by Bob Mayer
“My cousin.”
“You have a weird family tree,” Trent noted. “He sure isn’t pure Mick like the rest of ‘em. Not that you married inside the immediate gene pool. Iranian? Really?”
Kane knew Trent was poking him which meant the CIA agent was off kilter by the new information. “You didn’t know about Quinn, did you?” Kane pressed, ignoring the feeble attempt at diversion by bringing up Taryn.
Trent didn’t answer.
“Yeah,” Kane said. “Thought so.” He held up his forefinger. “Even in your own organization you didn’t know what the other was doing.” As he said that he lowered the first finger and raised the middle to Trent.
“Compartmentalization,” Trent said. “Need to know and all that.”
“Right.” Kane shook his head. “I’m fifty-fifty on whether the target was me or this oil man, Crawford. That Indian asking around is his guy. We want the same answers.”
Trent tossed the newly lit cigarette into Kane’s coffee. “Monday morning. I’ll come here and enjoy the fine atmosphere and excellent service. Bring what you have on Westway.”
He departed, leaving a cloud hovering over Kane’s booth.
“You were right.” Morticia appeared in the midst of the smoke, waving her hand. “He’s an asshole. I saw those Yungs give Thao an envelope in the kitchen. I thought businesses paid off mobsters, not get money from them.”
“Sometimes it’s better to mind one’s own business,” Kane said.
“You’re off this morning,” Morticia said. “What gives? Rough night?”
“Strange night,” Kane said.
“Care to share?”
“No. And remember, Van Van helped us during the Blackout.”
“Speaking of which,” Morticia said, “what happened with you that night?”
“You’re the literary expert. Is irregardless a word?”
“It’s a nonstandard synonym for regardless. The first two letters are redundant.”
“Hmm. Thought so.” Kane exited the booth. “I’ve got to make some calls. Be better if you don’t listen in.”
“Don’t let me hear then, but can I say something?”
Kane waited.
“Actually,” Morticia said, “it’s attributed to Sherlock Holmes.”
Kane fidgeted, glanced at the payphone.
“In one of the books, Holmes tells Watson that ‘there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact’.”
“Right,” Kane said. “You probably shouldn’t listen when I talk to the CIA. You might hear something you can’t unhear.”
“CIA?” Morticia rolled her eyes. “You have a lot of strange friends, Kane. His friends had guns out there. I thought we were going to have a massacre between them and the Yungs.”
“He’s not my friend. And they’re Nungs.”
“Sorry. Your associate? And Nungs.”
“Hey, can you help Thao with something after your shift?”
“With what?” Morticia asked.
“You’ll see,” Kane said.
“Such an enticing offer.” Morticia moved off with coffee pot in hand.
When her back was turned, Kane knelt, reached under the front edge of the bench and popped out a microcassette and put it in his pocket. He went to the phone and deposited several dimes for the long-distance call to an area code fifty miles north on the Hudson River. He rolled the dial and it was answered on the second ring.
“Archives. Plaikos.”
“I require a withdrawal.” Kane told his cut out what he needed and when he would be at West Point.
Plaikos ended the call as abruptly with one word. “Putnam.” The phone clicked off.
Kane called his landlord next. It was answered on the fourth ring. The old man sounded hungover. “Pope.”
“It’s Will. I need information on a Texas oilman named Crawford. And anything about the IRA in New York City. Contacts, addresses, anything.”
Pope became alert. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you later today. But there’s a clock on this.”
“I’m on it,” the former newspaperman for the NY Post said. “About the woman yesterday—”
“Don’t worry about it. Talk to you later.”
Kane deposited a single dime. A man answered, the sound of phones ringing and many voices resonating in the background. “Task Force Omega.”
“I need to talk to Detective Riley,” Kane said.
“What-da-ya-got?” All one word as only a NYer could do. “I can help you.”
“Nathan’s my uncle,” Kane said. “It’s personal.”
“Hold on.”
Kane waited. Morticia cleaned off his table, giving him a look he wasn’t sure how to decipher but that was nothing new.
“Riley.”
“Nathan, it’s Will.”
“How you doing, William? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Nor has your mom.”
Kane didn’t waste time on a preamble or lingering family matters. “What do you know about the IRA?”
There were a few seconds of silence. “That’s a pretty broad question. Can you tell me why you’re asking and that would narrow things down?”
“If some IRA soldiers were to come here, is there a point of contact in the city they’d hook up with?”
“The Organized Crime Task Force never had much to do with the Irish,” Nathan said, “mainly because their gangs weren’t very organized. And nothing on the IRA. They don’t operate here. Nothing off the top of my head. Ask Conner,” he added, referring to his younger brother, also a police officer. “He’s more into that ‘old country’ malarkey.”
“All right. Let me ask you something else. If a body went into the harbor near the Statue of Liberty and the tide was going out, would it get taken out to sea?”
“Oh, Christ, William. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do nothing,” Kane said, feeling like the kid he used to be, scolded by his uncle. “It’s a hypothetical.”
“Weird hypothetical,” Nathan responded. “Why do you want to know?”
“Forget it,” Kane said.
