Authors: Thomas Fleming
Hours of Gladness (7 page)
He realized now that Alice was important to him. She was a reward that awaited him after a long upward struggle, as at the Irish shrine at Knock, where the pilgrims ascended the mountain on their knees. He was a pilgrim struggling toward some sort of illumination that would include Alice's generous arms. Now they had taken her away. The stage was bare, leaving him in bitter soliloquy.
It made him almost regret the information that was sending him to America. It had begun with a rumor picked up in a pub by an informer, confirmed by a second informer, who was supposedly in deepest cover. But it would never have become solid enough to send him to America if Littlejohn had not confirmed it personally in one of his reconnaissances.
Littlejohn fondled that word in his mind. No one knew about his reconnaissances. Sometimes he thought God did not know about his reconnaissances. The things he did on reconnaissance were not done by Captain Arthur Littlejohn. They were the acts of another person, an ur-soul brewed out of terror and Irish mist. His reconnaissances took him into the deepest, deadliest parts of Belfast and Londonderry, into Bogside whorehouses and pubs where a British officer would be killed in the slowest, most painful way the IRA's diseased minds could devise.
There he had confirmed the information from their own beery, unsuspecting tongues. And reconfirmed it with his favorite prostitute, blond, bitter Maeve Flanagan. The IRA was about to buy a million dollars' worth of sophisticated weapons in America. They were sending two of their best men to handle the operation. Aside from the desperate need for the weapons, they wanted to prove their boast of new American cooperation. It would have its usual magical impact on the waverers and quitters in the Belfast ranks.
“Arthur.” His mother blinked back tears. “Alice tells me you've decided to break your engagement.”
Even now, he saw that all he had to do was feign surprise, laugh, and protest that Alice had misunderstood himâand they could set a wedding day. But again, he could not speak. He wanted to see if she was part of the murderous game he was playing.
“It seemed the best thing to do under the circumstances.”
America was going to be very interesting.
“W
ell, well, well, well,” Hughie McGinty said, showing his crooked, yellow canines. “Old times, old times indeed, Dick.”
ell, well, well, well,” Hughie McGinty said, showing his crooked, yellow canines. “Old times, old times indeed, Dick.”
“Old indeed,” said Richard O'Gorman, raising his glass.
“Slainte,” said Desmond McBride, making the word sound like a TV ad for a mouthwash. He had already mangled beyond repair the Gaelic for a thousand welcomes. McBride was the mayor of Paradise Beach, the dismal shore town to which they would soon be transported. He was a smiling vacuum, one of those American lightweights who thought they knew all about Ireland because they had visited it two or three times for a total of six weeks and had an Irish grandmother who mispronounced a half dozen Gaelic phrases.
McGinty was a colleague from the early days in Belfast. He had lacked the stomach for the bombing and had decided to walk. They had let him go without prejudice, believing he could be useful in America. But he was neither
a likable nor a trustworthy fellow. A whiner from start to finish.
a likable nor a trustworthy fellow. A whiner from start to finish.
There should have been a third welcomerâeven a fourthâwhose absence set O'Gorman's teeth on edge. McBride's son was the link between the IRA's leadership and the rest of the scheme. He worked for a congressman from New Jersey who was close to Senator Teddy Kennedy.
All things considered, the congressman should have been present too. Maybe even his spherical friend, Senator Ted. After all, O'Gorman was a man who had sat down to couscous in Yasir Arafat's tent and talked world historical balderdash with Che Guevara. Certain former members of the Irgun, the Israeli terrorist group, also spoke of him with respect.
Yet in America, the handful of Irish politicians who supported the IRA did so behind closed doors, through third and fourth parties, as if they were dealing with moral lepers who could infect them with that most fearsome of American political diseasesâthe loss of a voting bloc. Gone were the days when Irish-Americans rose in the Senate of the United States and roared,
“Britannia delenda est.”
In the first place, there weren't five people in the country who could get the reference, thanks to America's abysmal school system. In the second place, once it was translated, the British propaganda machine would serve the speaker up, macerated and broiled on TV for breakfast the following morning.
“Britannia delenda est.”
In the first place, there weren't five people in the country who could get the reference, thanks to America's abysmal school system. In the second place, once it was translated, the British propaganda machine would serve the speaker up, macerated and broiled on TV for breakfast the following morning.
All of which meant that if Black Dick had to forgo the pleasures of celebrity, he was determined to console himself with another pleasure, which was unquestionably available in Babylon on the Hudson. The great metropolis blinked its millions of inviting eyes at them through the bar's twilit front window. But they might as well already be incarcerated in Paradise Beach, as far as responding to these enchanting signals was concerned. There had to be a way to lose these two millstones and give him and Billy at least a single night of pleasure.
