A Reason To Kill, page 27
“Damn kid, I didn’t care he smashed the fucking car, could’ve killed himself. Davy,” he continued to hunt for a pledge. “You’ll watch the lad close? Won’t let him pickup any fancy ideas about running with the pack.”
“Wouldn’t pay to have the lads to screw up the boy. I’ll be seeing they don’t.”
Reaching into his pocket O’Donnell drew out a fat billfold and dropped it between them ordering, “Sean needs anything you see to it.”
“Not necessary.”
“Damn it! Take the money. Sean is mine and he needs no charity.”
As Martin pocketed the billfold, he said, “Sean will be all right.” And made the foolish commitment, “Sure, but, you’ve got my word on it.”
~~~
“Normally I’m not a trusting fool, Davy, yet I trust you.” The guilt cut into his soul. Beth’s son, I owed her so much, now I’ve driven her boy off. Then O’Donnell shrugged away the gloom as he assured himself, Davy will see to him—Davy’s right. Sean will be back home in no time once he discovers what it’s like to work. Maybe I should send the boy to Tom for a spell. Sean would like that and it’s little enough Devlin’s done for his sister’s kid.
~~~
Across the water in London Rory Hanlon waited impatiently for the overseas operator to finish making the New York connection. He silently wondered, how in hell did that wimp, Devlin, ever get so grand?
Then he was connected. “Tom, lad, we’ve a bit of a problem, nothing major, but the Arabs are holding me up on the amount we agreed on. Gonna be a trifle short of cash for the next month’s payroll.”
“How much?” Came from the other end of the line.
“A few thousand pounds—”
“I’ll get it to you. Hell, Rory!” Devlin’s anger crackled over the Atlantic cable.”If it’s not coming at me from one end it’s coming from the other. I’m bogged down in the middle of some heavy stuff here and Seamus is suddenly looking to unload my nephew on me. Kid took off on him—so great. Sean ran away to Ulster. Now Seamus wants to send him here when he finds him. I’m supposed to play daddy? Hell man I’m not up to that.”
“Why now? Seems after all this time.”
“That damn frigging O’Donnell temper! Beat the kid up, I’d guess—wouldn’t admit it. Here I’m up to my ass in problems. And Seamus socks me with another.”
“Tom, don’t sweat this end.” Hanlon was quick with the assurance. “I’ll—”
“Money’s no problem, Rory. You’re doing fine. O’Neill’s kid will be coming over for her Grandpa’s birthday binge. I’ll have her bring cash and Martin can make a drop in a Dublin account and you can transfer the funds.”
“You trust a youngster with that kinda cash?”
“Dede? I’d trust her with the Crown Jewels.” Devlin finally found a bit of humor. “That girl’s got more nerve than Hell’s got heat.”
With the arrangements concluded, Hanlon breathed easier as he hung up and surveyed his private office. Not bad for an ex-con with a price on his head
~~~
Kept intentionally hazy at his end, the room was brightly lit on the other side of his desk. Rory Hanlon rubbed his palms together in front of his chin while he contemplated his late night visitor.
The expensively attired young man continued with his rapid conversation as if unaware he was receiving no response. Then coming to a sudden halt, the man slapped at his thighs in irritation as he barked a definite, “When?”
Hanlon pretended to be deep in thought as he enjoyed the other man’s noticeable discomfort. His guest squirmed on a hard wooden chair while he relaxed in overstuffed leather. He watched as the dark eyes twitched nervously in the smooth Latin face.
Franco Andre Baumont the Third, born to millions, this young man’s mother’s tight purse strings and his own passion for waste kept him constantly in search of more. Hanlon could see a sweat stain creeping from the creature’s armpits and he whistled softly through the words. “Fifty thousand pounds, English. A lot of cash for almost nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing! I must pay, and plenty, to retain the silence of others and you say nothing!” Baumont sucked in hot breath as he worried aloud. “If we are discovered it is I who could face prison. You, you, stand to lose nothing but money—which isn’t even yours.” He rubbed sweaty palms into fine wool tweed as he leaned forward in an attempt to intimidate.
Disgust for the Irish lackey was showing in Baumont’s face. So Hanlon, allowed a grin to curve the corners of his own mouth as he calmly ordered. “Fetch us a drink, lad.”
