Chicago Assault (6 page)

He looked suddenly at James Hawker. “These are the ones who come to me. They give me money for the Irish Republican Army, and I see that the weaponry the money buys gets to Ireland. And if an Irish-American lad decides he wants to join the fight, I put him in touch with the proper people. And if an IRA soldier must flee Ireland, I arrange for safe passage to this country. You see, Hawk, in the minds of too many, our war over there is an insane fight between Catholics and Protestants. They don't understand the depth of the cause or the righteousness of it. But I swear before God that the war will never end until we have won our country back and freed our lands of bloody English hands.”

As O'Neil spoke, Hawker felt the old hatreds move through him, the hatreds he'd thought were long buried. “So you need to call the Ennisfree because you're hiding someone there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Does the IRA have something to do with Beckerman's murder?”

O'Neil sighed. “Indirectly, I'm afraid. As I said, I had planned to call you, for I need help, Hawk.”

“Do you want to tell me about it now?”

O'Neil was quiet for a moment. “After I've made my telephone call,” he said finally. “And once I have a glass of good whiskey in my hand.”

Jimmy O'Neil found a phone booth on Archer Avenue, then turned southeast on Farrell. The Ennisfree had a red brick facade with canvas awnings and brass door fixtures.

At the door, he knocked three times, slowly. Inside, a single light came on. There was a tumbling of bolts and locks, and the door swung open.

Hawker followed O'Neil inside.

The figure that confronted them in the bar stood in the shadows. O'Neil locked the door behind them, then led the way into a spacious back room.

He touched the lights, and the shadowy figure was revealed.

Hawker was so surprised that he couldn't speak for a moment.

O'Neil's Irish Republican Army fugitive studied his face with a mixture of suspicion and grudging acceptance.

When O'Neil nodded that Hawker was to be trusted, the expression changed to a slow, wry smile.

She was one of the most beautiful women James Hawker had ever seen.

six

“Megan Parnell,” O'Neil said, smiling, seeing the stunned look on Hawker's face. “I want you to meet my best friend.”

Hawker took her hand. It was firm and dry and communicated nothing. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hawker,” she said. “Jimmy has already told me a great deal about you.” Her alto voice seemed more musical for the Irish accent.

“James,” he said. “My father was Mr. Hawker.”

She smiled. “Yes, and I've heard about your father, too. And a good Fenian he was, I might add. His last raid on Belfast's Orange Order has become almost legendary.”

There was something in the tone of her voice that told Hawker she was chiding him for his own abandonment of the IRA cause.

“My father's dead,” he said simply. “Beaten to death by robbers. American robbers.”

He closed the topic by turning away from her. Even so, the image of her refused to leave his mind.

Megan Parnell had long, autumn red hair that hung in a braided rope to the small of her back. Though she was obviously in her late twenties or early thirties, she had the face of a teenage cover girl. The high cheekbones, the bright, demanding blue eyes, the perfect chin that was too wide and firm to be called delicate or even girlish—they all combined to form a truly haunting and unforgettable country beauty.

She wore a plain, gray crew neck sweater over a blue blouse that couldn't disguise the full-busted figure beneath. Her brown corduroys outlined her firm buttocks and her long, graceful legs.

There was a coyness and wit in her eyes that didn't seem to match the seriousness of her attitude or her words.

Hawker looked at O'Neil. O'Neil still wore the sly, knowing grin. He had known the effect Megan Parnell would have on Hawker; indeed, that she certainly had on all men.

Which was exactly why he hadn't warned him that his IRA refugee was a woman.

Hawker ignored O'Neil's smirk. “If you want to fill Megan in about what happened tonight, go ahead. But then you tell me what you know, Jimmy. I've waited long enough.”

“Yes, you have,” he said, smiling at the woman. “James has the patience of a saint, Megan. It's one of his most endearing qualities.” He winked at the woman, then looked at Hawker. “But you know how much better I talk when I've had a bit of something to quench my thirst. My throat is that dry—”

“I'll get it,” Hawker interrupted impatiently. “While you talk to Megan. What do you want?”