“Hold on,” Nathan replied. “I’d have to check. Ask a buddy in harbor patrol. Want me to?”
“If it’s no trouble.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey. You all right? You were acting pretty weird last time I saw you.”
That was three and a half weeks ago, the afternoon before the Blackout. “I’m fine.”
“I hear you have Liam’s son working there,” Nathan said. “Your mother would—” Nathan began but Kane terminated the conversation.
“Gotta go.” He hung up. Dialed Conner’s home and found out from his wife, Aileen, that he was at work. Called the precinct in the Bronx and discovered Conner was out.
Kane hung up. He went into the kitchen. Thao was just over five feet tall, wiry, with short dark hair and brown skin.
“Dai Yu,” Thao said with a nod. He had several meals going and a medical text propped next to the grill. Along with a wood crossbow.
“Sergeant.”
“What did the CIA want?” Thao asked.
Kane indicated the weapon. “Were you going to shoot him?”
“You would have no problem dealing with Trent on your own.” Thao nodded at the mirror tilted toward the small window in the kitchen’s exterior door. “When his guards exited the car and faced Van Van I was concerned. Van Van never had much patience. Or common sense. I am glad you were able to keep the situation from escalating but I was prepared.”
“I appreciate it,” Kane said. “I need a new tape in the device.”
“I will do that,” Thao said.
“Can you handle the delivery Merrick called about?”
“Certainly,” Thao said.
“You know where to bring it?”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Take Morticia,” Kane said. “She’ll enjoy it. I gave her a heads up.”
Thao nodded. “May
I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you not want my help?”
Kane knew what he was referring to: the Blackout. “You’ve done enough. You’re building a new life.”
“And what are you doing?” Thao slid an omelet off the grill onto a plate and to the counter top, all without looking away from Kane.
“There’s a little less evil in the world,” Kane said. He’d confided in Thao the events of the evening as soon as he’d regained consciousness after Thao, the Kid and Wile-E brought him back from outside the Nabisco building.
Thao nodded. “Understandable. But you know you can always count on my assistance.”
“I do,” Kane said. “You saved me that night.”
“Next time please let me know where you’re going and what you’re doing. Even if you do not want me along. It will make saving you easier.”
“I’m sorry, Thao. You’re right.” He paused as Riley came in with a load of dishes.
“Hey,” Riley said.
“You enjoying the job?” Kane asked.
“Sure. And I appreciate the work,” Riley replied as he unloaded the dishes into the sink.
“I’m heading uptown to the Bronx,” Kane said. “You want a lift?”
“I have to finish my shift,” Riley said.
“Right. Well, tell your dad hello from me.
“Will do.” Riley headed out of the kitchen with the empty tub.
Thao turned to the grill and the next orders. “What did Trent want?”
“Information.”
“Will you give it to him?”
“I’ll give him what he wants. The pictures I took reference Westway.”
Thao nodded. “Appeasement.”
“It’s more than that,” Kane said. He filled Thao in on recent events, making sure Morticia wasn’t on the other side of the serving counter listening in.
“This is not good,” Thao said when Kane was done.
“No, it’s not. I agree with Trent that the IRA would be foolish to do something violent in the United States, but who knows? We’ve both seen people do dumber things.”
“You are involved once more,” Thao said.
“I was never uninvolved,” Kane said. “I tried to get away but I don’t think there’s any escaping the past.” He realized the implications. “I’m talking about me, not you. That’s why I didn’t involve you the other night.”
“That is thoughtful of you,” Thao acknowledged, “but we were and always will be teammates.”
Kane pulled the original banded five thousand Crawford had given him out of his map case. Put it next to the book. “Send it to North Carolina. For the others.”
Thao nodded. “I will take care of it. I spoke with Tam and she says the girl, Sarah, is doing well.”
“Ask Tam to give her some of the money.”
“How much?” Thao asked.
“Tam will know best.”
Thao smiled. “She will. She is very wise. That was a good thing you did, helping Sarah.”
“Are you all right with what I did?” Kane asked, knowing that Thao would understand the question was about more than the young prostitute Kane had rescued from Damon’s clutches.
Thao put down the spatula and gave Kane his full attention. “I have reflected on it. We fought in a war together and we were uncertain of the larger reasons. We fought for each other. But we lost that war. Perhaps it is not wrong to fight for people you know and care about without there being a larger reason? Especially if those you fight against are evil.”
Kane nodded. “Kind of the way I look at it.”
“The problem,” Thao said, “is that there will never be an end to the evil people.”
“But there will be less.”
THE BRONX
7
Saturday Mid-Morning,
6 August 1977
BAYCHESTER, THE BRONX
Kane ignored the no parking signs on Eastchester Road and pulled the Jeep on the sidewalk next to the playground between East Gun Hill Road and Arnow Avenue. He checked his watch. Slightly after ten in the morning. His Jeep was old, vintage 1965, and stripped down with no top, basic canvas seats, a footlocker in the back. The windshield was up, a concession to the drive to the Bronx from Manhattan.
