A stone of the heart imm-1

by John Brady

  The way he sat on the chair suggested to Connors that he was fit and stronger than the suit might indicate. There was something about the consistency in his posture. They had been in the pub for fifteen minutes, but the tanned man didn't slouch. He still looked none too happy about something, but the vexed look he had when he came in was gone now. He now looked merely annoyed at a nuisance of some kind. Hard to put an exact age on the Yank.

  Connors wished he had heard the few sharp words the two exchanged when the Yank had come in first. All he could make out was the Yank-or whoever he was-saying something about screw-ups. The playwright had snapped back at him once or twice. After that they seemed to settle down a bit, with the playwright giving him a few big salesman smiles. Wouldn't trust him as far as… Aha, maybe the playwright had fixed him up with a colleen, but she hadn't obliged when push came to shove. No, there was more to it. The Yank looked like he was working at staying polite. Like Paul Newman after missing a honey shot in The Hustler. Cool dude. Under control…

  The tanned man made his call from a phone in the hallway leading to the pub. He spoke slowly.

  "Your job is on for tomorrow. Confirmed. Follow your normal route. Your car will withstand even a minute search so don't sweat it. It's right inside part of the vehicle's structure."

  "Why are you telling me that?" The voice was less anguished than bitter.

  "So you'll have confidence. So you'll look confident. Is that too simple a proposition for you?"

  "When I get there…?"

  "You leave the key, just the car key, under the right front tire. The car'll be back in the same spot within the hour."

  The tanned man heard breathing over the line.

  "Why did you tell me this? Why not just get me to do it without knowing about it?"

  The tanned man recognised the bitterness clearly now, but he didn't resist the sarcasm in return.

  " 'The unexamined life isn't worth living' and all that."

  He hung up.

  Connors watched as the Yank stood up abruptly. He gave a parting glance to the playwright. Another big crooked smile from your man. Must have one up on the Yank: probably stuck him for the price of the drinks. Connors was out the door before him. He put on his raincoat and a cap to alter his appearance outside. He stood looking into a window full of crafts, waiting for either or both of the men to come out. Almost three minutes passed before the Yank came out. Must have gone to the jacks. No sign of the playwright though, damn and blast him. So what about this Yank, Connors thought. So what? He had hoped that the playwright would be with him, but that'd be too tidy by far. He saw the Yank squint in the daylight as he paused by the door to the pub.

  Connors decided to follow the Yank. He could always say that this Yank had acted suspiciously. The playwright might still be in the pub for hours. Connors watched the Yank cross Dawson Street and then step into a lane which was a short-cut to Moles-worth Street. He thought that for a Yank, the tanned man stepped out nicely and seemed to know his way better than the rest of them who stood around Dawson Street with their snake-skin wives blocking the path, lost just a few hundred yards from the hotel. Connors bet on the Shelbourne Hotel.

  The tanned man had already taken in the skulking presence of the man pretending to be interested in the shop opposite. He had been in the pub too. He became aware of a little congestion in his sinuses. He felt the shoulder strap bite as he shrugged. He was certain this was the first time he had been followed since he arrived. The guy was either a cop or a heavy that the playwright had called in. Not drinking enough to be serious about his stay and not meeting anyone, which is why he'd have been nursing his drink so long. Didn't look like a cop.

  More pieces fell into place in parallel lines of thought as the tanned man took up a brisk pace. He began a flush out. There was no way that the Brits would have a man tailing him here in Dublin. He stepped into the arched passageway with a piece of Molesworth Street framed in light at the end. He felt he should decide by the end of this tunnel. The playwright had been almost ingratiating by the time he left the pub. Was that a prelude to being set up? And he had been all too obliging about putting the fear on that cop with the stolen car and the dope.