“A fine Dublin whiskey would be grand. You'll find it behind the bar.”

“Where he hides all the good stuff.” Megan laughed. “And James, would you be kind enough to bring a tumbler for me?”

“Hah!” roared O'Neil. “Bring the whole damn bottle. This is a night to celebrate, I'm thinking. For my best friend and I will be fighting together once more.”

Hawker couldn't help grinning. Though he wouldn't have admitted it to the big Irishman, he felt good about their reunion, too.

Sometimes a man gets tired of fighting alone.

As he walked to the bar, O'Neil threw himself into a detailed story, describing to Megan what had transpired that night. Hawker put the whiskey on a tray with a flagon of soda and a beaker of ice. For himself, he opened a cold Tuborg.

Realizing that it had been one hell of a long night, and that he hadn't eaten in nearly fifteen hours, Hawker searched the kitchen for food. He built a plate of ham and corned beef, rye bread, mayonnaise, brown mustard, and pickles.

By the time he had carried both trays into the back room, O'Neil had finished telling about the assassination of Saul Beckerman and the attack on his own house. Megan was busy removing the bandage from his wounded hand.

Hawker poured two glasses half full of whiskey. “Do you want ice or soda?”

“Heresy!” spouted O'Neil. “Ruin fine Irish whiskey—”

“I'll have ice in mine,” interrupted Megan, as if she was used to O'Neil's bluster. She gave him a scolding look. “Now hold your damn big hand still while I disinfect it!”

Hawker sipped at his beer and made sandwiches while the woman did a professional job of cleaning the wound and bandaging it. When she was done, they all ate and drank as O'Neil talked.

“You asked me if I had anything to do with Beckerman's death, Hawk, and I told you ‘no,'” he said. “But that's not entirely true. You see, I know who killed him, and I know why they killed him.” He swallowed the last of his whiskey, then poured himself another glass before looking at Hawker. “The lads who did it used to work for me.”

“Here or in Ireland?”

“In Ireland.” He gave the woman a questioning look. “Three years ago, Megan? Or four?”

“Eight, O'Neil—your memory is faulty as usual. You left Ireland three years ago, and that's when they started getting out of hand.”

Hawker's boyhood friend nodded. “Eight years ago, James, I arranged for three Irish-American lads from Chicago to join the IRA in Ulster. Their cover story was that they were American students studying in Belfast. We got them jobs, and we put them to work with a fire team. Like most American lads, they were brought along carefully. Sometimes Americans come only for the romance of being able to say they fought the Orange Order. When the work turns boring or deadly, they pack their kits and leave.”

“Which happens all too often,” Megan interjected.

O'Neil took a chunk of his sandwich, chewing gratefully. “But not with these lads. They came from Chicago, dirt poor and filled with fight. It wasn't long before they were making their own private plans and making independent hits. In an underground army, that sort of thing is sometimes necessary. Even so, they began to get out of hand. It got so they wouldn't check anything through headquarters. I kept a tight rein on them while I was over there, but even so, it was tough going. Once these lads got a taste of blood, there seemed to be no stopping them.”

“They became killers, plain and simple,” added Megan. “While it may strike you as odd that we in the IRA would disapprove of cold-blooded murder, it's true. We kill quickly and brutally, but we aim to kill only those who actively oppose our cause.”

“And the occasional death of a Protestant child is just one of the risks of war,” Hawker said coldly.

The remark made her face flush and her nostrils flare. “Forgive me if I don't shed tears over Protestant babies, Mr. Hawker. For you see, eight years ago I scraped the bits of flesh of my own child, yes, and me young husband, too, from the walls of our wee cottage outside Dundalk. I'm sure the ladies of the Orange Order didn't cry for me—but then, the English have had so much more experience at killing, I guess it's to be excused.”

“You see, Hawk,” O'Neil put in softly. “Megan is from the same east-coast county in Ireland as you. And the Orange Order killed her husband and infant son in almost the exact same way your mother and two sisters were murdered those many years ago.”