“A what?”
“A drink!” Hanlon repeated. “Sure, but, haven’t I grown thirsty just a listening to you bellyache.” He gave an impatient wave towards the wall cupboard. “Bottle and glasses in there.”
Swallowing a protest, the young man lounged to his feet and made his way to the cabinet. He brought back the set up. Filling two tumblers with scotch, the set of his features advertised that he suppressed an angry retort when Hanlon again ordered, “Have a bit-o-water with mine.”
Complying, he handed over the doctored drink with a sneered, “Anything else, sir?” as he dropped in his chair.
“Should do.” Hanlon slowly sipped at the whiskey. Baumont didn’t get to sample his. He nearly dumped it all as he sprung back to his feet when Hanlon said, “I’m of a mind to say no deal.”
“What! You can’t call it off! I’ve invested too much!” In his tantrum he was numb to the whiskey that splashed down his silk shirtfront.
“Don’t be getting your nuts in an uproar, lad.” Hanlon said. “That’s just my thinking. Others…well…they think differently. You’re to be paid what you asked.”
“Thank God.” Baumont sat back into his uncomfortable seat. Sucking up the leavings in his glass, he promised, “They won’t be sorry.”
“Yes, I’m thinking that. You’ll be certain everything runs smooth.” The icy-blue stare caught and held the golden brown one as Hanlon continued. “So fuckin’ smooth.” Slowly Hanlon gained his feet. His movements hardly increased at all as he glided around the desk to hover over his now mesmerized victim. His tone lacked any emotion as he said; “Now if someone was to foul up this game the big boys want to play, then me and my kind take over.”
Standing they would be equal in size, but Baumont couldn’t bring himself to move. The forty-five hanging loosely in Hanlon’s grip looked as if it paralyzed him. An evil smile formed as Hanlon let the muzzle dip into the other man’s lap and he lightly poked while he said, “Only take one squeeze ta gut a bastard.” He squeezed the trigger.
Baumont screamed as he felt the gun buck against his belly. Then his voice dropped into a hard sob as Hanlon patted his wet cheek.
“Empty chamber.” The Irishman’s smile was frigid. He laid the gun on the desk and he reached for the whiskey bottle. Forced to steady the Italian’s hand as he refilled his glass, Hanlon said, “That was so, you and me, we understand each other. Others are trusting me…I’m trusting you.”
“I haven’t let you down yet.” A trembling chin emphasized Baumont’s growing new fear of this man. “Why the big scene?”
“Nothing personal. Had this rotten encounter last night with a couple of Arab blokes. Left me pissed off with a bad taste for brown eyes.” Hanlon returned to his desk. “This shipment of farm equipment shouldn’t present a problem—it’s bulky and the blokes on the docks won’t care to mess with it any more than necessary. A direct shipment from England to Israel shouldn’t even stir up a good sweat.
Chapter 49
London, England, 1983
Sandra Thorn was busy setting out dinner. She heard them coming and grimaced in the painful knowledge that her son was growing too attached to the man.
“What’s it to be tonight, Paddy?” Hanlon asked with forced seriousness. “Meat n’ taters?”
“I made you kidney pie.” Sandra intervened when her child’s tongue found it difficult to spin the proper words. “I hope you like it?”
“Whatever you’re of a mind to cook is fine with me.” Rory Hanlon was honest. Years of prison fare made the woman’s simple cooking gourmet to him. “And, sure, Paddy, you’ve been a fine lad today? Not driven papa up a wall.”
“Papa ‘eepin,” The boy wiggled to his knees to reach the plate the man set before him. Paddy had quickly taken to calling old Jock Quinn, papa and it was an honor Hanlon gladly shared.
~~~
“Mrs. Thorn?” He always rushed over her name. It seemed coarse to call her Sandra with the experiences he conjured up, come nightfall when she was safely gone. Neither could he bring himself to call her Sally when he was face to face with her. “I may be off for a few days come Monday, I don’t like leaving the old fellow alone.”
“Of course not, Mr. Quinn.” She smiled as she answered. “I’m only too happy to stay over again. Paddy doesn’t mind, do you Paddy?” But Paddy was only interested in over loading his small mouth. She sighed at the sight. “It’s God sent he’s allowed here all day. Our room seems to have shrunk.”
