Black Diamond (24 page)

“The lunch is on me. No strings. The rest is purely professional. But we're a hell of a ways past sparring with each other for information. Michael's life has been in danger since we got into this thing. And mostly because we didn't know the good guys from the bad. Now he tells me he's going back into the lion's den. He's going back to Dublin. Heaven knows I'd stop him if I could, but his mind's made up. Are you listening, Billy?”

Billy's face was showing tension from whatever conflict was going on inside. We waited, but nothing broke the silence until Mr. D. erupted.

“By damn, Billy, if Michael goes over there, he's going with every bit of information you can give him. We'll share everything he gets with you. You know that. Now for the love of God, open up. What is he really up against?”

Billy looked from one of us to the other. I studied his face. I thought there was one moment when his eyes went from troubled indecision to a kind of peace.

He pushed his plate back and slowly wiped his mouth with his napkin. He leaned in close with both elbows on the table. He looked straight into my eyes.

“All right, kid. I'll give you what I've got. I pray to God it doesn't get you killed. Or anyone else.”

We both leaned in.

“I told you about that group of thugs in Ireland, the leftovers from that paramilitary group that did the bombing and killing when there was a so-called cause. They're still there. The only cause they fight for now is themselves. They've been hardened by years of war in Ireland. They're a well-trained band of terrorists, and they're organized. They make what we call the Irish Mafia in South Boston,
Boyle's crowd, look like pushovers, which, by the way, they're not.”

“So why are the thugs over there your problem, Billy?”

Billy's jaw went tense.

“We have information from the inside. They have ambitions of crossing over. They have plans to take over Boyle's mob here.”

“What about Boyle? He's not going to cave-in to them.”

“Just listen. These terrorists are thugs, but they're not dumb. They've been setting this thing up for the past year. They plan to attack Boyle from the inside and the outside. They've been winning Boyle's men over one by one with promises of big money once they take over. You've run into a couple of them, kid.”

I nodded. I was thinking of Vince Scully and Sean Flannery who were in on the kidnapping. There was also Casey at the house in Winthrop.

“Well, there are more than you know. We don't know yet how deeply they've penetrated Boyle's mob, but we know that Boyle's under attack without even knowing it.”

Mr. D. leaned in to ask it quietly.

“And what if they do take over, Billy? How will that be different from the way things are with Boyle running the mob?”

“In about a dozen ways. Let me give you a few. For starters, this city'll be awash in drugs. That Irish gang has supply connections that Boyle couldn't dream of. And they're miles ahead of Boyle in pushing the stuff. That's one reason they can promise Boyle's men big money down the road.”

We both sat in silence, absorbing what Hector Vasquez's case had put us into. Billy picked it up.

“I'll give you another. Style. There's one hell of a difference between Boyle and that bunch. Boyle has the local police and judges and politicians in his pocket because he bribes them. That Irish bunch does it with beatings and murder. And kidnappings. These are terrorists first and criminals second.”

I was beginning to get a grip on why Billy had played it so close
to the chest and why the weight of it was bearing down on him. I could see from Mr. D.'s expression that it was getting through to him too.

Billy took the volume down another notch. “Something else. Once they're in control of crime in South Boston, it won't stop there. They'll move in on the Italian Mafia in the North End, and then the Russians. It's already in their plans. It's strange to say it, but we have something like peaceful coexistence between the ethnic gangs right now. When these Irish terrorists move in, we'll have the mother of all gang wars in this city.”

Billy had us stunned into silence, getting our heads around what he'd been dealing with since before we started pounding on him for information about a fixed race at Suffolk.

Mr. D. was the first to break the silence. “I'm assuming this is all more than guesswork. Where did you get the information?”

“I have a contact over there. My counterpart in the Irish Garda. He's concerned too. If they tap into a money source over here, they'll have more power over there too. We've been working together for a year. He's been able to place a couple of moles in the terrorists' organization. They're not high up yet, but they've fed us some critical information.”