“Didn't you wonder how I knew about the famous Hulainns of County Louth?” Megan said, still angry and sarcastic. “That was your father's name before he changed it to Hawker, wasn't it? Hulainn? Sure,” she went on, “the great Hulainns of Louth. The Fighting Hulainns, supposedly direct descendants of Cuchulain, the great Irish warrior god of Ulster. I've heard the stories about your family since I was just a wee girl on me mother's knee. All about your handsome, dashing father, and how he broke a hundred hearts before marrying, and how his wife and daughters were murdered, and how—before he and his young son, James, escaped to America—his retaliatory strike against Belfast took fifty Protestant lives and began the IRA uprising of 1956.”

“If it's an apology you're looking for,” Hawker said, locking eyes with her, “I hereby offer it. I spoke out of line. I'm sorry about your family.”

Slowly, her face regained its natural color as her anger subsided. She shook her head wearily. “No, it's meself who should be apologizing. I had no right to lay my troubles on your shoulders.”

Hawker smiled. “Anytime you need shoulders, mine are available,” he said. “I mean that.”

“Do you two
mind?”
O'Neil asked, as if offended. “You interrupted me in the middle of my story.” He poured himself another drink. “Now I'll have to dampen my throat again.”

The three of them laughed, grateful for the comic relief. Hawker couldn't help noticing that, after their short argument, Megan seemed more at ease with him.

There was nothing obvious. He saw it in small things: the way she smiled at him; the way she would reach over and touch his hand to stress a point. She had an electric touch. Hawker couldn't remember when he had felt more physically aware of the beauty of a woman. And, from the unexpected shyness in her eyes, he could see that she felt the sexual tension, too.

So O'Neil told his story—with Megan adding dates and pertinent facts. She had a razor-sharp intellect and an impressive memory for names and figures.

The names of the three Chicagoans who had fought for the IRA were Thomas Galway, Padraic Phelan, and Michael MacDonagh. O'Neil said they were a couple of years younger than he was, but Hawker had never met any of them.

The IRA's influence on the three disappeared when O'Neil returned to America. Left without restraint, Galway, Phelan and MacDonagh cut a bloody swath through Ulster.

Their killing became more random, more indiscriminate. Their methods, and the slaughter of innocent victims, began to sicken even veteran Fenians. Whether they were all psychopaths or whether the horror of their first early battles with the IRA had driven them mad, was never clear.

What
was
clear was that they had to be stopped. They had to be driven out of Ireland. And, if that didn't work, it was decided they must be killed.

When confronted, the three Irish-Americans made the reasonable choice. They returned to America.

It was thought that, away from the temptation of killing English Protestants, they would return to normal lives.

“But they didn't,” O'Neil explained. “Over a year ago, the three of them resurfaced in Chicago. They made their presence known to me and asked for my help. They were in the process of organizing a terrorist army, an army dedicated to one thing: profit. You see, Hawk, it was their idea to use their experience in terrorism as a business. They would sell Chicago businessmen protection. Protection against criminals. Protection against police. Protection against anything. It didn't matter to them.

“They came to me, pretending some of the profits would go to the IRA.” O'Neil snorted. “That's how dumb they thought me to be. I told them their plan disgusted me, and to get the hell out of my bar before I turned them over to the law.”

“The three of them went ahead with their plans?” Hawker asked.

“Aye,” said Megan. “They did. Unfortunately, they are smart lads. They didn't make their first move until their terrorist army was well organized.”

“Right,” said O'Neil. “About three months ago, they began to make the rounds of Bridgeport. They talked to every major businessman in the area. They offered complete protection at very high rates. A few of the businessmen went for it right off. The crime rate is high in this area, and I guess they figured safety is worth any price.”

“So not many signed up?” questioned Hawker.

“Wrong, Hawk. They almost all signed up. You see, these three lads made it very clear that if their protection wasn't bought, the business owner could be sure he would, in time, lose his business to fire or vandalism—and maybe even lose his life. They intimidate the hell out of people. They dress like a bloody motorcycle gang, and there must be twenty members in their little terrorist army. Irish, black, Italians. Galway, who's the real leader of the three, hired and trained the meanest, roughest men he could find.”