by Bob Mayer
“That sucks for somebody,” Yazzie said. “Why am I here?”
Kane reached into his pocket and passed Judge Clark’s address across the table.
The Native American unfolded it. “Who is this?”
“Thomas Marcelle’s lover.”
“Charles Edward Clark. Charles?”
“It’s likely they’ve been in a long-term relationship,” Kane said. “At least since 1966.”
Yazzie folded it and put it in the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He was still for several moments. “A secret life for Marcelle. Which means he might have gone to ground with his lover. Or at his lover’s place, since I’m assuming this isn’t widely known.”
“Toni suspected something, but had no idea who it was,” Kane lied.
“Why are you passing this to me?” Yazzie asked. “Why aren’t you and her following up?”
“I’m more concerned about the TOW missiles,” Kane said.
“And Toni?”
“I think she’s done with her father.”
“You think? I was under the impression she was done with him when we met.”
“Emotional matters take time to settle in. I assume you know that there is some sort of connection between your adopted father and George Bush, head of the CIA?”
“They’re acquainted with each other. Don’t tell me you tried running it up the Agency flagpole?”
“I haven’t run anything up any flagpoles,” Kane said. “I made inquiries.”
“Do you have anything else for me?”
“No.”
Yazzie tapped his pocket. “If this is a set-up, it will not go well for you. There will be a long line of people coming for you.”
“Be still my beating heart. You mean your five adopted brothers?”
Yazzie stood. “You can tell the cook to put away the crossbow.” He walked out.
Kane turned off the tape recorder as Thao came out of the kitchen, along with Wile-E and Lucky.
“Are you gentlemen ready for a trip to the Bronx?” Kane asked.
16
Monday Evening,
8 August 1977
RIVERDALE, THE BRONX
The Conrail train rattled south ten feet away from Kane, Wile-E, Thao and Lucky as they stood on the garbage-strewn, rocky, east bank of the Hudson River. Turgid water lapped over the rocks. Looking west, the setting sun was in their eyes, murky behind clouds and smog. The air was tainted with salt and a mixture of industrial waste.
Wile-E tilted a canteen for Lucky, the dog’s tongue lapping. The dog wanted nothing to do with the polluted water, even after the journey from the south end of Van Cortlandt Park, pulling at the leash. Kane and Thao had been surprised that it wasn’t a case of Lucky putting nose to ground; at least for most of the journey.
Wile-E had started him at the tree where Kane had smelled the gun smoke. Lucky had picked up a scent and they were off, ending here, a half mile west of where they’d started. Most of the way, Lucky had three-legged unerringly, head held high. Through alleys, along streets, crossing the Henry Hudson Parkway on the 232nd Street bridge, and then through Seton Park until they scrambled down to river level and across the Conrail commuter rail lines.
The train disappeared around a bend, heading into the city.
“They had a boat the night they came after me,” Kane said to Thao as Wile-E walked Lucky along the shoreline, mission accomplished. “This confirms they still have it.” He looked across the Hudson at the Palisades looming over the New Jersey Shoreline. “They could be camped in the woods on top of the Palisades.”
“The boat would have to be at the bottom, though,” Thao pointed out.
Kane looked to the left, down river. The George Washington Bridge arched from Manhattan to New Jersey. “That’s about three klicks.”
“A little farther,” Thao said. “And the missiles would have negligible effect on such a structure given the warheads.”
“What if they fired from the top of the Palisades?” Kane said, but he was grasping, frustrated that the dog hadn’t led them to the Swords of Saint Patrick’s lair. He had the rucksack on his back, the K inside, along with Thao’s crossbow and quiver.
“They could be anywhere along the river,” Thao said. “Less people to the north. More opportunities to hide.”
“They fled toward the Jersey shoreline,” Kane said, remembering the brief encounter. “Of course, they could have turned north or south once they were out of sight.” He shook his head in frustration. “Lots of refineries in that area. Blowing up some tanks would cause quite the blast.”
