A Turn for the Bad (21 page)

“Just stop me before I start talking nonsense, will you? And pay attention to the answers, if they have any? Because you know this place better than I do.”

“Happy to be of service to you, Maura.”

Denis returned with a second man, slightly older and definitely heavier than he was. The newcomer introduced himself quickly. “I let Denis here do the talkin' since he knows all the technical stuff. But if you want to know what you should be tastin', I'm yer man.”

“You tell me, Gerard,” Maura said. “I'm a newbie. I don't really drink much.”

“And you runnin' a pub? That's a mortal sin. Well, then, why don't we start with the . . .” Once Gerard warmed to his subject, he was hard to sidetrack. Not that Maura wanted him to stop—yet. Armed with Brendan's recent schooling, she was able to ask a few intelligent questions, and she was happy to find that she could distinguish between different whiskeys, or at least some of the time. But she was careful to limit herself to a sip from each sample, rolling the whiskey around on her tongue. She couldn't afford to get drunk or even lose her edge right now—there was too much at stake. She could sense Brendan watching her, and after several rounds, he gave her a nod.

Maura took a break to calm herself. “Denis, Gerard, this has been great, and I'm pretty sure I can find room for a couple of these at the pub—as long as you coach me on how to describe them to people who might be interested. But first I need to ask you for something. A favor.”

“And what would that be?” Denis asked.

Maura debated with herself. Should she be indirect, which she'd done so far, or should she just jump in with both feet? It was the clock that decided it: she didn't have time to beat around the bush. “I'm looking to find a boat big enough to transport a whole lot of cocaine. Have you seen one around here lately?”

That stopped the conversation cold. Blank stares appeared on Denis's and Gerard's faces, and then in unison they turned to Brendan. He nodded. “She's on the level, boys. She's trying to find John Tully.”

Some understanding trickled into Denis's and Gerard's expressions. “Wouldn't the gardaí be doin' that?” Gerard said.

“Yes, they are,” Maura told him. “But they're looking at a bigger picture right now.”

“Ah,” Gerard answered. Denis still looked a bit confused. “You don't know many fishermen hereabouts, do you, Maura?” Gerard asked.

She shook her head. “I don't. I haven't been around here long enough, and I don't know anything about commercial fishing—or any other kind either. But I figure if I need to
find a boat, I should talk to someone who knows boats. That would be you. What can you tell me?”

“Right to the point, eh? What's it worth to yeh?” Gerard shot back.

Maura turned to Brendan. He spoke quickly. “You'd be doing a service for Tully's family and friends
and
helping the gardaí.”

“And it'll get your name in the papers, big-time, if you help us pull this off,” Maura added.

“Pull what off?” Denis asked.

“Rescuing John Tully,” Maura said firmly.

“He's alive, then?” Gerard asked.

Maura nodded. “We think so.”

“And who might ‘we' be?” Gerard said.

“His brother, mainly. He's, uh, kind of involved with this whole thing, but John's not.”

Gerard nodded. “I get the picture.”

“Are you or Jack involved?” Maura demanded. “Brendan here says not.”

“Yer askin' if we're smugglers?”

Maura tried to read his expression: Was he angry? Or just cautious? “Yes, I am. If you are, I'm not about to turn you in or anything. What you do is your business. All I want to do is get John out of this mess, if that's possible. And for that I need to find where he is.”

Gerard looked her in the eye, and Maura held his gaze. Finally he said, “There's a couple of boats that have anchored at Glandore in the last week or two. I'd have to ask around, but that's the mooring closest to the bay where Tully disappeared. Give me an hour, two at the most. I'll stop by Sullivan's when I know anything—maybe deliver your order?”

Order? Ah, right, of course.
“That would be great. Bring me a case of what you think I can sell.”

“Done.”

“Thanks, guys,” Maura said—and meant it. She slid off her stool—and wobbled. The good stuff could sneak up on you, she was finding. Brendan grabbed her arm to steady her.

“We'll be heading back to Sullivan's now, lads,” Brendan said to them. “Anything you can find out would be grand, and we'll keep the gardaí out of it. This is between us.”

“We'll let you know,” Gerard said. “Soon.”

Outside the building, Maura breathed deeply. The rain seemed to have slacked off a bit, although the wind was still blowing hard. “Is this really going to clear by tomorrow morning?” she asked Brendan.

