Black Diamond (12 page)

“You've got us both out on a limb, kid. God help you. And God help me if you're less of a man than your senior partner.”

The sun was high enough to light up the greenest countryside I'd ever seen when my Aer Lingus flight set down at the Dublin Airport, about seven miles north of the city. I breezed through immigration and customs with my one carry-on and looked for the quickest ground transportation. Julie had booked me into the Gresham Hotel on O'Connell Street in the heart of the city.

My eyes were bleary from a second night without sleep. Sleeping on a plane is an art I've never mastered. Bleary though they were, I caught sight of an unexpected sign in the hands of a man in a Gresham Hotel Uniform that simply said “Michael Knight.” I blessed Julie and resolved to boost her salary.

In less than five minutes I was in the backseat of a limousine. In less than six minutes my eyelids dropped and I was in the land of Nod.

I was jostled out of the sweetest sleep I'd had in days by the rumbling of the limo over a rough surface that turned out to be cobblestones. We cruised around a circular driveway that led to the front of what looked like a small country estate surrounded by nothing but green fields.

The driver opened the limo door. I reached for my overnight bag before getting out.

“You can leave it, Mr. Knight. We'll not be long.”

There are people whose bearing, clothes, and even haircut just smack of “government employee.” That was the cut of the tall, middle-aged man in narrow pinstripes and highly shined shoes
waiting in the doorway. He smiled, introduced himself, and bid me welcome to Ireland. Without a wasted second, he led the way at a quick march to an office in the rear of the house. In that brief minute, I got the impression that Superintendent Dermot Phelan was comfortable in his capability and nobody's fool.

When conversation began behind the closed door of his office, I sensed that he attributed the same qualities to Billy Coyne. Billy had been true to his promise to alert the superintendent to my arrival.

“Will you have a cup of tea, Mr. Knight?”

To one who starts every day with a double jolt of Starbuck's caffeine-drenched special, the offer of a cup of tea was like offering tofu to a carnivore. On the other hand, when in Rome—or Ireland—

We were into the second cup of tea, diluted with milk yet, and some mutual sizing–up conversation by the time Superintendent Phelan seemed to reach the decision to take Billy Coyne's word and put a certain amount of trust in this disturbingly young colonial sitting in front of him. From then on, it was full-cruising speed with no wasted words.

“I understand you're looking for a child—I'm sorry, the body of a child, Mr. Knight. Your Mr. Coyne was explicit. I offer my condolences. I'm afraid I can offer little else.”

That brought the tea back up into my throat.

“That's a bit of a disappointment, Superintendent. Billy Coyne thought you could give me a starting point.”

“And I can. And I will. What I'm saying, Mr. Knight—”

He looked at me with an expression that said he was looking for the softest way to explain the brick wall I was up against.

“—is that there'll be precious little good you can do with it. We've been trying to break this gang of thugs for eight years now. They're tight, tough, and well experienced in the art of terror. Forgive the question, Mr. Knight. How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine, Superintendent. In years.”

He smiled, “I appreciate the distinction. I've gathered myself that you're more experienced than the years imply. Nonetheless, you'd have to have lived through what we have during the past two decades to understand what you're up against.”

“Superintendent, I want you to know I have no grand illusions of accomplishing world peace or eliminating terrorism. I'm here to find a child's body. No more.”

“And that's what worries me. That child may be one thread of a sweater that won't unravel as easily as you may like.”

I forced down one more swallow of the tea before answering to give the impression I was duly weighing his words.

“I'll give you my word, Superintendent. If I find I'm over my head, I'll pull out. I have no intention of sending two bodies home.”

He smiled a benign silent smile.

“You said you could give me a lead, Superintendent.”

“And so I shall. You could do worse than to talk to Ten Sullivan. I'll give you the address.”

“Strange name. Who is he?”

He leaned back. “Ah, now there's a question. If nothing else comes of your quest, you'll have made the acquaintance of a man worth remembering. Where do I begin?”

