by Bob Mayer
“Is that what we’re going to do?” Kane asked as he spotted two strangers in the stands, halfway up, Conner between them. “Talk?”
“The FBI was here the other night,” Walsh said. “Asking the same questions. Your name was mentioned as having something to do with Sean Damon’s demise.”
“Odd that the FBI would be dropping names,” Kane said. “Seems it should be the other way about.”
Walsh halted at the base of the stands, thirty feet short of Conner and the two men out of earshot. Both were large and looked like they worked construction. Dirty, concrete dust smeared pants, black t-shirts, heavy boots. One was in his twenties, long blond hair, the other older, with a high and tight. Conner’s arms were behind his back, cuffed.
“Where’s the money?” Walsh asked.
“What money?” Kane asked, more as a delay while he assessed the tactical situation.
“The money Damon had.”
“What do you know of that?” Kane asked.
“Don’t get cute with me, boyo. Damon had a good chunk of my money.”
“’My money’?” Kane repeated. “You mean NORAID’s money, right? How much?”
“Five hundred thousand.” Walsh said. “For a while I wondered if he’d run off with it, but that seemed unlikely after all the years we’ve been working together. I know Damon’s heart wasn’t in the Cause, but his greed certainly was. It’s been a very profitable arrangement for him for a number of years now. Then we learn yesterday that he’s deceased. Along with his lads. Along with a consignment of relief supplies that was to be shipped. All burned up.”
“It would be my guess then, that your money is in the same condition,” Kane said.
“No one burns money,” Walsh said. “They take it. The FBI told me that you were spotted with Damon that evening. Getting in his car. Then he’s never seen alive again and you are. Thus, I will ask once more, and for the last time without rancor, where is the money?”
“Why would the FBI tell you that?” Kane asked.
“I find it mightily irritating to get a question in response to a query of me own,” Walsh said. He stepped closer to Kane, white hair glinting in the few working lights of the stadium and the faint moonlight that managed to penetrate the layer of smog lying over the city. “But your question is the same I had when they told me this. They said they were trading, telling me where my money is, or rather who would have it, in exchange for information on the Provos. They were under the same delusion you are: that a group is here in the city bent on mischief.”
“They were under that delusion because Damon told them,” Kane said.
Walsh arced an eyebrow. “Is that so? And why would he have done that?”
“He was a rat.”
“I didna hear you clearly,” Walsh said.
“Damon was an FBI informant,” Kane said. “Been one since ’75.”
“Malarkey.” A short pause. “How do you know that?”
“Those same loose-lipped FBI agents.”
“Did you believe them?”
“Did you believe them about me?”
Walsh muttered something under his breath.
“I think my uncle needs to go home, if you don’t mind,” Kane suggested.
“You have to answer some questions first,” Walsh said.
Kane waited.
“Were you with Damon that night?”
“Yes. He picked me up. We talked. Said he was meeting someone and then he dropped me off near my apartment.”
“Who did he say he was meeting?” Walsh asked.
“A man named Quinn. Worked as an enforcer for the Cappucci family.”
“’Worked’?”
“They found five bodies in Damon’s place in the old Nabisco building,” Kane said. “They’ve identified four. Damon and his three men, whom I’m sure you’ve met. The fifth was probably Quinn.”
“A mobster?”
“An assassin,” Kane said. “And, who, like Damon, was not what he appeared. He was actually a deep cover agent for MI-6.”
“Bullshit.”
“Just telling you what I know.”
“How do you know that?” Walsh asked.
“Because a man I know in the CIA told me,” Kane said.
“You make the rounds,” Walsh said.
“My curse,” Kane replied. “Quinn was trying to infiltrate your organization.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Walsh muttered, looking past Kane as he tried to process these revelations.
“From the results,” Kane said, “it appears that Quinn and Damon had an altercation. Seems it turned out poorly for everyone. I would assume if there was money involved, it burned up with the guns.”
“You’re saying no one walked away?”
Kane spread his hands. “I’m telling you as much as I know which is more than you knew. In the long run, this is a positive for you. Damon was an informant and Quinn was working for the Brits. You’re rid of two problems that would have taken you down.”
“If it’s true.”
“Why do you think the FBI was here last night?”
“They were asking about the money. They don’t seem to think it burned up.”
“Did the two of them seem like the sharpest knives in the drawer?” Kane asked. “Money can be replaced. Damon was the one who told the FBI about these Provos here in the States. Said they came to him for weapons and explosives and he said no. I think he was telling the truth about that.”
“Why?”
“Because someone tried to kill me night before last thinking the same as you: that I was responsible for the loss of the weapons and the money and Damon. I suspect that would be the Provos.”
Walsh muttered a curse.
“You know something, don’t you?” Kane said. “They came to you.”
“How do I know you didn’t take the money?” Walsh’s tone indicated his confusion.
“If I had the money,” Kane said, “I sure wouldn’t be standing here. Nor would I be asking stupid questions, as you’ve noted. I’m just trying to stay alive. Find out who is after me and get them to stop.”