“This does help, though,” Thao tried. “I would suspect they are hiding close to the water and their firing position would also be on or close to the water. They will not want to travel very far on land with the missiles and launcher.”
Kane shook his head. “Staten Island. Brooklyn. Queens. Hell, all of the city except the Bronx is an island.”
“Do you remember Cambodia?” Thao asked.
“Of course.”
“How hard it was to hide from the locals?”
“We always got discovered,” Kane said. “Eventually.”
Thao indicated the river. “There is much shoreline, but there are also many people. It is very hard for them to hide and not be spotted.”
“Unless they have an isolated spot,” Kane said.
“What do you suggest, Dai Yu?” Thao asked as Wile-E joined them, Lucky panting at his side.
“We’ve got forty-eight hours,” Kane said. “We have to shake something loose.” He pulled out his key ring and handed it to Thao. “You and Wile-E and Lucky take the jeep back to Manhattan. I’ll catch the subway later. We’ll meet in the diner in the morning.”
“What are you going to do?” Thao asked. “In case I must take action later tonight?”
“I’m just going to the local bar.”
It was dark by the time Kane entered Kelly’s. There was relative quiet on Monday evening compared to Saturday. No singers, no juke box, just a low hum of conversation and the mutter of a black and white TV above the bar tuned to a baseball game. There was a decent sized crowd, but several tables were open. Walsh wasn’t holding court at his table, which was to be expected. Kane spotted a face he recognized, hesitated, then resigned that it would be impolite not to at least say hello.
“Good evening, Caitlyn,” he said as he stood across the table. There was a mug in front of her, a quarter down.
“Good evening, Mister Kane, with a K.” She indicated the empty seat he stood behind. “Join me?”
Kane glanced over his shoulder, then indicated the seat to the side. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Caitlyn said.
Kane descended through the light haze of cigarette, pipe and cigar smoke. He angled the chair so he could watch the front door and the bar, Caitlyn to his left, the brick wall behind.
“A cautious man, I see.”
“Old habit,” Kane said.
“Not one many pick up, willy-nilly.”
“Army training,” Kane explained.
“You have that soldier look about you,” she said. “Noticed it right away. Hard to extract that life from a man once he’s absorbed it. Seeps into his spine, makes him stand a little taller.”
No Walsh. No Patrick or Magnus. No one else he recognized. No one singing for which Kane was grateful.
“Expecting someone?” Caitlyn asked.
“Just seeing who is who and what is what,” Kane said.
The same hard waitress from the other night cruised up. “What can I get you?”
Kane debated. “Tap.” It was the kind of bar where that was a sufficient answer.
Kane waited in uncomfortable silence, aware of Caitlyn’s presence, but at a loss for small talk. He gave it a shot. “Do you come here often?”
Caitlyn stared at him. “Do you?”
“My second time,” Kane said.
“Seventh,” she said.
The waitress returned. “Thanks for
the other night,” she said as she put a chilled mug in front of Kane. “Mister Walsh doesn’t like trouble inside.”
“But outside is all right?” Kane asked.
The waitress laughed. “Outside is other people’s business, but I’ve not seen Patrick or his strapping young man since you went through the door with them. Nor your uncle. You might be bad for business.”
“I’ll try not to be,” Kane said. “If you don’t mind, have there been any visitors in here lately?”
“Besides you?” the waitress asked. “What-da-ya-mean ‘visitors’?”
“From the old country,” Kane said.
“Every night,” the waitress replied as she swept a hand to indicate the other patrons. “Pick one. You be sitting next to one, as a matter of fact.” She leaned toward the table and lowered her voice. “I’d not be asking too many such questions if I was you. People like their privacy.”
She walked away.
“You are not a subtle man, are you?” Caitlyn asked. “Seems you didn’t get the information you were seeking the other night?”
“Not exactly,” Kane said. He focused on her. “When did you come over?”