Paddy ordered, “Eat Papa.”
So between bites, Hanlon mumbled. “Have to see about finding you a bigger place.”
Sandra protested, “I’ll be doing that, sure, but you’ve done more than enough already.”
Hanlon had been considering the large empty rooms above them that had once served as bedrooms for Jock’s long dead sons. Convinced they’d make a fine flat, and it wouldn’t be like she was living with them, he had been trying to figure how to bridge the subject with Jock.
The bell startled the adults.
Paddy announced, “Papa!”
“Finish up,” Sandra offered, “I’ll see to him.”
But Hanlon was already pushing away from the table as he laughed. “You feed him too good. Liftin’ him is a man’s job, aye, Paddy?” He nodded at the tike scrambling from the chair to follow him.
Jock Quinn’s arthritic joints had reached a crippling stage where he could no longer get up from the bed by himself. “Sure, ya took your bloody time.” He chastised Hanlon then smiled at the small boy, who was struggling to pull his legs from the bed.
Hanlon wrapped his arms around the still broad chest and drew Jock to his feet, steadying him until he got his balance. “All right! All right!” Jock was aggravated by the fact that his once strong body was now betraying him. “My stick!” Paddy scurried to comply. Returning with the Black Thorn, for Jock refused to use the modern walker the hospital sent. Jock smoothed the child’s hair as he said, “Good lad. Now you go back to your dinner. We’ll be right a long.” Turning on Hanlon he muttered, “I’ll be needing your assistance.”
How lucky for me, Hanlon thought, helping him to the toilet is an honor he bestows on me.
~~~
An hour later, finished with tidying up, Sandra Thorn moved quickly to catch up the tiny carcass who played on the setting room floor, entertaining the adult males.
“Stay ’ere!” came the expected squeals as she struggled her son into his sweater. She chewed on her lip through the daily ordeal.
No sooner had she uttered her good bye and whisked her complaining child off, then Jock Quinn turned on his make believe son. “Ain’t fittin’,” he said as if it was the younger man’s fault. “Raisin’ a lad in one wee room.”
“She’s looking to find a bigger place.” Hanlon felt he was coming to his own defense so he offered. “I’ll help her.”
“And, sure, what’s wrong with here?”
“Jock. You’re not suggesting we move them in? Where would they sleep?”
“Don’t you start no fancy planin’. I’m not of a mind ta be setting the lass up for the pleasure of you. You buy your relief from the street whores or go without.” His face had flushed from instant anger. But when the other man didn’t play into it—it faded and he considered. “Been thinkin’ the upstairs sets empty; if you moved your lazy bones, ain’t no reason it can’t be fixed proper. Already got plumbing and electricity. Plenty big enough so the boy could have his own room. Lass wouldn’t be walkin’ the street every night; not safe, these English streets.”
English streets, Hanlon kept his humor to himself. The old Irishman had spent most of his adult life in London, and still they remained English streets. Cautiously nodding agreement, he took care not to act too interested. Nor did he bother to inform Jock that Sandra Thorn only had to walk three blocks, in a neighborhood filled with family types, and the sun had barely gone down—
The knocking took him by surprise.
~~~
Mrs. Hennessey, Sandra Thorn’s landlady, had no sooner brought Sandra’s message and agreed to remain with Jock, then Rory Hanlon dashed for his car. He broke every universal speed limit on his drive to hospital. In the waiting room, he confronted the sobbing mother. “How did it happen?”
“He darted into the road. I had no chance to grab him. Oh God! He so young.” A fresh supply of tears bathed Sandra’s face. “Don’t let him die!” She had come into Hanlon’s arms without his being aware he’d reached out to her. Now her warm tears soaked his shirt but he felt no physical sensations. He was trying to make sense of what she was saying. An auto had smashed into the fragile body of the homely little fellow with a pushed up nose, who called him papa.
Across the room the driver sat. Slumped in anguish, the young man stammered, “Sorry—I didn’t see your son.”
Hanlon didn’t correct his mistake; instead he ordered, “Get the hell out of here!”
The man quickly jumped up as Sandra protested, “It wasn’t his fault, Paddy—”
“Get out!” Hanlon’s face left nothing to argue with and the man wisely fled.
