Black Diamond (32 page)

“Where you going, Rick?”

“I'm going to enter the damn race. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I thought I'd better put in a call to Superintendent Phelan in Ireland. Now that I had positive information, I filled him in on Boyle's game of betting the Irish gang's money before handing it over to the Irish collector. I also told him that Black Diamond was entered in a race in three days.

“I know you're a busy man, Superintendent. Especially with Sweeney's murder. But I suggest that the action is going to be over here the day of the race. I suspect that Sweeney's replacement will get word that Black Diamond is running. He'll probably be over here
to collect the extortion money personally the way Sweeney did. If he does, he'll probably be betting it on Black Diamond. This is the payoff for them for all the deception about his speed and lineage.”

“That makes sense, Michael.”

“There may be fireworks. Boyle's no longer doing the pickups for them. He's out of the game. They'll have to do it themselves. That may not sit well. Boyle knows the names of too many of their players. If he's off their team, he could be a liability they'll have to eliminate.”

“This is getting more interesting all the time.”

“Here's something else to think about. You know the cast of characters better than I do, but if I had to guess who'll move up to Sweeney's spot, my money'd be on Mugsy McGuire. He was clearly the first string backup when I met with Sweeney.”

“That would be my guess from what we know here. The absolute top man is still invisible, but Sweeney and McGuire seem to be the action level.”

“Then you know what you have to do better than I do, Superintendent. I'm thinking this whole thing could come to a head the day of that race. If you and Billy Coyne were working together as a team on this side of the ocean, the whole business might be blown wide open once and for all.”

I knew this was a late shift in his plans when he already had a plateful in Ireland. Nevertheless, what I said made sense. I added the thought that he could see a great Irish horse trounce a field of American horses.

He needed time to think about it, but suggested that he might make preliminary reservations just in case it all worked out.

The dinner at Locke-Ober's that evening was clearly up to par for that classic Boston eatery. It also provided a setting for something akin, on a decidedly minor scale, to the planning of the invasion of Normandy. I waited until coffee was served after dessert to unleash
the beast. I laid out a plan that appeared so preposterous at the outset, that Billy didn't know whether to laugh out loud or have me committed.

Then I laid out each of the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle I'd been collecting and slowly pieced them together. By the time I finished, Billy just sat there staring at me. He gave Mr. Devlin a look that asked,
How do you live with this kid?

Mr. Devlin, God love him, leaned in and said quietly, “Billy, think about it. And then tell me where there's a flaw in Michael's thinking.”

Billy sat staring into his coffee. He finally broke into a scratching of the back of his head with a look of either frustration or resignation. Probably both.

“Damn it, kid. You do make life interesting. So what am I supposed to do in all this?”

I laid it out in all the detail I'd been able to work out on the long plane ride home. For better or worse, to paraphrase Julius Caesar, the die was about to be cast.

I was in my office two days later when I got the call I'd hoped for. Superintendent Phelan told me that he had arrived in Boston and was staying at the Parker House on School Street. I welcomed him to our sunny shores, remembering Irish weather.

It was about ten a.m. I arranged to meet him in the Parker House dining room for dinner at six that evening. I called Billy Coyne and suggested that he join us to meet his Irish counterpart. Billy never turned down a dinner at defense counsel's expense in my memory, and he was not about to start now. Mr. Devlin made the perfect fourth.

I made the reservation, and then called my now phone pal, Ms. Paxton, and asked her to convey my invitation to Mr. Fitzpatrick for another Zaftig's corned beef sandwich on the Public Garden bench by the swan boats at noon.

He was there right on time. He accepted the proffered sandwich immediately after we sat down with a readiness that made me think he was developing a taste for Zaftig's fine fare. He ate while I mostly talked. I'd briefed so many people at this point that I was beginning to fall into set speech patterns.

He chewed in silence, shaking his head occasionally when I covered the more risky parts.