  He approached the end of the tunnel and, without turning to look behind, headed for Kildare Street. He thought of his time frames for what he must do. By tomorrow, Saturday, at about two o'clock in the afternoon he would know whether he could report success or failure. He'd be on the plane to Amsterdam, armed with this success, to lever agreement out of his liaison. A unit in Armagh had guaranteed to target a patrol for Sunday as conclusive proof. They'd hear of it before the evening was out from Hilversum or the BBC and the liaison would set up the meeting with the cover from the embassy.

  Ahead of him was Leinster House, the Parliament. Laughable that the National Museum was next to it. Could they be distinguished really? He knew that there were armed guards and army units in the Parliament and he allowed for that. His mind cleared with the arrival of his chance.

  As he walked into the foyer of the museum, the thought struck the tanned man that his follower might well be looking for a chance to kill him. The image of the playwright's face with its barely hidden condescension went through his mind. Was he capable of sending in an assassin? The museum was surprisingly bright. Light fell in from the large expanse of skylight. It made the tanned man think of a church. He could see but four other visitors in this large hall. On the balconies which faced out onto the main exhibition hall, he heard the talk of other unseen visitors. An elderly museum guard nodded at him and resumed his measured, meditational walk. He stepped into the floor proper and strolled by the cases with early Christian artefacts in them. He passed spearheads and pots from the Iron Age. He tried to remember the run of the museum from when he had visited it as a child. It was probably all changed.

  He mounted steps leading to a balcony overlooking the hall. There he was, this rather tired-looking follower, now in shirtsleeves gazing too intently at golden necklaces, of all things. Why would he follow him around the museum and not wait near the front door? Must be expecting some cloak and dagger meeting. He looked at his watch. The museum closed in another twenty minutes. He turned the corner to meet with a museum guard who looked restive, whistling faintly between tongue and teeth. He had come circuitously back to the stairs. With luck, the guy following him would be a few rooms behind him now. Across to the entry hall. His shadower would be checking rooms.

  Connors' feet were bothering him. The Yank looked as if he had just got out of bed and could run a few miles. In all honesty, well, to himself at least, Connors admitted that the Yank hadn't acted in any suspicious way. There was still time to go back and check on the twit he was supposed to be following. Likely if he checked out a few of the pubs like O'Neill's or Davy Byrne's, he'd soon find what's-his-face again. The Yank hadn't so much as looked around. This struck Connors as a bit odd, that he should know where he was going. But he ended up going to the museum, so that was that. Why go to the museum when it was ready to close? He should have phoned in. He should have stuck with the other fellow. He should have watched outside the bloody museum. What class of meeting could a body have in a museum anyway? He should have spent the extra tenner and bought real shoes.

  Connors had seen the Yank go up the stairs and into a room before he himself crossed the floor of the hall. He stood behind a display case near to the toilets and watched for the Yank. Follow-around be damned.

  What Connors saw in five minutes sparked a faint lightness in his chest. The Yank had come back down the stairs and looked around once before leaving. Either the Yank knew he was being followed or he was looking for someone he expected to meet. Connors counted to thirty. Then he crossed the hall and retrieved his coat and jacket. He wondered if his guess about the Shelbourne Hotel would prove true. He could check this fella out from there.

  Connors left the museum, elbowing into his coat. It was nearly five o'clock. There was no sign of the man. Connors strode to the ra
ilings which girdled the museum as it ran along Kildare Street. He looked up and down the street and across at Moles-worth Street. The Yank was gone. The dying leper's vomit, the curse of the seven snotty… Had he stepped into a taxi or a doorway? Connors was about to let go a volley of curses aloud when a movement in a shop window opposite caught his eye. An assistant was taking an antique plate from a display in the window, all the while talking to a customer. Though Connors could not see the face well, he recognised the suit. The Yank: if I can see him, by Jases he can see me.

  Connors' brain raced. He could not appear to be faltering. There was no phone nearby to get another detective to switch the surveillance. Connors walked up Kildare Street with a purposive swing to his gait, raging inwardly. His best hope was to get to St. Stephen's Green and wait for however long it took for the Yank to return to the Shelbourne. Connors felt the presence of the Yank behind the glass opposite as he passed up the street and wondered if they both shared some new knowledge now.