“That was cruel.” Sandra pulled away in shock.
“Should Paddy die, that’s not cruel?”
“But he ran in front of the lad’s auto.”
“Understand me,” Hanlon said. “If the child dies? It’s best that lad is far away and I never learn his name.”
“He won’t.” The words brought them round to a confidently smiling doctor. “Die that is. Tough little bugger, your son.” Neither corrected the assumption. “Lost a lot of blood for a wee fellow, so he will be weak. He also has a fractured arm and a few cracked ribs—but he should mend nicely.” Then he warned. “Be a bother for you. Hard to keep a tike that size pinned for healing. You can see him now.”
“Papa,” Paddy Thorn whimpered in his drugged induced half slumber. The tiny fingers of his un-bandaged hand sought out and clung to Hanlon’s large fist. “Papa.”
As usual the mother looked up with a quick apology forming on her lips.
But Hanlon grinned. “Lad’s bound to adopt me.” And knew a sudden pang of guilt as he said what he felt he should have decided sooner. “Pa and I been talking, seems he’s after fixing the upstairs. Wouldn’t take much work. It’d be a fit place for you and the boy.”
“I couldn’t,” she stammered in surprise. “You’ve already done so much—”
“Hush, ain’t nothing grand. Pa needs you and he enjoys the lad. Now with this, you’ll need help tending the little fellow. Can’t keep him cooped up in one room nor drag him back and forth.”
“I’ve no furnishings.”
“No problem. Time Paddy’s ready to leave the hospital, I’ll see the place is fit.”
~~~
Above the Atlantic the large jetliner cut through the night sky on its way from Kennedy to Heathrow. Restlessly Deirdre O’Neill wiggled about in her seat. The importance of her new role filled the teenager with such pride she could barely contain her excitement. She was a courier ferrying funds that were desperately needed. Tom hadn’t told her that, of course not, he didn’t want her to be nervous. He’d simply told her he wanted her to take a package to Dublin.
David Martin would meet her at the airport. Tom had gone to the trouble of changing her flight plans. So she was now curled up on the Concorde, headed for Heathrow, and a quick commuter plane into Dublin, which would put her a full hour ahead of her scheduled Aer Lingus arrival. So she could make the delivery and still be there on time to greet her grandpa.
Makes one wonder. She snickered. How stupid did Tom think she was? Then the business about the package, wrapped up all fancy like another birthday gift for her grandpa. Did he really believe she wouldn’t check it out? A leather briefcase embossed with Papa’s initials. So much ta do over a new empty briefcase. Of course if you lifted up a bit of the lining. She grinned remembering how careful she’d been to glue it properly back in place. Deirdre’s imaginary existence was spilling over into her real life and the prospect thrilled her.
Just think, O Shane! The same moon shines on the Liffey as on the Foyle. The words of the poet John Savage sang in her mind. Now her stomach was growing queasy, there was dryness in her throat, and she shivered as she concocted a scene of the mighty Shane O’Neill’s head, torn from its body, blood pouring from the blue eyes as it gazed down from atop Dublin Castle—oh those many, many years ago.
Deirdre loved words. She could work herself up with the writings of others to the degree she had physical reactions.
Deirdre could easily conjure up images of ancient Irish heroes to feed her restless spirit. But it was men of the Irish Easter Rebellion of 1916 that allowed her to fully indulge her creative mind. Now she fanaticized standing beside Padraic Pearse as he bravely faced his executioners. Her hand touched his cheek as she stared in the thin bespectacled face firm in its determination.
His eyeglasses were cracked…she wanted to scream out at the injustice. She composed many a speech to hurl at the wretched crowd who stood by and allowed this. They all ended with the accusation, “And surely, this is murder!”
In her imagination she hovered near James Connolly. Was held by two soldiers to prevent her from attacking their mates who dragged the half-dead prisoner along the ground. She screamed her hate as they propped Connolly, naked and bloody, in a chair so their bullets wouldn’t miss…”And surely, this is murder!”
Deirdre had her own fantastic plans for Easter week. This was her best script yet. It was a pity no one would ever know she’d written it. Jas and Bri were already in London; they’d be joining her on Saturday to put the finale on one grand weekend. Reality interrupted fantasy as she sensed someone was staring at her. Agitated she turned her head slightly and glared at the man across the way.