He held out the teapot for a third refill. If eternal relations between Ireland and America depended on it, I could not have swallowed one more ounce of it. He seemed to understand.

“I'll tell you where he got the name. He was a fighter, a boxer as you call them, back in the days when it was a thing of honor. You had two men with gloves, toe-to-toe, each testing the mettle of the other. None of this kicking and butting like two animals in a cage you see on the telly today.”

“And his name?”

“Ah yes. When Sullivan was in the ring, shortly after the bout began, his opponent would invariably be flat on his back. The next thing he'd hear would be the ref counting him out. ‘—eight, nine,
ten. Sullivan,' with the referee holding up Sullivan's hand as the winner. One of the sportswriters picked it up. Whence the name, ‘Ten Sullivan.'”

My turn to smile. “Was this recent?”

“Oh heavens, no. He hasn't stepped into the ring as a fighter in three decades. He's been fighting a different fight.”

“And that is?”

“He runs a gym in the north section of Dublin. He's used the respect people have for him as a fighter to try to save the kids from the muck they find on the streets. Especially during the times of the Troubles. He kept a lot of young lads from throwing their lives into that bottomless pit. Not all, but a good many. He's still at it. Nowadays it's the drugs, and the rest of it. The people in that neighborhood all but pray to him as a saint. Even among the kids, his word goes. He's more powerful than the parish priest.”

“That's interesting. You say Billy Coyne told you why I'm here. The little girl. Would he know anything about that?”

“If it happened in Dublin, especially north of the river, Ten's your best bet.”

I could see his expression sharpen. The smile was less pronounced.

“And that's where a certain amount of discretion enters, Mr. Knight. It's a pleasant chat we've had. But I should tell you this. If it weren't for your Mr. Coyne, we'd never have had it. When he says I can rely on you not to muck about in Garda business, I take him at his word.”

“I think I'd better be sure what that means, Superintendent.”

“Then let me speak plainly. This meeting never happened. You'll not need to mention my name. I'll have contacted Mr. Sullivan before you do. Then it's just between you two.”

“Thank you, Superintendent.”

“To be perfectly clear. You'll not mention my name or the Garda, or any such connection. It's taken years to establish a certain rapport,
shall we say a working relationship with Mr. Sullivan. It thrives on secrecy. I'd be very disappointed if your business, significant though it is, disrupted that relationship.”

The words were civil and softly spoken, but the manner left no room for a flexible interpretation.

“I understand perfectly.”

“Good.” The bright joviality was back. “There it is then. The limo will take you to your hotel. Good choice, the Gresham. Grand old lady since back in the eighteen hundreds.”

He was on his feet for a handshake with one hand and the offer of a slip of paper with the other. The limo driver appeared, and I was in the backseat of the limo in the time it would have taken to pour another cup of that anemic liquid.

I checked into the Gresham, which lived up to its reputation for classic grandeur in spades. I changed into jeans and sweatshirt without unpacking. Since this was, in no sense, destined to be the jolly tourist's frolic in Dublin, I got down to business.

The paper I got from the superintendent gave an address on Sheriff Street, a few blocks north of the River Liffey. I took a cab to the corner of Amiens and Talbot Streets and walked from there. It seemed less conspicuous to arrive on foot.

The neighborhood was gritty working-class and less. You could almost breathe in the poverty and hard times that shaped the lives of those confined there by life's circumstances.

A brick-and-wooden building in the middle of the block sported the name in peeling paint letters, “Sullivan's
Nua Saol
Gym.” The words in the Irish, I later learned, mean “New Life”—an interesting glimmer of optimism in a setting not otherwise glowing with joy.

I walked in past a couple of exiting teenage boys with gym bags. Their nods in my direction relieved some of the uptight apprehension I carried in with me. Inside it resembled any of the boxer-training gyms in South Boston or Dorchester, from the ancient
wooden floor giving off the vapors of decades of sweat to the elevated canvas-covered ring that had absorbed a saturation of sweat mingled with blood. You could smell, almost to the point of tasting, the pain of young fighters dreaming of punching their way out of the poverty.