Walsh shook his head. “I’ve not heard a thing about any Provos coming over and they’d tell me about something like that.”
“Not if they wanted to be secure,” Kane said. “But you’re lying. You didn’t know they were coming. They just showed up, didn’t they?”
“They wouldn’t try anything here without clearing it by us first,” Walsh insisted, but there was an undercurrent of something.
“Is there anyone in the city they could go to directly to get weapons and explosives?” Kane asked, trying to get through the denials.
Walsh shook his head. “Damon had the city wrapped up tight. If he said no, they had no options here.”
“What about Boston?”
“That’s a different beast,” Walsh admitted. “Can’t help you with that.”
“Someone pointed those Provos at me,” Kane said. “Might have been you.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“What about Theodore Marcelle?”
Walsh’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”
“He’s Damon’s lawyer. He’s involved in all this, isn’t he? I think he sent the Provos after me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“A lot of reasons,” Kane said. “If you hear anything about the Provos, will you let me know?”
“Why would I help you?”
“Maybe we can find who took your money? If it didn’t burn up,” Kane added.
“How would I get hold of you?” Walsh finally asked.
“Call Conner.”
Walsh looked over at Kane’s uncle, sandwiched by muscle.
“Are we good?” Kane asked Walsh.
Walsh waved his cane at the two men. One of them uncuffed Conner and handed him his own cuffs, gun and key back.
“Don’t come back to the tavern,” Walsh said to Kane as Conner came down, the two men following.
Th
e shot hit Walsh in the side of the chest, sending him sprawling. The sound of the gun was muted, suppressed and barely audible.
Kane drew and dropped to one knee as he wheeled in the direction of the shooter in the trees at the south end of the stadium. One of the guards had a revolver drawn, the other was next to Walsh, checking him. Conner was at Kane’s side, gun in hand.
“Where are they?” Conner asked.
“Already running,” Kane said. He glanced at Walsh. The old man was alive. “Stay with him,” Kane ordered his uncle.
He didn’t wait for an answer, sprinting for the tree line.
Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
The refrain echoed in a distant part of Kane’s brain as he ran along the cinder track toward the tree line under the assumption the shooter wasn’t hanging around given there hadn’t been a second shot. It was darker under the trees and he stopped, pressing against a trunk and peered about, gun aimed, but no target. Broadway was to the right, Van Cortlandt Park South directly ahead. He couldn’t see anyone.
Kane sniffed. The smell of gunfire. He took a step left, then to the right. Found a tree where it was strongest. Checked the ground for a shell casing. Nothing, which meant it had been collected or was a revolver.
Reluctantly Kane backtracked, but at the edge of the open ground of the stadium he paused and slowly turned, bringing the forty-five up. Peered into the darkness under the trees. Waited; the hardest thing to do under stress. Scanned with the off-center of his vision, section, by section, searching for movement.
He heard yelling behind him; Conner’s voice and one of Walsh’s men.
Reluctantly Kane ran back to the stadium. Conner was making a ruckus about calling in his fellow police, but he quieted as Kane ran up.
“You get ‘em?” Conner asked.
“No.”
One of Walsh’s men was gone, the other was using his shirt in an attempt to bandage the chest wound.
“I gotta call this in,” Conner said.
“No police,” Walsh hissed, barely audible.
“No police,” Kane echoed to his uncle. He knelt on the other side of the old man, running his hands underneath the body, checking for an exit wound. Nothing. “Hold on,” he said to the guard, stopping his crude attempt to stop the bleeding from the wound, which was a dark, black hole with red bubbly froth.
Walsh was having trouble breathing.
“Sucking chest wound,” Kane said. “And the bullet is still in him. You need to get to a hospital.”
“There’s a—” Walsh had to pause to get air—“a doctor in the tavern.” A gasp. “My man’s getting him. No police.”
Kane went to an overflowing trash bin and grabbed a plastic bag. He leaned close, putting his mouth next to Walsh’s ear. “It was the Provos who shot you. Where are they? How can I find them?”
“Fuck you,” Walsh managed to get out.
Kane put a hand on the other side of the chest. He whispered: “I push here, on your good lung, you won’t be able to get much air. You’ll suffocate, slow and hard. Did these Sword fellows come to you?”
Walsh’s eyes flared anger and fear, a look Kane had seen before. “Yes,” he hissed.
Kane removed his hand from the side and placed the bag over the wound, sealing it.
“Take a breath,” Kane advised. “What happened?”
The old man took a deep inhale, wincing in pain. He exhaled. “Ah. Better.”
Walsh checked to make sure his guard couldn’t hear. “Wouldn’t tell me why they were here. They wanted weapons and explosive but I figured it was about the missing guns and money. They didn’t seem to know about that until I mentioned something. Told them that the man to talk to was Damon but he was gone. Marcelle was next best thing. They’re crazy. They’d have killed me.”
“Did you tell them where to get weapons?”
Walsh shook his head. “They seemed to know. That’s all I can say. There was something off about them . . .”
“What was off about them?” Kane cinched the field-expedient bandage tight, sealing off the hole.
Walsh didn’t answer.