“It comes down to this, Mr. Fitzpatrick. There'll probably be a demand to pay the extortion money one more time. Probably in the next twenty-four hours. The procedure will be different. It won't be Boyle's man. I've neutralized Boyle. He's out of this business. My guess is that one of the Irish thugs from over there will be over here to collect the extortion money from you directly. When it happens, it's important that you let me know immediately. I'll give you my cell phone number.”

“And you'd like me to do what about the demand?”

“Pay it. I don't want to rock the boat now. But I can tell you this. If things work out the way I hope, it'll be the last cent you'll ever pay those thugs.”

That brought a cautious smile. But he appeared troubled at the same time.

“I don't like this, Michael. You've gone through too much already. If this goes wrong—”

“Not to worry. My strength is as the strength of ten men, for my heart is pure.”

He looked at me sideways. “Michael, when Tennyson said that, he was talking about a fictional character.”

I was hardly back in the office ten minutes when I got a call on my cell phone from Mr. Fitzpatrick.

“Your prediction came true. I got a phone call from one of them. And you're right. The procedure is different.”

“In what way?”

“I'm supposed to have the money in cash in a plain brown bag. I'm to leave it on a particular shelf behind a certain set of books at the Barnes & Noble on Washington Street.”

“Where specifically?”

“In the Harvard Classics section behind the letters of Cicero.”

“Good choice. You won't be fighting a crowd to get into that section. When?”

“This afternoon. One o'clock.”

“Good. Please do it to the letter. Did he give a name?”

“No. No name. One more thing, Michael. I'm especially glad this may be the last time.”

“I can imagine. But why especially?”

“He doubled the amount of the demand. We're getting into serious money.”

I no sooner hung up than I dialed my trusty confidant/private eye, Tom Burns.

“Mikey, haven't heard from you in a while. Have you been keeping your ass out of those bear traps you get into?”

“I don't think I'd say that. The bear traps have just been out of the country. Out of your bailiwick, so to speak. Obviously I'm back and in need of your exclusive services. I mean you personally, Tom. Good as they are, no subordinates. I need the best.”

“I assume that's why you called me.”

“It most certainly is. Don't ever get infected with humility.”

“Why would I, Mikey?”

“To be sure. Here's what I need.”

I told him about the cash drop at Barnes & Noble. I needed him to be invisible and see who made the collection, and then tail him to wherever he went from there.

“And give me a call on my cell as soon as you have something. Agreed?”

“Piece of cake.”

“The hell it is, Tom! This is no damn piece of cake. These are professionals the same as you. You go into this with your head up your ass and people will die. Namely me. Pay attention!”

Actually, that's not what I said. I thought it, but I knew it would only light Tom's short fuse. He might just tell me to get another boy. Besides, he was right. He was the best there is.

I just said, “Thank you, Tom. You have my cell phone number.”

The dinner at the elegant, historical Parker House was a jovial affair, in spite of the ominous cloud hanging over us. Even Billy Coyne exuded charm. He and the superintendent seemed to share a personal pleasure in meeting face-to-face the one with whom they had had so many clandestine telephone conversations.

We discussed plans to meet before the first race the next day in the Suffolk Downs clubhouse box that I'd reserved. The four of us could watch the races together.

I saved one dark element that I had to introduce until after we had enjoyed a magnificent repast at the hands of the Parker House chef. Over coffee, I huddled the four of us together to speak in the quietest possible tone.

“There's been one change. I spoke to the jockeys who are going to ride in the sixth race tomorrow. Boyle had already gotten to them. The race is fixed for a win by the horse ridden by Vinnie Hernandez. Post position four. He'll be the longest shot on the board. Probably twenty-to-one. Boyle even got to Black Diamond's rider this time. It'll be Alberto Ibanez. He won't dare let him win. Boyle has them all scared to death. They won't cross him.”

I could see consternation on the three faces around me.

“Listen. This could work to our advantage. If the Irish mob plans to make a killing by betting the house on Black Diamond, they'll lose it all. That could cripple their plans for a Boston takeover. It could even weaken their hold in Dublin. That works in our favor. Right?”