  Connors reached the top of Kildare Street excited and angry. He dodged traffic and stepped into St. Stephen's Green. He found a seat just inside the railings which afforded him a view of the front of the hotel and, to his left and almost directly ahead of him, the tops of Dawson Street and Kildare Street as they led up to the park.

  As the assistant reached into the window, the tanned man saw his follower looking up and down the street. He had looked up and pretended not to notice the antique shop. He had been seen and he knew it.

  He listened to the assistant but watched the man recovering and heading up Kildare Street.

  "It's from a set. It's Belleek china. Do many people in America know about Belleek?" the assistant inquired.

  "Well, I'm from the west coast, ma'am, so I can't speak for collectors on the Atlantic side," he replied.

  "Ah, I detect an Irish influence though," she said conspira-torially.

  "How discerning of you, I'm sure. Yes, my mother is Irish."

  "Isn't that rich now," the assistant said.

  The irony was not lost upon him. He'd as soon throw the goddamned plate through the window.

  "I'll take your card if I may, ma'am."

  "Oh, I see. Well, all right," she said, visibly taken aback.

  He retraced his steps back along Molesworth Street. He was surprised to find that his armpits were sweating. The tail might have an out somewhere. He decided to go up Dawson Street to St. Stephen's Green. As he walked by late shoppers and cars, he tried to control his unease.

  Minogue's week was over. He'd not be called in on the weekend even with the sweep for the murderers of the Garda. Kilmartin would have him nixed off the list, because Minogue had some vague status as an invalid. It has its advantages, Minogue reflected. Someone had tried to run him over; he had found out that there were powerful old boy networks in the army and in Trinity. They wanted their reputations left glowing even if it meant sullying others. That Loftus was a bad egg, an organisation man. Minogue realised that Agnes McGuire entered his mind as an image, a face, unclouded by things she had said.

  This was quite contrary to how Loftus and Walsh's father came to mind. Where she came across as singular, Minogue's distaste for the others made his recollections of them amorphous, webby.

  Kilmartin probably didn't believe him about the attempt. There was nothing he could do about it really. No clues came from the car. Maybe it was some headbanger who was on the lookout for anyone to frighten. Minogue found that his resistance to certain thoughts had weakened. Dublin was a different place. There was a lot of heavy drug addiction that no one wanted to talk about, a lot of lunatics on the loose. It was the times. Maybe some deranged addict had finally unhinged when he had seen this Walsh boy, a well-fed student with his future ahead of him, a boy who didn't know that the likes of Coolock or Finglas existed. On balance, however, people with drug dependencies were usually more passive than violent. General rules didn't explain every incident. Could a boy like Walsh inspire such violence otherwise? Maybe whoever did him in panicked before they got to the boy's wallet. Maybe the realisation of what they had done broke through their frenzy and hatred.

  Minogue had felt the violent impulse himself in recent years, the rush of contempt that came over him at times. The most he had done was jump out of his seat and switch off the television when the inanity overwhelmed him. A narcissistic rock star comparing himself to Bach, someone whining about their oppressors, oppressors they needed to nourish their own weakness. On "The Late Late Show," the accents did it. He had exploded once, unable to even laugh it off, when some ex-airhostess who had been appointed to promote tourism in the States started talking in her hoi polloi southside fakery.

  "And now joining us on the show is Mrs Blah, wife of the auctioneer Michael Blah, all the way from New York, USA. My, Deirdre, what a gorgeous tan you've got…"

  How could it be that people who were so insipid and grasping could inspire such disgust? His own anger, so vital and huge a hammer, stood looming over these fleas of contemporary Ireland.

  The slats of the seat bit into Connors' thigh. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees. He watched scattered groups of pedestrians waiting for the lights at the top of Dawson Street. He looked over to Kildare Street and checked his watch. His gamble should pay off within fifteen minutes or not at all. He had three minutes left in his limit. He stood up and strolled toward one of the entrances to the Green.