“They’re going to kill you,” Kane said.
Walsh shook his head. “No, lad. This was a warning. You have no idea what you’ve stepped into.”
“You don’t either,” Kane said.
Headlights flashed through the night as a big, black Lincoln Continental bumped over the uneven ground and rolled to a stop next to them. Two men got out, one the missing guard, the other a bespectacled, old man.
“What have you gone and done now, Walsh, me boy?” the old man asked.
“One round in the side.” Kane pointed. “No exit wound. Sucking chest. It’s sealed for the moment.”
“I’ve seen worse,” the doctor said as he inspected the old man.
“That makes me feel so much better, you old devil,” Walsh replied.
“Okay, lads, let’s get him in the car and to my office.”
Walsh reached out as his two guards lifted him and grabbed Conner’s arm. “Don’t you call this in, you bastard. This is our internal business.” He let go.
Kane walked alongside as they carried him to the back seat. “This is going to turn out bad,” he said to Walsh.
“It’s already past bad,” Walsh said.
The doors slammed shut and the big car threw gravel as it sped away.
“What am I going to do?” Conner asked.
“Nothing,” Kane said.
“It was a shooting,” Conner said.
“The shooter’s gone and the victim just drove away and isn’t going to say anything.”
“Damn it, Will,” Conner said. “This is crazy.”
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
They headed toward Broadway.
“They jumped me,” Conner said. “Walsh’s guys. I didn’t have a chance.”
“It happens,” Kane said. “You won’t be going back to Kelly’s, will you?”
They reached the battered red Nova.
“Hell, no,” Conner said.
Kane faced him. “You called and told Patrick you were coming to pay him off.”
“You knew I’d call,” Conner said. “It was a set up on your part. Kick the hornet’s nest and use me to start it. Was it worth it?”
“The hornet stung,” Kane said. “The Provos are here. And they’re watching. They approached Damon and he turned them down. Walsh couldn’t help them.”
“Why did they shoot him?” Conner asked.
“To send a message,” Kane said, although that didn’t click solidly into place. “No one is going to talk now. They’re watching their back trail.”
“What did you do the night of the Blackout?” Conner asked. “Did you kill Damon?”
“No.” Kane held up a hand. “I swear, Uncle, on my mother, your sister, I did not kill Damon.”
“Then what happened to Damon? And his guys? And the guns?”
“You don’t want to get involved in that,” Kane said.
“A bit late for that, isn’t it? Did you learn anything else?”
“I wanted to see if Walsh knew who I was beyond what the FBI told him,” Kane said. “He didn’t. Which means Damon didn’t tell him.”
“Tell him what? What did you do, Will?”
“The other thing I learned? The Irish are as crazy as they always were. Drive safe, Uncle.”
Conner looked at Kane. “You know, Will, you always were an odd boy. Different.”
“I’m my parent’s son.”
Conner shook his head. “No. You’ve got a brother and two sisters and you were different than any of them.” He turned away and got in his car.
He watched Conner drive off. Then he faced to the south, looking down Broadway, trying to make sense of what he’d felt in the trees that had caused him to pause. It finally came to home: what he’d experienced that night on Hill 1338 in the Central Highlands, during his first combat, waiting for dawn, expecting an overwhelming assault to come.
Death. There’d been death there under those trees.
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
When Kane checked the door to his apartment, he was surprised that he was vaguely disappointed that the matchstick was in place and the door locked. He entered, securing the door behind him.
He wasn’t overly surprised, though, to see Yazzie sitting in the chair facing the door, the butt of his gun resting on one thigh, pointed in Kane’s direction.
“Come in the back?” Kane asked.
“I suspected a man trained as you are would be prepared,” Yazzie said.
“Not well enough, apparently.”
Yazzie indicated the sofa. “Have a seat.”
“Kind of you considering this is my place.”
“I do not like this city,” Yazzie said, adjusting the chair and his aim, as Kane sank into the broken springs of the couch. “Too many people. Too dirty. The air reeks of garbage.”
“That’s my father’s job,” Kane said. “Garbage. Probably the most secure civil service job in the city. Cops and fire can strike, but garbagemen? People get upset.”
“You validate my point,” Yazzie said. “People aren’t very friendly either. No one will look you in the eye.”
“That’s viewed as a challenge here. Could get you hurt.”
“Have you found Thomas Marcelle?” Yazzie asked.
“Nope. Since you asked, I assume you haven’t either.”
Yazzie had his finger on the trigger. His leather satchel was on the floor next to him. “You have some things that don’t belong to you. Put them on the table. Off hand.”
Kane unclipped the pager with his right hand and did as ordered.
“His bag?” Yazzie asked.
Kane reached toward the cushion next to him.
“Right hand,” Yazzie warned.
Kane retrieved Johnson’s satchel from underneath with his off-hand and put it on top of the cushion.
“His blade was too big,” Kane said.
Yazzie nodded. “Bowie. But it has a certain panache. Scares people.”
“Scaring only goes so far.”
“Obviously,” Yazzie agreed.
“You don’t seem upset about Johnson,” Kane noted.