On their reconsideration, I got thoughtful agreement around the
table. Even the superintendent seemed to get over the fact that the Irish horse would lose to an American horse.

Before we disbanded, Billy asked the question that had plagued me too until I had enough information to match up the timings.

“If that gang in Ireland put so much effort into setting up Black Diamond for a big win the first time, why did they pull off a kidnapping to make him lose?”

“Because they had more to lose if Black Diamond won, Mr. Coyne. By that time, Vince Scully had come over to their side. He must have told them that Boyle had bet the entire extortion collection on Hector Vasquez's horse—the one he had it fixed for. If Black Diamond won that race, Boyle would have lost their entire extortion collection—which was considerably more than they would have won if Black Diamond had won the race. That's why they had to make Diamond lose, even if it took a kidnapping to make Danny disappoint his trainer, Rick.”

It was nine o'clock by the time we went our separate ways. The superintendent went up to his room, Billy went home, and Mr. Devlin offered me a ride to my apartment. Before we left the lobby, I got a call from Tom Burns on my cell phone.

“Give it to me, Tom.”

He did. And for a full five seconds I basked in the vibrant glow of a rare moment when all of the schemes and plans and prayers of the past two weeks fit gloriously together. Thank you, Lord. I shared the glow with Mr. Devlin on the walk to the car.

My last act for the day before settling into a short, fitful sleep was a call to check on Terry, Colleen, Erin, and Kelty. Whatever else was spinning beyond my control, my little band of refugees was holding up like troopers.

The next morning, I was up at six with a serious case of the jumping jitters. I dropped by my favorite Starbucks out of habit. My usual
sixteen ounces of Bucky's strongest did nothing to anaesthetise the butterflies.

It was the longest morning of my life. The only business I could concentrate on was a call to Rick McDonough to have him get me credentials so I could come into the paddock with him at race time when he saddled Black Diamond.

I met the other three of our foursome from the previous night's dinner in the clubhouse box I'd reserved at one p.m. It was just before post time for the first race.

We settled in for a day at the races, and actually enjoyed the first three races. By the fourth, the butterflies were back and had invited relatives.

I excused myself when the winner of the fifth race was unsaddled and left the winner's circle. I made my way down to the paddock. Rick was just fastening the last girth strap that goes around the jockey's saddle. We shook hands, and I pulled him over to the back of the stall.

“Rick, I have no time to explain. I want you to get out your checkbook, your credit cards, and all the nickels and dimes you have in your pockets. Here's what I want you to do before post time.”

Even that old cowboy's eyes showed surprise, then doubt, then wonder, and finally an exuberance that could only come from a bursting feeling of hope and faith. I don't think I'd ever actually seen him smile before.

When the jockeys came out in the silks for the sixth race, I caught Alberto Ibanez for a short quiet word. I laid it out for him as directly and briefly as I could. He looked me straight in the eyes. I knew he was searching his soul to decide if he could actually trust what this lawyer was saying to him.

I heard Rick give Alberto his final instructions, which pretty much followed Rick's philosophy of the communication between a jockey and horse.

“Try to settle him in the backstretch. When it's time, let him go. He'll take care of business from there.”

Rick gave Alberto a leg up, and he rode out in the post parade. When he passed me, there was no expression whatever on his face. I really had no clue to what was going on in his mind.

I was back in the clubhouse box as the horses approached the starting gate across the track for a run of six furlongs—threequarters of a mile. I just nodded to each of the three with me. I was not up to conversation.

I used binoculars to watch Black Diamond being led by the pony boy up to the starting gate. It gave my heart an extra boost to see him prance more than walk. He was saying with every step, “This one is mine. Let's do it.”

The assistant starter took the lead line and led him up to the third post position in the gate. He went in quickly and smoothly, as if he were anxious to get started. By the time all nine were loaded by the starters, and the track announcer roared, “They're in the gate,” I was jumping out of my skin.