Small playgrounds populated three of the four corners of the intersection. Holy Rosary Church was to the northeast and the elementary school that had consumed eight years of Kane’s childhood to the southeast.
An unmarked police car approached from across Gun Hill and stopped at the light. Kane recognized the driver. The cop car cut across the double lines, earning an irritated horn blast, and rolled onto the sidewalk facing the Jeep. Conner Riley got out. The youngest of Kane’s mother’s three brothers, he was a once solidly built man gone to not quite complete seed. He possessed an Irish face, papered with broken blood vessels. Some vestiges of hair covered his scalp. His suit was rumpled and cheap, his tie, as usual, undone, top button the shirt open. A .38 snub nose was tucked under his gut along with a silver shield.
“We got to stop meeting like this,” Conner said. “Heard you called the house.”
“It’s Saturday,” Kane said. “Thought you’d be home.”
“My schedule’s all fucked up,” Conner said. “We got so many guys pulling weird shifts because of Son of Sam. But no fucking overtime, except for Omega. And when I said we got to stop meeting like this, I meant you need to stop coming here every Saturday.”
“It’s my way.”
“Way of what?” Conner asked. “Seriously, Will. What are you accomplishing by being here?”
“I remember,” Kane said. “And sometimes . . .”
“Sometimes what?”
Kane pointed at his head. “My mind does weird things. Thinks crazy stuff.”
“Everyone thinks crazy stuff,” Conner said. “As long as you don’t act on it.”
“I can’t act on it,” Kane said. “It’s not about the future. It’s the past. I wonder what if. What if that trial in Vietnam had never happened? I’d have been home a month earlier at the regular end of my tour. Taryn and Lil’ Joe would never have been in this intersection. And if Ngo’s disappearance hadn’t happened there never would have been a trial. If I hadn’t joined Special Forces. If I hadn’t been in the Army or gone to West Point. If Maria hadn’t introduced me to Taryn. All these things and—” he pointed to the intersection—“that wouldn’t have happened.”
“You’re right,” Conner said. “I’m not the brightest guy in the family, as I’m constantly reminded, but that crap is silly and stupid. You need to get your shit together and think about the future.”
“Right,” Kane said.
“I fucking hate when you say that,” Conner said. “I heard you stopped by your parent’s place a few weeks ago and said a bunch of crap.”
“Nathan tell you that?”
“No. My sister. I actually talk to her. Unlike some people I know. She was upset. Said you was acting crazy.”
“I’m not sure if I’m going crazy or getting saner,” Kane said.
“Your sister said you was asking about Taryn. You’ve never heard from her?”
“No.”
“Any idea where she is?” Conner asked.
“No.”
“What about her parents? They lived here in the city, didn’t they?”
“Why all this interest in people no one gave a shit about when it mattered?” Kane shot back.
Conner held a hand up, defensively. “Hey. Just asking.”
“Her father worked for the Iranian government,” Kane said. “They went back home after Joseph died. Might have been because of that or his tour of duty was up. I’ve got no way to contact them there. Taryn probably went back with them.”
Conner changed the subject. “What happened to you? Your neck?”
“Nothing.” Kane glanced at his watch. Ten-ten.
“I don’t think this is mourning,” Conner said. “I think it’s like you
r mom says: nuts. Seems you’re starting to agree.”
Kane turned away from him and stared at the intersection where his son was killed at 10:12 on a Saturday morning in 1969 as Kane was flying back from Vietnam. “Because I feel it.”
Conner followed his gaze and his shoulders slumped, giving up on the futile and trying to understand something too horrific for him to contemplate for his own children. “Okay.”
They remained still, both ignoring the cars, trucks and buses passing through the busy intersection.
After a couple of minutes, Kane finally faced his uncle. “No one has ever been with me here before. Thanks.”
“Welcome, I guess,” Conner conceded. “You know . . . “ he began but trailed off.
“What?”
“You weren’t the only one to take Joseph’s death hard. He was my sister’s only grandson. You skipped out of town so fast afterward you didn’t—” Conner abruptly stopped and shook his head. “Forget it. Now, what did you call about?”
“The IRA. If some of Provos came over here and needed weapons and explosives, who would they hook up with?”
“Sean Damon,” Conner promptly answered. “Speaking of which—”
“Besides Damon?”
“Shit, Will. What’s going on?” Conner wiped sweat off his forehead with a stained handkerchief which he stuffed back into the suit pocket.
“I got wind that the IRA is planning something in the city.”
“They wouldn’t do that.”
“If they were?”
“Planning what?”
“No idea. But it might involve a bomb.”
A city bus chugged by, bathing them in diesel fumes. The windows were obscured by graffiti.
“Who told you this?” Conner asked. “I gotta run this up the chain of command.”
“The FBI, so the powers that be already know. I assume they’ve informed NYPD.”
“How are you involved?”
“I’m a concerned citizen,” Kane said.
“You’re a pain in the ass.” Conner shook his head and looked at the traffic going by. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“I doubt many people have,” Kane said. “Might not even be true. I’m just checking. If these people are here, they’d need someone local to help. Maybe if I did some digging . . .” He waited for Conner to step in.