She feigned surprise. “Does my accent give me away?” She smiled. “I listen to the voices here and I discern more New York than I do Ireland, even among those who arrived just a few years ago. I imagine it will be the same for me eventually. Three months, this past Tuesday, I’ve been in these fair United States.”
“Did your husband come with you?” Kane asked, tensing as he saw Airborne enter the front door, and realizing his oversight as soon as he said it.
“He passed in Ireland and that is why I came,” Caitlyn said. “My future prospects were not bright back there.” She took a sip from her mug.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Do you know the man with the tattoos?” Caitlyn asked, pulling his attention back to her. “Or is that where your desires lie since you watch him so closely? I’m not one of those judgmental sorts. It seems a truth that the priests who rail against the flesh the loudest are often most deeply involved in it on the sly and often with those with the same set of equipment the Lord blessed them with.”
“I met that fellow earlier today and we had a chat,” Kane said.
Airborne was at the bar before he spotted Kane. He frowned and looked about to see who else was inside. He glared at Kane, shook his head, but that was the extent of it as he grabbed a full mug and a shot glass and went to the far side of the tavern.
“Neither of you look the worse for the chat,” Caitlyn noted. “I come here to watch. One can learn a lot about people just by watching.”
“Such as?”
“You haven’t touched your beer.”
Kane nodded. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
“An odd thing for a man in a tavern to say. Did you feel obligated to order it because I have one, because you’re sitting here and the waitress asked, or you felt like drinking a few moments ago and that ship has sailed since speaking with me?”
“Is the 10th of August a significant date in Irish history?”
Caitlyn was still on the beer. “Not partaking of spirits is considered unmanly in some quarters, but I’m in favor of it in some men. My departed had too much of a taste for the devil’s brew. To answer my own question, since you did not, I have this--” she tapped the mug with a finger whose nail was gnarled down to the quick—“because I am occupying this seat and it seems fair price for passage.”
Kane was regretting his decision to try and stir things up in Kelly’s and he was recognizing it for what it was: desperation.
“Ten August,” Caitlyn said. “Off the top of my head I’d say there must have been some battle in olden days or some great political argument made. Seems there’s one of each for every day of the calendar spread out over the years. We Irish love to argue and fight. Fair sir!” she called out, gesturing to the old man who’d sung unaccompanied the other night about the Wild Colonial Boy.
“Aye, lass?” he said, from his table, where he was nursing a mug.
“Ten August, sir. Does it portend something important in Irish history?” Caitlyn asked.
He answered right away, albeit indirectly. “Today, the eighth, was the sinking of the mighty Armada off our lovely shore in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and eighty-eight and the polluting of that black blood amongst some of our people. The tenth?” The old man frowned. “Ah. The Second Battle of Athenry!” He rose to his feet with some difficulty and leaned heavily on the cane as he made his way over.
Kane pulled out a seat for him and signaled to the waitress to bring him a drink.
“The ‘Second’ Battle?” Caitlyn said.
“Aye. I don’t quite recall when the first was. But the second is recorded in the Annals of Lock Ce. An uprising arm-in-arm with the Scots under Edward Bruce against the heathen English.”
The waitress put a shot glass and a mug in front of the old man and Kane slipped her a twenty.
The old man downed the shot, then began drinking the beer. And drinking. Kane and Caitlyn watched as he gulped the contents, then slammed the empty on the table. This was obviously not unusual, because the waitress had waited and scooped up both empties, taking them with her.
“What happened in the battle?” Kane asked. “Why was it important?”
The old man shrugged. “I just know it was fought on that date. lass. Don’t know what year or who won.”
Caitlyn contributed. “I suspect, given subsequent history, the Bruce side, with which our forefathers allied, were not the victors.”
“Aye,” the old man said, “but it must have been a valiant fight as they all were.” He rose and caned his way back to his table.
“That was enlightening,” Kane said.