  Again he scanned the footpath. The traffic was moving fast, swirling around the Green. Connors wondered what would happen if one of the cars stopped suddenly. Everything would be haywire all over the city. The place wasn't built for cars. Connors turned at the sound of a horn. Someone had tried to run through the traffic to get to the Green. Probably a tourist, taking their lives in their hands. Connors saw it almost daily in the summers. Some poor old divil from Minnesota or someplace after a near miss, with that expression you'd see on a donkey chewing barbed wire and just beginning to realise it, trying to laugh it off. 'Oh Elmer nearly got run over in Dublin. Charming city.'

  A near miss by the sound of it too, down the far side of Dawson Street. The pedestrian skipped through parked cars to the safety of the Green. Connors could not see the person very clearly. In the instant that the pedestrian ducked into the Green, Connors' brain eclipsed his eyesight and he began running down the path toward where the person had entered. He had made out that it was a man, a man in a hurry too, a man in a suit.

  Connors ran across the grass, scattering seagulls. Coming around a hedge he almost collided with a woman pushing a pram. He stopped and looked around him. He could find no trace of the man who had entered the Green. Connors' rational sense began to catch up with him and nag him. The woman had stopped. She looked him up and down disparagingly. If he's in a suit, then it's no bother to speak your mind to him, she thought. Still, he was harmless-looking, not like the gurriers, the thugs who'd do the same and dare you to complain.

  "You don't have to jog all over me and the child, mister. Watch where you're going, would you."

  "Sorry, missus. I'm looking for a friend of mine. I saw him come in, but I don't know what way he went. I have an important message for him."

  The young mother had Connors taped as a bogman who had nearly trampled on her child. Still, a nice look about him.

  "Your pal seems to do his jogging here too then," she said and indicated with her head.

  Connors ran. He rounded the pond and headed up a hill to where he knew there was a statue of Yeats. Connors stopped near the statue. The statue, in the abstract style, made Connors feel he was on the moon. Various granite blocks had been laid down to provide steps and benches around the statue. He felt his legs twitching. He looked around at the trees which enclosed this area. There was nobody here.

  Connors stepped slowly off the granite blocks and began walking under the trees. The grass had been worn away here, what little could grow in the shade. For a moment, Connors lost his bearings and imagine! himself far from the city. Only the constant hush o
f the traffic as it filtered into the Green reminded him. He had been diddled, but what excited Connors now was that this man must have had a reason for running. Connors could now justify his trailing the man. His next step was to report in and have that playwright fella picked up and questioned about the Yank he had met, then to go looking for him in earnest.

  This is indeed what was to happen, but Connors' intentions did not effect these steps. Connors was surprised to find a man in a well-cut suit standing with his back to him next to a tree. The man turned and stared at Connors. The face was indeed tanned. A mixture of pity and irritation animated it. Connors thought it was odd to see a man so well dressed standing there in the trees. Maybe he'd stopped for a piss, not knowing where there was a proper jacks. The man's hand came up abruptly from his side.

  "Hey!" Connors said.

  The man's hand jerked and Connors was falling back before he heard the pbutt. As the back of Connors' head hit the clay, the sky's light became intolerable. He wondered how he could have been pushed from so far away. He remembered the lightness in his chest when he'd leap down into the hay. "Up and awaaay" his brother would shout, "Up and away."

  Kilmartin listened to Minogue's voice over the phone.

  "Yes, I'm just leaving Trinity. The idea is to throw the bits up in the air again and look at it all from a different angle."

  "Yes, Matt. I follow."

  "What about that lad you have, what's his name."

  "Connors?"

  "Yes. He's on the up and up, isn't he?"

  "He's very quick, there's no doubt, Matt. Are you saying you want to give him a crack at this?"

  "Yes. A fresh approach."

  "Sorry now, but you'll have to take your turn. He's out on surveillance now if you don't mind. It's this murder out in Black-rock," Kilmartin said.