“So they tell me. I'm a city man myself.”

Maura leaned against his car, reluctant to get in. “Am I doing the right thing?” she asked.

“Which part would you be thinking of?” Brendan countered.

“Trying to rescue someone I've never even met. Trying to do it without involving the gardaí or anyone else—in fact, keeping it from them and trying not to screw up whatever it is they're planning. This whole thing sounds like one of those crappy old movies where a bunch of kids get together and say
Let's put on a play!
—only this is about a man's life. Maybe even national security. There's a hell of a lot that could go wrong, even if we find the right boat. John Tully may be dead. He may have been dead since the first day, no matter what his brother thinks. Tell me we have to take that chance?” Maura said, turning to face Brendan, the wind blowing her hair into her face.

“If it was my brother, I'd take it on, Maura,” Brendan said.

“And I'm dragging my friends into it, don't forget. And you and some guys I just met. Is that fair?”

“That's their choice to make. If those lads had played dumb, we would have gone looking for someone else who knows what we need. But I think they'll help. You're getting soaked to the skin, Maura—we should get back.”

“I guess. Even if that means just sitting there and waiting for some news.”

The return trip took only five minutes; there were no other cars on the narrow road that hugged the cliff along the harbor. “Why would anybody pick Glandore for this sort of thing?”

“There's plenty of nice boats that stop in here—they wouldn't stick out. It's an easy trip down the coast, if you know where to miss the rocks.”

“Which means the gardaí or whoever probably already knows about the boat,” Maura said glumly. “Why haven't they done anything?”

“They've no call to? Or they're waiting to see what happens next, before making a move. Remember, they don't know what we do about Tully.”

“I hate this!” Maura said, slapping the dashboard in frustration. “I'm supposed to keep straight who knows what, and who I've told what—which may or may not be the truth, or all of it—and I'm asking people to do things that may be dangerous and possibly illegal. What the hell am I doing?”

“Trying to do what's right, Maura. The rest of the lot, they can say no. Have they?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Then they believe in what you're trying to do. Have some faith, will you?”

Brendan found a parking place close to Sullivan's, and they dashed into the pub. It still looked dark and gloomy inside, thanks to the stubborn clouds, and Maura shook off her slicker and made a beeline for the fire, tossing on a few more chunks of peat.

“Have you had any luck?” Billy asked as he watched her.

“I think so. We'll know in an hour or two,” Maura told him. “Hi, Gillian. How's it been?”

“Quiet. Seems everyone's mood is as dark as the stout,” Gillian told her.

Maura came nearer. “Any strangers? Or anyone else unwelcome?”

“You mean, like the gardaí or a customs agent?” When Maura nodded, Gillian shook her head. “No news at all.”

“Have you seen Conor Tully?” Maura asked. Maybe his courage had failed him. Maybe he'd lied to them all, for some reason. Maybe he'd left the country or his partners in crime had decided he was too much trouble and drowned him . . .

“There he is now,” Gillian said, nodding toward the door as Conor walked in and shook himself like a dog.

Conor hung his coat on a peg by the door and walked over to the bar. “A pint?” he asked Gillian.

“Coming up, Conor.” Gillian turned and started filling a glass.

“Anything new, Conor?” Maura asked.

“Not a word. And you?”

“Maybe,” Maura said cautiously. She checked out the room: there were only two men, sitting at separate tables, aside from Billy and Brendan, and she recognized them both as regulars. “We've got friends looking for the boat.”

“Ah,” Conor said. “And what's the plan if yeh find it?”

“We haven't gotten that far. Depends on where it is. What's the weather report?”

“Clearing in the night. Tomorrow will be fair,” Conor said glumly. Maura wondered how often good weather could be bad news in Ireland.

Mick emerged from the cellar, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Maura, Brendan,” he greeted them. “Conor, how're yeh doin'?”

“I've been better,” Conor told him as Gillian slid his pint in front of him. He picked it up and retreated to a table away from the other men in the room.

Mick leaned on the bar. “So where do we stand?”