I passed through six or seven stripped-to-the-waist teenagers, focused on pounding a rhythmic cadence on light and heavy punching bags. Straight through toward the back, I saw the man I figured I was looking for. Two skinny Irish-looking redheads were circling and jabbing at each other in the ring, while a box-built, white-haired man in sweat clothes leaned on the ropes with his back to me. He was yelling instructions, curses, and encouragement at each of them in turn. His hands flew out in jabs and uppercuts as if he were carrying out his own orders.

I watched from a bench until another older assistant at ringside hit a bell with a hammer. The boys dropped their oversized gloves to their sides and just panted. The white-haired man climbed up into the ring and grabbed both boys by the back of the neck.

“Listen to the two of you. You sound like steam engines. You'll both jump ropes for fifteen minutes. And if I ever catch a smoke in your mouth, I'll stuff it up your nose. Lit. Do ya hear what I'm sayin' to ya?”

Both boys nodded. Between gasps they said, “Right, Ten. Okay, Ten.”

“So why're ya standin' here like there's nothin' to do?”

They were both out of the ring like they were being called for supper. I came up beside the ring.

“Mr. Sullivan, see you a minute? Michael Knight.”

He turned around and looked at me with eyes that seemed accustomed to sizing up newcomers in the first look.

“Let's get this straight. I intend to call you Michael. You better damn well call me Ten or we'll never get to know each other.”

“Ten it is. It's my pleasure.”

“Don't jump to conclusions, lad. I know why you're here. You'd have a softer go if you came for boxing lessons.”

I looked him in the eyes and I smiled for some reason, “I guess we can't choose our missions in life, Ten.”

“Sure we can, Michael. It's the measure of a man that he chooses the tough ones.”

He jumped down off the ring more nimbly that I would have expected of a man his size and age.

“Come into my office. Let's talk. Would you like a beer?”

“It would sure beat a cup of tea.”

Now he was smiling. “Don't sell the tea short, Michael. The Irish have built a nation on it.”

I had no chance to make a comeback—even if I could have thought of one. A boy younger than any in the gym ran up to him. I thought he was holding back tears. Ten took him by the shoulders and bent down to him.

“Did your mother send you, Tim?”

The boy nodded, but said nothing.

“Same thing?”

The boy nodded more vigorously. Ten lifted him and sat him on the side of the ring.

“Stay here till I get back, Tim. C'mon, Michael. We'll talk later.”

I followed a few paces behind while the big man strode in giant steps through the door and down the street. He was walking, but I had to jog to keep up. We went four blocks, turned right on Garner, and did three more without slackening the pace. I was twenty feet behind him when he stopped in front of a pub. He waited for me to catch up, panting like a racehorse. He was scarcely breathing above normal.

“You might consider gettin' yourself in better condition.”

I wanted to answer, but I had all I could do to breathe. I followed him into the pub. He scanned the line of men at the bar until he locked onto one at the far end. I was right behind him when he
reached the man leaning on both elbows with one fist around a shot of whiskey and the other with a grip on a pint of dark brew. There was a small stack of paper euros in front of him.

Ten said one word in a tone that could barely be heard, but it straightened the man to attention.

“Patrick.”

He turned a ruddy face with a day's growth of beard to face his caller. If the man was buzzed a second before, he was sober in that instant. Ten said what sounded like a few sentences to him in a level tone. I thought my ears had gone sour until I realized he was talking in the Irish.

The man grabbed the money from the bar and backed away until he could turn and fairly ran out of the pub. I heard Ten call the bartender to the side. I was close enough to hear him say, “Whatever he owes, put it on my tab, Clancy. And a tip for yourself.”

The bartender smiled, “Thank you, Ten.”

“And Clancy.” The bartender turned back to him. “If you ever serve Patrick again on payday, I'll be lookin' for you.”

The smile was gone, but Clancy expressed his comprehension with sincerity.