Billy looked at his watch. He started to get up. “I have to empanel a jury.”

Mr. Devlin caught his elbow. “The jury can wait five minutes. Why haven't they made their move already? What's holding them up?”

Billy sat down and looked straight at Lex.

“They're waiting till the time is right.”

“And what would make it right?”

“Money. A lot of it. They need a war chest to buy enough of Boyle's men to assure the transition. That's what we're getting from our inside men. I should say man. One of our men over there was killed last week.”

My heart froze. “It wasn't Seamus McGuiness, was it?”

Billy looked at me. He hesitated before answering.

“No, kid. He wasn't one of ours. Don't ask me any more names.”

Mr. Devlin got back on track. “How do they plan to get it?”

“They have some plan that's supposed to give them a windfall. They're counting on it before they make their move.”

“What's the plan?”

Billy shook his head. “I'd give one hell of a lot to know. If they pull it off, they'll be coming in force. We'll have more blood in the streets of Boston than any time since Prohibition.”

Billy stood up. “I have to get to court. I don't have to tell you, gentlemen, I don't want anything I've said in confidence to come back to haunt me. You have my trust.”

I stood up with him. “Before you go out that door, Mr. Coyne, I need one thing. I have to go back to Dublin. I may need to cross paths with the people you're talking about. Can you give me one name I can trust?”

He looked me square in the eye for a few seconds. It was like giving his life's blood.

“I'll give you one name. So help me, if you screw this up—”

“Look at it this way, Mr. Coyne. I can do you more good than harm. I can go places you can't.”

He took my arm and pulled me close enough to whisper it. “I've been working with Superintendent Phelan of the Garda. You met him last time. You can talk to him just like you talk to me. We fill each other in on everything. Maybe he'll give you a lead. Maybe not. He'll be just as worried about you screwing up the investigation as I am. Probably more. It's his country. Tread lightly, kid.”

The overnight flight gave me thinking and planning time, and precious little sleep. I caught a cab from the Dublin Airport to the Gresham Hotel. As far as I knew, no one dangerous was aware that I'd be coming back to Ireland. I registered in my own name as a gesture of defiance to my creeping paranoia. The warmth of the welcome from the concierge and desk clerk on my return made it feel like a homecoming.

When I walked into my room, the little red blinking light signaled a phone message. It was brief.

“Mr. Knight, a car will pick you up at the side entrance to Toddy's Bar. Noon.”

There was no name of the caller. To go, or not to go, that was the question. On the other hand, why the hell would I endure a night flight, crawling with every fanciful premonition my overstimulated imagination could plague me with, and then pass up the only promising lead I could scrape up? Even I knew the question was rhetorical.

Toddy's is a bar off the lobby of the Gresham. The side door opens onto Henry Street. On the dot of noon, I was standing twenty feet down the block in a doorway across the street from the side door to Toddy's. I wanted the first look. No need to press my luck.

Within five minutes, a Mercedes stopped at the curb where no other cars stopped. An older gentleman, whom I estimated I could outrun or outfight if need be, got out of the driver's side and stood on the sidewalk.

When I approached the car, he immediately opened the door to the backseat. He'd already conveyed two thoughts, neither of which was comforting. First, he knew me on sight, although I didn't recognize him. The second was that there was to be no chitchat on the drive or he would have put me in the front seat. A third thought that occurred after he closed the door behind me, was that even if I could outrun and outfight him, what if he had a gun?

All disturbing thoughts aside, the drive was uneventful. Within twenty minutes, we pulled up in front of the country estate I recognized from the first visit. Superintendent Phelan was in the doorway as before.

We shook hands, and he gestured me back toward his office. I noticed him cast an eye around the grounds as I went by. We took the same seats as previously. This time the offer was coffee. He had read and remembered my reaction to Irish tea.