“Wouldn’t pay to have the lads to screw up the boy. I’ll be seeing they don’t.”
Reaching into his pocket O’Donnell drew out a fat billfold and dropped it between them ordering, “Sean needs anything you see to it.”
“Not necessary.”
“Damn it! Take the money. Sean is mine and he needs no charity.”
As Martin pocketed the billfold, he said, “Sean will be all right.” And made the foolish commitment, “Sure, but, you’ve got my word on it.”
~~~
“Normally I’m not a trusting fool, Davy, yet I trust you.” The guilt cut into his soul. Beth’s son, I owed her so much, now I’ve driven her boy off. Then O’Donnell shrugged away the gloom as he assured himself, Davy will see to him—Davy’s right. Sean will be back home in no time once he discovers what it’s like to work. Maybe I should send the boy to Tom for a spell. Sean would like that and it’s little enough Devlin’s done for his sister’s kid.
~~~
Across the water in London Rory Hanlon waited impatiently for the overseas operator to finish making the New York connection. He silently wondered, how in hell did that wimp, Devlin, ever get so grand?
Then he was connected. “Tom, lad, we’ve a bit of a problem, nothing major, but the Arabs are holding me up on the amount we agreed on. Gonna be a trifle short of cash for the next month’s payroll.”
“How much?” Came from the other end of the line.
“A few thousand pounds—”
“I’ll get it to you. Hell, Rory!” Devlin’s anger crackled over the Atlantic cable.”If it’s not coming at me from one end it’s coming from the other. I’m bogged down in the middle of some heavy stuff here and Seamus is suddenly looking to unload my nephew on me. Kid took off on him—so great. Sean ran away to Ulster. Now Seamus wants to send him here when he finds him. I’m supposed to play daddy? Hell man I’m not up to that.”
“Why now? Seems after all this time.”
“That damn frigging O’Donnell temper! Beat the kid up, I’d guess—wouldn’t admit it. Here I’m up to my ass in problems. And Seamus socks me with another.”
“Tom, don’t sweat this end.” Hanlon was quick with the assurance. “I’ll—”
“Money’s no problem, Rory. You’re doing fine. O’Neill’s kid will be coming over for her Grandpa’s birthday binge. I’ll have her bring cash and Martin can make a drop in a Dublin account and you can transfer the funds.”
“You trust a youngster with that kinda cash?”
“Dede? I’d trust her with the Crown Jewels.” Devlin finally found a bit of humor. “That girl’s got more nerve than Hell’s got heat.”
With the arrangements concluded, Hanlon breathed easier as he hung up and surveyed his private office. Not bad for an ex-con with a price on his head
~~~
Kept intentionally hazy at his end, the room was brightly lit on the other side of his desk. Rory Hanlon rubbed his palms together in front of his chin while he contemplated his late night visitor.
The expensively attired young man continued with his rapid conversation as if unaware he was receiving no response. Then coming to a sudden halt, the man slapped at his thighs in irritation as he barked a definite, “When?”
Hanlon pretended to be deep in thought as he enjoyed the other man’s noticeable discomfort. His guest squirmed on a hard wooden chair while he relaxed in overstuffed leather. He watched as the dark eyes twitched nervously in the smooth Latin face.
Franco Andre Baumont the Third, born to millions, this young man’s mother’s tight purse strings and his own passion for waste kept him constantly in search of more. Hanlon could see a sweat stain creeping from the creature’s armpits and he whistled softly through the words. “Fifty thousand pounds, English. A lot of cash for almost nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing! I must pay, and plenty, to retain the silence of others and you say nothing!” Baumont sucked in hot breath as he worried aloud. “If we are discovered it is I who could face prison. You, you, stand to lose nothing but money—which isn’t even yours.” He rubbed sweaty palms into fine wool tweed as he leaned forward in an attempt to intimidate.
Disgust for the Irish lackey was showing in Baumont’s face. So Hanlon, allowed a grin to curve the corners of his own mouth as he calmly ordered. “Fetch us a drink, lad.”
“A what?”
