. Advance no further. I don’t want you infecting him.”
Collins moaned appropriately, and the soldiers did not cross the threshold of the surgery. “Who’s that?” demanded the officer.
“That my assistant, Eoin.”
“He’s awful young for a doctor.”
“He’s a medical student.”
“Did you know Kevin Barry?” the soldier called out, but Eoin remained mute.
“He goes to Trinity,” snapped Gogarty, “not University College, for God’s sake. He’s a fine Protestant lad from a fine Foxrock Protestant family. You soldiers are beginning to see rebels under every rock.” There was a moment of silence. “Satisfied?” The officer stared for another moment before muttering under his breath. Then he turned and left, his soldiers right behind him. Gogarty followed them to the front door and closed it. “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered under his breath to his maid. “That was a close one!”
He went back to t
he surgery, where Collins was ebullient. “That was grand!”
“Oh, Mick,” Eoin cried, white as his coat with fear. “You’re killing me!” Gogarty saw that both Collins and Eoin had their guns in their hands, and he knew he had narrowly escaped a shootout. They followed Gogarty back to the parlor, and the good doctor poured three glasses of elixir—Jameson, neat. Eoin gave the toast: “God help us!” Gogarty and Collins erupted in laughter. The whiskeys disappeared in one drop, and Gogarty refilled them immediately. Eoin could see that Collins relished the danger of the situation.
“I hope you’re wrong, Doctor.”
“Wrong about what, Mick?”
“That we’re all sterile here!”
“Have you ever heard a poem of mine called ‘Ode to Welcome’?” asked Gogarty. Of course they hadn’t, which gave Gogarty the opportunity to tell them about one of his great literary pranks. “I wrote it at the end of the Boer War, when all the Royal Dublin Fusiliers were returning to the city. The gist of the poem is, ‘What does this really mean for Dublin?’ So, without further ado, ‘Ode to Welcome’:
The Gallant Irish yeoman,
Home from the war has come
Each victory gained o’er foeman,
Why should our bards be dumb?
How shall we sing their praises
Or glory in their deeds?
Renowned their worth amazes,
Empire their prowess needs.
So to Old Ireland’s hearts and homes
We welcome now our own brave boys
In cot and ball; ‘neath lordly domes
Love’s heroes share once more our joys.
Love is the Lord of all just now,
Be he the husband, lover, son,
Each dauntless soul recalls the vow
By which not fame, but love was won.
United now in fond embrace
Salute with joy each well-loved face,
Yeoman, in women’s hearts you hold the place.”
“Not one of your best, Oliver,” said Collins.
“Indeed,” agreed Gogarty. “But it caused a scandal when it was published.”
“Why?” asked Eoin.
“If you take the first letter of the first word of each line, you will know what the returning soldiers really mean to Dublin—THE WHORES WILL BE BUSY!” Gogarty and Collins laughed, and Eoin realized he had learned more about whores in one hour with Gogarty and Collins than he had in his entire life.
“Yes,” said Eoin absently. “The hoors will be busy.” He wasn’t thinking about the whores of Nighttown but of the British and Irish politicians looking to find their way out of this smoldering Irish morass.
130
EOIN’S DIARY
I caught Mick daydreaming today.
We were alone in the Mespil Road office, going over the National Loan books. I was banging away at the adding machine when I looked up and saw Mick staring off into space. I went back to the books.
“Have you ever been in love?” he suddenly asked.
“Only with Cathleen Ní Houlihan,” I said, cheekily.
“Oh, fook off,” he said sharply, perhaps realizing that he had been caught in a dreamy state.
“I know nothing about women,” I said. “You’re eleven years older than me. You’re the one who is supposed to know about the fairer sex.”
Mick grunted. “There’s nothing ‘fair’ about them.” My guess is that he’s having trouble with Kitty Kiernan or maybe with Harry Boland, who’s just returned from America. Two into one won’t go—at least not in Catholic Ireland. “I don’t understand,” Mick finally uttered.
“Understand what?”
“The women.”
“You’re not supposed to understand them,” I said, slamming one of the ledger books closed. “Just like the Fenians, they’re a secret society.” Mick nodded. “Their biggest secret is their bodies. Róisín won’t tell me anything. She just refers to her ‘time of the month’ and her ‘cycle.’ First time she talked about it, I thought she was talking about her bike.”
Mick thought this was hilarious. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Eoin,” he said. “I wish I had your romantic problems. Róisín is the real thing.” I didn’t know what to make of that, so I just went about my business. I didn’t want to pry. I put on my hat and coat and was about to leave when Mick said, “Where are you going now?”
“Back to Crow Street.”
“We’ll have our meeting at the Wicklow Hotel tonight. Seven p.m.”
“See you then.”
As I was about to go out the door, Mick called out. “Will you post a letter for me?”