Once served, he cut straight to the chase. The jovial, Irish sense of smiling hospitality seemed a thinner layer this time. A deep concern for handling extremely sensitive information was showing through more clearly.

“Mr. Knight, I'm surprised to see you back. I thought you achieved your goal and more the last time.”

It was a question. How much of an answer to give was another question. I hedged.

“I take it you've been in contact with Mr. Coyne.”

He took the deflection with a slight smile.

“Let me make this easier for the both us, Mr. Knight. Your Mr. Coyne and I are more than in contact. We have a common enemy. I think you know who that is.”

“If you're saying we can speak plainly, Superintendent, then let's. Neither of us has the time or the temperament for tap dancing.”

That brought a full smile. “Perceptive, Mr. Knight. You go first.”

Smile or not, I made a note never to play chess or tennis with this dude. I had no desire to be the first one in the pool, but he had neatly put me in that position. To scotch up now on disclosure from
my side could raise a barrier of distrust between us that would stifle cooperation on his part. The trick was to disclose enough to make him a confidant, and still withhold enough to keep my word to Billy.

“My interest comes down to this. A jockey was killed in a fixed horse race in Boston. My partner and I represent another jockey who's accused of his murder. The horse the supposedly murdered jockey was riding was bred and trained by the Dubh Crann Stables here in Ireland.”

He nodded as if he was hearing nothing new.

“There was an elaborate scheme by the Irish group to mislead the betting public about the speed of the horse. I could give details.”

He waved off the details. He was clearly frying bigger fish than race fixing.

“The twist is that the Irish group had a perfect setup to win a large amount on his first race. Long odds, mediocre competition. And yet they went to the extreme of kidnapping the jockey's daughter to make him lose the race. When the jockey appeared to be going for the win in spite of it, somehow they knocked him out of the saddle so the horse would be disqualified.”

He slightly raised his eyebrows and hands together in a gesture that said, “An interesting tale, but why does this concern me?”

I sensed he was three jumps ahead of me. So why did he need me to spell it out? My guess was that he wanted to know how much Billy Coyne trusted me with. I knew then that it was all the way or nothing. I'd come too far for “nothing.”

“You mentioned a common enemy, Superintendent. You have a criminal organization of former terrorists over here. They're your problem. Billy Coyne has reason to believe they're planning to import their organized criminality into Boston in spades. That's his problem. You must be concerned that if they tap into a major source of money in America, they'll have the resources to strengthen their grip in Ireland. Whence the ‘common enemy.'”

He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. I sensed that no barriers had gone up yet.

“And why is this your problem, Mr. Knight?”

“I live in Boston.”

He just shook his head. My mistake. No dodges.

“After two weeks, we're no closer to learning who actually knocked the jockey out of the saddle or how. If we don't cut that knot, a jury could convict our client of murder on circumstantial evidence. I believe we have to crack open the organization behind the race fixing and kidnapping to get the answers.”

“Mmm.”

“I also believe the organization I need to crack is the same one you refer to as the ‘common enemy.'”

I let it lay there. So did he. The problem of how much to disclose was now on his side.

In about five seconds, he sprang forward as if he had reached a decision.

“Mr. Knight. I have a conundrum. Mr. Coyne and I share it. You're a bit of a joker in the deck. He and I have spent a year infiltrating this group with the hope of dismantling it. You could easily derail our efforts with one misguided step. We can't afford that. There's too much at stake for both of us.”

My heart temporarily arrested while he sipped his infernal tea.

“But then, Mr. Knight, Mr. Coyne made an apt point. You can go places and do things that our positions prevent us from doing. On the strength of that, I'm going to show you a tiny crack in their wall.”

My heart restarted and leapt at the same time. I started to speak, but he cut me off.

“Don't thank me. I'm going to give you the name of the man whom we believe to be the current head of this organization. It's dangerous information. It could easily get you killed. If you thank me for it, you'll double my pangs of conscience.”