“A drink!” Hanlon repeated. “Sure, but, haven’t I grown thirsty just a listening to you bellyache.” He gave an impatient wave towards the wall cupboard. “Bottle and glasses in there.”
Swallowing a protest, the young man lounged to his feet and made his way to the cabinet. He brought back the set up. Filling two tumblers with scotch, the set of his features advertised that he suppressed an angry retort when Hanlon again ordered, “Have a bit-o-water with mine.”
Complying, he handed over the doctored drink with a sneered, “Anything else, sir?” as he dropped in his chair.
“Should do.” Hanlon slowly sipped at the whiskey. Baumont didn’t get to sample his. He nearly dumped it all as he sprung back to his feet when Hanlon said, “I’m of a mind to say no deal.”
“What! You can’t call it off! I’ve invested too much!” In his tantrum he was numb to the whiskey that splashed down his silk shirtfront.
“Don’t be getting your nuts in an uproar, lad.” Hanlon said. “That’s just my thinking. Others…well…they think differently. You’re to be paid what you asked.”
“Thank God.” Baumont sat back into his uncomfortable seat. Sucking up the leavings in his glass, he promised, “They won’t be sorry.”
“Yes, I’m thinking that. You’ll be certain everything runs smooth.” The icy-blue stare caught and held the golden brown one as Hanlon continued. “So fuckin’ smooth.” Slowly Hanlon gained his feet. His movements hardly increased at all as he glided around the desk to hover over his now mesmerized victim. His tone lacked any emotion as he said; “Now if someone was to foul up this game the big boys want to play, then me and my kind take over.”
Standing they would be equal in size, but Baumont couldn’t bring himself to move. The forty-five hanging loosely in Hanlon’s grip looked as if it paralyzed him. An evil smile formed as Hanlon let the muzzle dip into the other man’s lap and he lightly poked while he said, “Only take one squeeze ta gut a bastard.” He squeezed the trigger.
Baumont screamed as he felt the gun buck against his belly. Then his voice dropped into a hard sob as Hanlon patted his wet cheek.
“Empty chamber.” The Irishman’s smile was frigid. He laid the gun on the desk and he reached for the whiskey bottle. Forced to steady the Italian’s hand as he refilled his glass, Hanlon said, “That was so, you and me, we understand each other. Others are trusting me…I’m trusting you.”
“I haven’t let you down yet.” A trembling chin emphasized Baumont’s growing new fear of this man. “Why the big scene?”
“Nothing personal. Had this rotten encounter last night with a couple of Arab blokes. Left me pissed off with a bad taste for brown eyes.” Hanlon returned to his desk. “This shipment of farm equipment shouldn’t present a problem—it’s bulky and the blokes on the docks won’t care to mess with it any more than necessary. A direct shipment from England to Israel shouldn’t even stir up a good sweat.
Chapter 49
London, England, 1983
Sandra Thorn was busy setting out dinner. She heard them coming and grimaced in the painful knowledge that her son was growing too attached to the man.
“What’s it to be tonight, Paddy?” Hanlon asked with forced seriousness. “Meat n’ taters?”
“I made you kidney pie.” Sandra intervened when her child’s tongue found it difficult to spin the proper words. “I hope you like it?”
“Whatever you’re of a mind to cook is fine with me.” Rory Hanlon was honest. Years of prison fare made the woman’s simple cooking gourmet to him. “And, sure, Paddy, you’ve been a fine lad today? Not driven papa up a wall.”
“Papa ‘eepin,” The boy wiggled to his knees to reach the plate the man set before him. Paddy had quickly taken to calling old Jock Quinn, papa and it was an honor Hanlon gladly shared.
~~~
“Mrs. Thorn?” He always rushed over her name. It seemed coarse to call her Sandra with the experiences he conjured up, come nightfall when she was safely gone. Neither could he bring himself to call her Sally when he was face to face with her. “I may be off for a few days come Monday, I don’t like leaving the old fellow alone.”
“Of course not, Mr. Quinn.” She smiled as she answered. “I’m only too happy to stay over again. Paddy doesn’t mind, do you Paddy?” But Paddy was only interested in over loading his small mouth. She sighed at the sight. “It’s God sent he’s allowed here all day. Our room seems to have shrunk.”
Paddy ordered, “Eat Papa.”