I walked over the bridge into Lower Leeson Street and headed for the brilliant red postbox. I shouldn’t have, but I looked at whom the letter was addressed to. It read: Kitty Kiernan, Grenville Arms, Granard, Co. Longford. I was about to pop it into the box when a tender filled with British soldiers came roaring across the Grand Canal, probably from the Beggar’s Bush Barracks, and headed towards the city centre. I looked at the letter again and couldn’t help but smile. The British and their £10,000 couldn’t find Michael Collins, but Cupid and his little bow and arrow could.
131
Friday nights were Shankers Ryan’s busy time. There was no rush to hit the streets, because the action really didn’t get started until ten p.m. Shankers quietly had his tea served by his dutiful missus and then headed out to Hynes Pub for a few jars before he started working for the night. He had been hearing all the talk about the great Michael Collins and his notorious Squad, but here he was, more than two months after betraying McKee and Clancy, and nothing had happened to him. In fact, he felt that he was earning new respect in the neighborhood as he walked the soiled streets of Nighttown, for everyone knew that Shankers Ryan was the Brit’s top spotter in the Kips.
After finishing his pint at Hynes, Ryan headed out to Sackville Street. Ten o’clock was the perfect time, because that’s when the moving pictures and theatres let out and when folks started for home, getting their trams to beat the curfew. Shankers was on the prowl, looking for IRA men he could report to Dublin Castle and turn in for hard cash. A good tout could bring in up to £25 for a prominent rebel on a wanted poster. McKee and Clancy had brought him £250, but they were big fish. Tonight, he’d settle for small fry in the £1 to £5 range.
Shankers headed straight for Nelson’s Pillar, right next to the GPO. Work was going slowly on the post office, but the Pillar still served as a terminus for many tram lines. Shankers examined faces as people began to queue up. He could strut and stare without hesitation, having no fear because, well, he was Shankers Ryan, the best British tout in Dublin City. What he didn’t know was that Charlie Dalton and Joe Leonard were standing on the corner of Henry Street, taking Shankers’s act all in. Tonight, he was the observed—and he was oblivious to that fact.
Shankers worked the street for two hours, but, as curfew came, he had found not one rebel. He turned tail and headed east back into Monto, like a rat into its hole. Usually, he might head over to his sister Becky Cooper’s whorehouse for a nightcap, but, tonight, he didn’t feel like it. He went home to his flat on Railway Street, slid into bed next to his snoring wife, and, within minutes, he was enjoying the sleep of the innocent. Dalton and Leonard watched the light go out in Shankers’s bedroom and headed home, their work finished for the night.
“They say,” said Eoin, “it gets easier after the first time.”
“And what might that be?” asked Róisín, brushing her hair aside with a great flirt. Eoin could see she was in one of her teasing moods, but today he wanted none of it.
“Not that.”
“Then what?”
“Murder.”
Róisín suddenly felt guilty. She knew Eoin wasn’t right. In fact, she hadn’t seen him this way since the evening of Bloody Sunday. “I know, love.”
“I hope this will be my last one.”
“And I hope,” said Róisín, “that this bloody war will be over soon, so w
e can lead normal lives.”
“I hope I make it through.”
“You will,” she said. “Stop pacing. Come sit next to me,” she added, patting the couch cushion next to her. Eoin did as he was told, and, as his bottom hit the sofa, Róisín took his hand. “I’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow, won’t I?”
“It will be there, alright. I can see it now: MURDER IN DUBLIN. I just hope you won’t be reading my name in the story.”
Róisín didn’t say another word, but she did not let go of Eoin’s hand. As a nurse, one who dealt with people when they were at their most vulnerable, she knew the importance of touch. Róisín knew there was nothing more important to one’s spiritual, physical, and emotional health than the human touch. She knew that contact with another human being was the ultimate gift of friendship and love in its purest and simplest form. Soon, Eoin’s head came to rest on Róisín’s left shoulder, and his breathing became shallow, like he was going into a trance. There the two remained, wordless, for almost an hour. Róisín’s touch had calmed Eoin, and, for a small time, he had been able to chase Shankers Ryan from his mind.
Eoin finally looked up at Róisín, and, when he did, she smiled that gorgeous smile of hers. Eoin noticed that, even in February, her nose was populated with fresh freckles. Her bright green eyes, born with a laugh in them, sparkled. She took his hand and put it to her mouth, giving it a long, solitary kiss. “A warm hand,” she said, “can change your world!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Eoin replied, with a newfound calm.
“Would you like something for your tea?”
“No, not tonight, my love. I have no appetite.”
“Well,” said Róisín, “will you come to bed with me?”
“No,” Eoin replied, a bit regretfully. “I’ll commandeer the sofa tonight. Very early start tomorrow. I don’t want to disturb you.”
“You’re close to jeerin’ me,” said Róisín, lightly.
“You know what I mean.”
Róisín nodded and kissed Eoin full on his lips. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, “but, tomorrow, there will be a command performance from you! There is no work for me at the Mater. It’ll be you doing the work this time tomorrow!”
The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Page 41