“I think it's time we discussed our plans,” McBride said. “McGinty and his fine friends have kept me more or less in the dark. He said the final orders had to come from you.”
“Oh, it's very simple,” O'Gorman said. “The Cubans are bringing a million and half dollars' worth of cocaine with them. We're going to sell the dope to your brother-in-law O'Toole's Italian friends and run the money out to the Cubans and get the weapons. It'll all be said and done in twenty-four hours.”
“Cocaine?” McBride said. “I've never heard a word about cocaine before. If something went wrongâif the Coast Guardâwe could all go to jail for twenty years.”
“It's a goodly stretch you'll get if they find you with the weapons,” O'Gorman said. “You agreed to bring them ashore. The cocaine is just a detail.”
“I thought you were bringing the money,” McBride said. “Didn't you say that?” he asked McGinty.
“I said I hoped he would,” McGinty said.
“We don't have a tenth that much cash in the whole command. This is a big shipment of weapons. The biggest yet.”
“Does Bill O'Toole know about the cocaine?” McBride asked.
“I should say he does,” McGinty said. “He handled the whole thing with the Italians. He's lined up one of their high rollers from Atlantic City. The fellow owns half the boardwalk, Bill says.”
“I don't want to hear any more about the cocaine,” McBride said. “You can use my boat, but I don't want to hear any more about it.”
In Ireland, McBride had promised them his boat and himself as captain and navigator. Was the deal about to fall apart? McGinty let O'Gorman take charge.
“Well and good, well and good,” O'Gorman said. “We can understand how you feel, Des. We're still grateful and then some, right, Billy?”
“Yah,” Billy said, his nose in his drink. Even his pea
brain could see it was too early to put pressure on this papier-mache hero.
brain could see it was too early to put pressure on this papier-mache hero.
“How's Nora?” O'Gorman asked McGinty.
“Just fine. We've got two lovely kids.”
“Good news.”
Sweet little Nora, the rose of Kilwickie. In 1975, she owned the softest rump, the juiciest knockers, in the Six Counties. O'Gorman had passed her on to McGinty somewhat the worse for wear. That was part of the reason for the anguish in Hughie's voice.
O'Gorman liked the whine of supplication that only he could hear. It meant McGinty knew that if things went awry, Dick O'Gorman could arrange to have a killing machine like Billy Kilroy on a plane to America in twenty-four hours. That was always implied in their original arrangement to let McGinty walk in good health, unkneecapped, with both eyes still in his head.
You wouldn't kill a man with two lovely kids, would you, Dick? That was what McGinty was saying. He knew it was a waste of breath, but he said it anyway. Irish.
“If we get going, we can be in Paradise Beach for dinner,” McBride said. “It's only two hours from New York. We get quite a lot of New Yorkers in the summer.”
In the winter, O'Gorman thought, you get penguins and seals, neither of which will be inclined to cooperate with what Kilroy and I need to ease our distress.
“I was thinking of staying the night,” O'Gorman said. “There's some people in the Irish Mission at the UN that are looking for a word from me.”
“Them fookers can wait,” Billy said. “The weapons is more important.”
“The weapons won't be seen for weeks perhaps,” O'Gorman said. “The Cubans have very little use for schedules.”
“I don't like doing business with communists,” McBride said to McGinty. “I thought you said the guns were coming on a Japanese freighter.”
“So I did, so I did,” McGinty said. “It would have been
a better dodge, wouldn't it. But the Japanese wanted tons of money. The Cubans are providin' the ship free of charge. In this business you sometimes have to make bargains with the devil.”
a better dodge, wouldn't it. But the Japanese wanted tons of money. The Cubans are providin' the ship free of charge. In this business you sometimes have to make bargains with the devil.”
He glared at O'Gorman. “Thank God for Ireland's faith. With it for protection we can dance with the devil without a bit of fear, right, Dick?”
“Right.”
O'Gorman did not know who infuriated him more, McGinty with his drooling religiosity or Kilroy with his sudden assumption of command. Between them they were going to let Ellen O'Flaherty, redhaired and worshipful, pine by the telephone at the Irish Mission. She had begged him to call her after the recruiting weekend they had spent together in Mayo. He was only two years behind schedule.
“Shall I get the car?” McBride said.
“By all means. The Irish Mission can wait. First things first,” O'Gorman said.
The moment McBride left the room, McGinty all but sprang at O'Gorman's throat. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Don't you know better than to talk about the motherless Cubans in front of a Yank? They're still the communist enemy, for Christ's sake.”
“We oughter change their minds about that,” Billy said. “They oughter know we'd be left thrown potatoes at the fookin' Saracens if it wasn't for the Bolshies.”
“You're not gonna change their minds, so skip it,” McGinty said. “Take my advice, skip it entirely.”