So between bites, Hanlon mumbled. “Have to see about finding you a bigger place.”
Sandra protested, “I’ll be doing that, sure, but you’ve done more than enough already.”
Hanlon had been considering the large empty rooms above them that had once served as bedrooms for Jock’s long dead sons. Convinced they’d make a fine flat, and it wouldn’t be like she was living with them, he had been trying to figure how to bridge the subject with Jock.
The bell startled the adults.
Paddy announced, “Papa!”
“Finish up,” Sandra offered, “I’ll see to him.”
But Hanlon was already pushing away from the table as he laughed. “You feed him too good. Liftin’ him is a man’s job, aye, Paddy?” He nodded at the tike scrambling from the chair to follow him.
Jock Quinn’s arthritic joints had reached a crippling stage where he could no longer get up from the bed by himself. “Sure, ya took your bloody time.” He chastised Hanlon then smiled at the small boy, who was struggling to pull his legs from the bed.
Hanlon wrapped his arms around the still broad chest and drew Jock to his feet, steadying him until he got his balance. “All right! All right!” Jock was aggravated by the fact that his once strong body was now betraying him. “My stick!” Paddy scurried to comply. Returning with the Black Thorn, for Jock refused to use the modern walker the hospital sent. Jock smoothed the child’s hair as he said, “Good lad. Now you go back to your dinner. We’ll be right a long.” Turning on Hanlon he muttered, “I’ll be needing your assistance.”
How lucky for me, Hanlon thought, helping him to the toilet is an honor he bestows on me.
~~~
An hour later, finished with tidying up, Sandra Thorn moved quickly to catch up the tiny carcass who played on the setting room floor, entertaining the adult males.
“Stay ’ere!” came the expected squeals as she struggled her son into his sweater. She chewed on her lip through the daily ordeal.
No sooner had she uttered her good bye and whisked her complaining child off, then Jock Quinn turned on his make believe son. “Ain’t fittin’,” he said as if it was the younger man’s fault. “Raisin’ a lad in one wee room.”
“She’s looking to find a bigger place.” Hanlon felt he was coming to his own defense so he offered. “I’ll help her.”
“And, sure, what’s wrong with here?”
“Jock. You’re not suggesting we move them in? Where would they sleep?”
“Don’t you start no fancy planin’. I’m not of a mind ta be setting the lass up for the pleasure of you. You buy your relief from the street whores or go without.” His face had flushed from instant anger. But when the other man didn’t play into it—it faded and he considered. “Been thinkin’ the upstairs sets empty; if you moved your lazy bones, ain’t no reason it can’t be fixed proper. Already got plumbing and electricity. Plenty big enough so the boy could have his own room. Lass wouldn’t be walkin’ the street every night; not safe, these English streets.”
English streets, Hanlon kept his humor to himself. The old Irishman had spent most of his adult life in London, and still they remained English streets. Cautiously nodding agreement, he took care not to act too interested. Nor did he bother to inform Jock that Sandra Thorn only had to walk three blocks, in a neighborhood filled with family types, and the sun had barely gone down—
The knocking took him by surprise.
~~~
Mrs. Hennessey, Sandra Thorn’s landlady, had no sooner brought Sandra’s message and agreed to remain with Jock, then Rory Hanlon dashed for his car. He broke every universal speed limit on his drive to hospital. In the waiting room, he confronted the sobbing mother. “How did it happen?”
“He darted into the road. I had no chance to grab him. Oh God! He so young.” A fresh supply of tears bathed Sandra’s face. “Don’t let him die!” She had come into Hanlon’s arms without his being aware he’d reached out to her. Now her warm tears soaked his shirt but he felt no physical sensations. He was trying to make sense of what she was saying. An auto had smashed into the fragile body of the homely little fellow with a pushed up nose, who called him papa.
Across the room the driver sat. Slumped in anguish, the young man stammered, “Sorry—I didn’t see your son.”
Hanlon didn’t correct his mistake; instead he ordered, “Get the hell out of here!”
The man quickly jumped up as Sandra protested, “It wasn’t his fault, Paddy—”
“Get out!” Hanlon’s face left nothing to argue with and the man wisely fled.
“That was cruel.” Sandra pulled away in shock.