“We're looking for the boat. We need a plan if we actually find it,” Maura told him. Did she believe that was really going to happen? She looked at her crew: Mick could probably handle himself; Brendan was sharp, but she had no idea how he'd do in a fight; Gillian was pregnant and didn't know boats.
Ridiculous!
Maura thought.
That meant we frail little ladies would be stuck here waiting while the big strong men went out and did the important stuff.
But to be honest, she wouldn't be of much use on a small boat, trying to board a much bigger boat with at least one guy on it who probably had a gun and would have every reason to use it since he was sitting on millions of dollars'—or euros'—worth of illegal drugs.

It was close to three when Maura looked up to see Gerard walk in the door—and he looked excited. “Welcome, Gerard. Can I get you something?”

“A pint'd be grand, thank you.” He leaned closer. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

“There's a room in the back,” Maura said in a low voice. Then she added, louder, “Since you haven't been in before, let me give you the grand tour. There's a great room in the back where we hold musical events—you should come by for one of them.” She led the way toward the back, and Brendan and Gillian followed. Mick stayed behind the bar, after an exchange of glances. Once in the back room, Maura closed the door behind them. “What've you got?”

“Big ship anchored in Glandore, been there more'n a week. Cruising yacht, sixty feet or more. Tricky harbor there, if you don't know it well, so whoever's on that boat knows what's what. Maybe four guys on it, altogether. Two of 'em have been into town, eaten a few meals, bought some supplies. English, they are. The others haven't left the boat—at least, not during the day. There's a rib boat they use to get to shore and back. Nice one, like the ones the rescue crews use.”

“What the heck is a rib boat?” Maura asked.

“That'd be yer rigid-hulled inflatable boat, see? R-I-B? It's lightweight but fast and it holds a lot and handles well even on a rough sea,” Gerard told her.

“How big?”

“Depends. Can be as much as nine meters, some even bigger. May have an inboard motor.”

“And it's big enough to hold a lot of weight?” Maura asked. “Like bales of cocaine?”

“Easy, I'd say.”

“Why do you think this boat in the harbor is the one?”

“Timing fits. Size is right. They've kept pretty much to themselves. They've taken her out a coupla times, but they've rented the mooring fer the month. I've a friend at the harbormaster's office who checked fer me.”

“He doesn't know them?”

“She. No, this is their first visit. She did happen to let slip that the gardaí had been around askin' the same questions.”

Damn.
“Has she mentioned that to anyone else?”

“Nah. She keeps to herself, mostly. Like I said, we're friendly.”

“Does that sound right to the rest of you?” Maura looked at Brendan and Gillian.

“I'll trust Gerard's word on it,” Brendan said. Gillian nodded.

Gerard didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave. “What're yeh plannin'?”

“We don't really know. Look, if we try to get on board while they're still in Glandore, that'll mess up whatever the gardaí and that lot is planning, and they might throw us all in jail for interfering with something or other. But if we wait until they head out to make their delivery, then we'll have to keep track of them and follow them. And that'll take a boat.”

“I have mates with boats,” Gerard said.

When had he suddenly become part of the rescue team? But Maura wasn't about to argue. “How big? How fast? You've got to figure on moving fast, right? I mean, once they've off-loaded their delivery, there's going to be a very short time when half the crew will be off the boat, and that's when somebody is going to have to board and find John Tully.”
If he's still there
.
If he ever was.

“Right so. Easy if yeh know what yer doin'.” Gerard's face clouded. “But most of the fellas, they've got small boats that are slow, and worse, they're loud. The guys on the big boat would hear them comin' once they've cut the engines.”

“That could be a problem,” Maura agreed. “The idea is
to surprise them when they're focusing on something else. Can you muffle a boat motor?”

Gerard said nothing, but raised an eyebrow at Maura. Stupid question, apparently.

“I told you, Maura—Harry's got a boat,” Gillian said. “It's a relic of his wild youth. Actually, it was his father's, bought in one of those rare moments when he had a bit of ready cash. That'd be Harry Townsend, Gerard.”

Gerard's face lit up. “The Townsend boat! She's a beauty—classic Chris-Craft, great engine. I've seen her around the harbor, time and again. Does she still run?”

“So I'm told,” Gillian said. “Harry loves that boat, since it's one of the few things his father left to him. He could have sold it for a nice bit of money, but he hasn't had the heart to do it. He asked Tom O'Brien—he's the caretaker at the manor—to keep it in good shape, take it out now and then to keep the motor running right.”