“Did you get that message, Commander?” O'Gorman said.
“I got the message that you need watchin',” Kilroy said. “You ain't off the plane four hours and you're chasin' snatch.”
Someone in Sofia or Belfast had fumigated Kilroy's brain. He had acquired the trappings, if not the essentials, of intelligence. Even more incredible, the brain-washers had convinced him he was worthy of respect. It
almost made a man believe in indoctrination.
almost made a man believe in indoctrination.
They exchanged telephone numbers with McGinty. He told them to rely on O'Toole, the police chief at Paradise Beach. He was tough and dependable. McBride was necessary because he owned the boat. He had been recruited in Dublin on his last visit to Ireland but was, as anyone could see, a timid fish. He would have to be handled with care.
“Right, right,” O'Gorman said, jet lag gnawing at his nerves.
They said good-bye to McGinty and crawled into McBride's green Cadillac. He inched out of New York in the rush-hour traffic. It took them an hour to get through a tunnel under the Hudson River. On the other side they picked up speed and were soon zooming along an overpass surrounded by decrepit houses and random church steeples. It looked like a city that God had forgotten.
McBride lectured them on the glorious political past of this decaying metropolis, called Jersey City. Here the Irish had ruled for decades. Now it was in the hands of the Italians and the Poles. It made no sense whatsoever to O'Gorman. He gazed longingly at the soaring skyscrapers of New York on the other side of the Hudson. Ellen O'Flaherty, what I wouldn't give for a touch of your willing thighs.
McBride talked on. The jet lag gnawed. O'Gorman was tired of being transported. He seemed to have spent his entire life being transported from airports, train terminals, bus stations, while some foreigner talked at him, presuming he understood why the Lebanese hated Gemayel or the Libyans adored Qaddafi or the Algerians yearned for the return of Ben Bella. It all came down to boredom and transportation. Some earlier ancestor, perhaps transported in chains to eighteenth-century Georgia or Australia, must have left an antipathy for the word in his genes.
Soon they were hurtling down an immense highway called the New Jersey Turnpike. It had six lanes on either
side, and the cars and trucks drove like the devil and all his angels were crawling up their exhaust pipes. The trucks were gigantic roaring monsters that looked as if they could thunder over a car without even noticing it. McBride drove blithely beside one whose wheels were so huge, they were spinning at the height of the car's windows.
side, and the cars and trucks drove like the devil and all his angels were crawling up their exhaust pipes. The trucks were gigantic roaring monsters that looked as if they could thunder over a car without even noticing it. McBride drove blithely beside one whose wheels were so huge, they were spinning at the height of the car's windows.
“Holy Jesus,” Billy said in the backseat. He was shaking all over. It was the roar of the truck motors. It was taking him back to Belfast, to the sound the Saracens made in the streets. “Holy Jesus, can we stop somewheres and get a drink?” he cried, the sweat pouring down his scrawny cheeks.
“There's a bar back there,” McBride said, and told Billy how to liberate it from its hiding place inside the seatback. Billy downed a whole glass of something and passed a half up to O'Gorman. It was Scotch. Good stoof, as Billy would say. They hurtled on, past a landscape full of dark factories emitting the most god-awful stench O'Gorman had ever inhaled. He put his nose in his whiskey to escape it.
“You'd swear they forgot to bury a fookin' British regiment,” Billy said.
They finally escaped the stench, and after another hour of boredom on a parkway mercifully free of trucks, they purred sedately down the broad streets of Paradise Beach. The place was not quite as deserted as O'Gorman had feared it would be. There were plenty of automobiles, many of them quite expensive looking. The houses were all well painted. Prosperity had apparently come around the corner some time ago. McBride eased to a stop in front of a large, green corner house with a substantial lawn around it. “Here's where you'll be staying,” he said.
Inside, he introduced them to his father-in-law, Dan Monahan, a tall, shriveled old man on a cane, almost totally bald and not a little gaga. “Always glad to see a friend from Ireland,” he said. He repeated it three times as if they were deaf or stupid. “Barbara?” he called. “Meet my daughter Barbara O'Day.”
Out of the kitchen, wearing tan slacks and a white blouse and an apron that said
Three Cheers for the Cook
came a smiling redhead with a sexy swinging walk and a figure to match it. She was no youngster but neither was he, O'Gorman reminded himself. She held her head high and smiled boldly into his eyes. “I've always wanted to meet a real Irishman,” she said.
Three Cheers for the Cook
came a smiling redhead with a sexy swinging walk and a figure to match it. She was no youngster but neither was he, O'Gorman reminded himself. She held her head high and smiled boldly into his eyes. “I've always wanted to meet a real Irishman,” she said.
Paradise Beach might be well named, after all.
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