“Should Paddy die, that’s not cruel?”
“But he ran in front of the lad’s auto.”
“Understand me,” Hanlon said. “If the child dies? It’s best that lad is far away and I never learn his name.”
“He won’t.” The words brought them round to a confidently smiling doctor. “Die that is. Tough little bugger, your son.” Neither corrected the assumption. “Lost a lot of blood for a wee fellow, so he will be weak. He also has a fractured arm and a few cracked ribs—but he should mend nicely.” Then he warned. “Be a bother for you. Hard to keep a tike that size pinned for healing. You can see him now.”
“Papa,” Paddy Thorn whimpered in his drugged induced half slumber. The tiny fingers of his un-bandaged hand sought out and clung to Hanlon’s large fist. “Papa.”
As usual the mother looked up with a quick apology forming on her lips.
But Hanlon grinned. “Lad’s bound to adopt me.” And knew a sudden pang of guilt as he said what he felt he should have decided sooner. “Pa and I been talking, seems he’s after fixing the upstairs. Wouldn’t take much work. It’d be a fit place for you and the boy.”
“I couldn’t,” she stammered in surprise. “You’ve already done so much—”
“Hush, ain’t nothing grand. Pa needs you and he enjoys the lad. Now with this, you’ll need help tending the little fellow. Can’t keep him cooped up in one room nor drag him back and forth.”
“I’ve no furnishings.”
“No problem. Time Paddy’s ready to leave the hospital, I’ll see the place is fit.”
~~~
Above the Atlantic the large jetliner cut through the night sky on its way from Kennedy to Heathrow. Restlessly Deirdre O’Neill wiggled about in her seat. The importance of her new role filled the teenager with such pride she could barely contain her excitement. She was a courier ferrying funds that were desperately needed. Tom hadn’t told her that, of course not, he didn’t want her to be nervous. He’d simply told her he wanted her to take a package to Dublin.
David Martin would meet her at the airport. Tom had gone to the trouble of changing her flight plans. So she was now curled up on the Concorde, headed for Heathrow, and a quick commuter plane into Dublin, which would put her a full hour ahead of her scheduled Aer Lingus arrival. So she could make the delivery and still be there on time to greet her grandpa.
Makes one wonder. She snickered. How stupid did Tom think she was? Then the business about the package, wrapped up all fancy like another birthday gift for her grandpa. Did he really believe she wouldn’t check it out? A leather briefcase embossed with Papa’s initials. So much ta do over a new empty briefcase. Of course if you lifted up a bit of the lining. She grinned remembering how careful she’d been to glue it properly back in place. Deirdre’s imaginary existence was spilling over into her real life and the prospect thrilled her.
Just think, O Shane! The same moon shines on the Liffey as on the Foyle. The words of the poet John Savage sang in her mind. Now her stomach was growing queasy, there was dryness in her throat, and she shivered as she concocted a scene of the mighty Shane O’Neill’s head, torn from its body, blood pouring from the blue eyes as it gazed down from atop Dublin Castle—oh those many, many years ago.
Deirdre loved words. She could work herself up with the writings of others to the degree she had physical reactions.
Deirdre could easily conjure up images of ancient Irish heroes to feed her restless spirit. But it was men of the Irish Easter Rebellion of 1916 that allowed her to fully indulge her creative mind. Now she fanaticized standing beside Padraic Pearse as he bravely faced his executioners. Her hand touched his cheek as she stared in the thin bespectacled face firm in its determination.
His eyeglasses were cracked…she wanted to scream out at the injustice. She composed many a speech to hurl at the wretched crowd who stood by and allowed this. They all ended with the accusation, “And surely, this is murder!”
In her imagination she hovered near James Connolly. Was held by two soldiers to prevent her from attacking their mates who dragged the half-dead prisoner along the ground. She screamed her hate as they propped Connolly, naked and bloody, in a chair so their bullets wouldn’t miss…”And surely, this is murder!”
Deirdre had her own fantastic plans for Easter week. This was her best script yet. It was a pity no one would ever know she’d written it. Jas and Bri were already in London; they’d be joining her on Saturday to put the finale on one grand weekend. Reality interrupted fantasy as she sensed someone was staring at her. Agitated she turned her head slightly and glared at the man across the way.