“What are you seeking?” Caitlyn asked.
Kane almost told her, but caught himself. “Nothing.”
“Rather specific questions for nothing,” Caitlyn said and continued to speak in the same calm, tone. “Your friend is coming over.”
“You don’t look beat up,” Airborne said. “What if Mister Walsh hears?”
“Will he?” Kane slid his untouched beer across the table. “On me.”
Airborne considered it, then sat down. “Where’d you learn those moves?” he asked. He picked up the mug and drained half of it.
“Various places,” Kane said. “Thailand. Japan. Korea. The pits at Camp Mackall. Fort Benning.”
“Vietnam?” Airborne asked.
“Not much time to train there,” Kane said.
“True.” Airborne held out a callused hand. “Danny.”
Kane shook it. “Will.”
“How touching,” Caitlyn said. “Men bonding over their shared experiences in killing. Tell me. Who won the war?”
Danny’s face flushed red, but he didn’t say anything.
Kane answered. “No one won. Some lost more than others.”
Caitlyn raised a hand for the waitress as she spoke. “My apologies, Danny and Will. That was uncouth and unkind of me.” When the waitress arrived, Caitlyn ordered a round.
“How is Mister Walsh doing?” Kane asked Danny.
“He’s on the mend,” Danny said. He glanced at Caitlyn. “What’s your story?”
“It’s a long, sad tale,” Caitlyn said, “and I doubt you’d have the patience for even a quarter of it, lad.”
Danny laughed. “Gotta agree with you on that.”
“I wouldn’t ask,” Kane began, “but it’s important. Have you seen anybody recently from Ireland in here? Present company excepted.”
“What do you mean?” Danny asked.
Caitlyn laughed. “He’s talking about the two Provos who came in last week, for fuck sake.” She shook her head at Kane. “You going to ask everyone but me?”
“You keep your mouth shut,” Danny hissed at her, as the waitress approached and deposited three mugs.
Kane ignored the veteran. “When? How many?” he asked Caitlyn.
She shrugged. “I believe it was Monday, week past. Easy to pick out, not just because of their brogue but they have that look in their eye. Sort of like the both of you. Men who’ve killed. Except they had no military in their spine, one can see that. Not much of a spine at all in the likes of them. Just the violence and that makes them snakes. I know their sort from home.”
As Kane opened his mouth to speak, Caitlyn silenced him with a lift of her hand. “All I saw was two men. They spoke to Mister Walsh briefly. It was odd to see such here in the United States.”
“How do you know they were Provos?” Kane asked.
“Told you. I’ve seen the sort often enough.” Caitlyn indicated the mugs. “Drink up, lads.” She took a deep draught. “They haven’t been back since then.” She looked at Danny. “That’s what happened, is it not?”
“I got nothing to say on the matter.” Danny drank half his mug. “Shouldn’t even be sitting here,” he added, making no move to depart. He looked at Kane. “Walsh said you might be a Fed. But you aint, are you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. Not a cop either, like your uncle.”
Kane focused on Caitlyn. “Can you tell me anything about the two men? I need to find them.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I think they’re planning to do something bad,” Kane said.
“And what might that be?”
“I’m not sure,” Kane said.
Danny was pushing his chair back, bit by bit, looking more uncomfortable with each word spoken in front of him. “I want no part of this.” He walked away, leaving Kane alone with Caitlyn.
“Whatever you can tell me about those two men would be useful,” Kane said. “Did they come from the subway? Or a car?”
“Why do you care?” Caitlyn asked. She indicated the tavern. “The people here live in a reality of their own choosing, but it doesn’t seem to be yours. ‘The old country’.” She almost spit the last three words. “What do they know of the bombings and the shootings and the kneecappings? The innocents caught in the crossfire, as if it matters from which side the bullet came? The bombings are worse. Just chance who is standing by. But it does matter who pays for the bullet and the bomb, doesn’t it?”
