Death at Christy Burke's (7 page)

“Closed till noon,” one of the men read aloud. “It’s past that now.”

“Fuck! As if I didn’t have a thirst on me that would drop a camel. Well, there’s nothing for it but to come back later.”

“Or go to Gallagher’s.”

“No, we’ll stick with Christy’s. Finn had to run out somewhere. He’ll be back.”

Brennan heard them walking away. A few seconds later, the coast seemed clear. He opened the pub door, stepped outside with his bags, glanced to the left and to the right, and tried not to look any more shifty and vaudevillian than necessary. Best to present himself as if he lugged heavy loads of rubbish, or illegal goods, out of Christy Burke’s pub every day of the week. He crossed the street to the side of the church, where he saw an old table with a broken leg, a scarred, paint-spattered bookcase, even a badly dented deep freezer with bags of garbage piled on top. There was other refuse littering the ground. People were obviously using the old church property as a rubbish tip. Brennan dropped his load on top of the pile. His bags were clean and shiny; the others had dust and leaves and bird shite on them. He wished he could age the bags the way Finn had aged his newly manufactured “ancient” artifacts, but he didn’t have that option. He did the best he could and walked away. As far as he could tell, no one had observed him. But there was no way of knowing whether curious eyes watched from the windows of the other buildings in the street. He was nervous when he had to make a second run with the long, awkward parcel of rifles under his arm. They shifted within the bags, and started slipping out, and he nearly lost the whole consignment in the middle of the street. But he managed to keep them covered, then deposited them with the other objects in the pile of debris at the old church.

He was just straightening up when a car appeared at the corner. Brennan tried to resist looking at it, but he couldn’t help himself. The occupants paid him no mind, and he walked away with relief coursing through him. He went back for the rest of the bags and dumped them in place.

He returned to the pub, satisfied that there was nothing else he could do to clean up the crime scene. He checked his watch. More than two hours had passed since Finn’s arrest. It was time to open up. And he didn’t have a barman, didn’t have young Sean’s number. But Brennan himself knew his way around a glass of porter and a jar of whiskey. He could pour a proper pint if called upon to do so. Not, however, while dressed in a dusty, dirty clerical suit and Roman collar. It wouldn’t do to be seen covered with dust and dirt even if he didn’t have a job to do and an obligation to look presentable while doing it. He called Monty Collins at his hotel room.

“Hello?”

Brennan sent up a
Te Deum
that Collins was there to take the call. “Monty. How quick can you get moving?”

“What’s happening?”

“I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

“Here being?”

“Christy’s. Can you go over to my place first? Tell them to let you into my room. Get me a T-shirt and a pair of pants, and bring them to the pub.”

“Should I even inquire why you are stranded without clothing this early in the day, Father? I’ve known you to be
déshabillé
following a night of debauchery, but . . .”

“I’ll explain when you get here. Oh, and bring me my soap.”

“You and your soap. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three hours and twenty minutes since my last shower. Were you toilet trained too early as a child, or what? I’ve never met anyone so —”

“Fuck off and get over here.” Brennan hung up the phone and looked around the bar to see what he should do to prepare for the day’s custom. By the time Monty arrived, twenty-five minutes later, he had everything set to go.

“Thank you,” he said to Monty, as he grabbed his soap and clothing and made a beeline for the men’s room. “I’ll be right out, and we’ll open up.”

“We?”

“You heard me.”

He left Monty in a state of bewilderment, went in to the loo, stripped down, gave himself a thorough soaping and a good rinse, then put on the black T-shirt and casual pants Monty had provided. He emerged, drying his hair with a handful of paper towel, and said, “All right. Open the door and remove the sign I put out there. Oh! Hold on.”

Monty waited while Brennan went back into the jacks. There, hanging over the door to one of the stalls was his filthy clerical suit. Evidence that would tell against him if it were left on the premises. He grabbed it, balled it up and carried it out of the washroom and over to Monty. “Shove this in a bag and take it up the street. You’ll see St. Joseph’s Convent School. Stash it out of sight somewhere on the property.”

Monty looked at him, gobsmacked. “This is getting weirder by the minute. This is your suit? A spoiled priest outfit, by the look of it. What happened to it? And why do you want —”

“Go along with me on this, Collins. I’ll explain it all to you later.”

“Yes, Father.”

Monty took the suit, turned, and went to the door. He opened it and announced that Christy’s was once again in business. Then he departed on his unlikely mission with the spoiled priest outfit, and the spoiled priest got on with his tasks.

“What does a man have to do to get a drink in here?” The voice came from a short, unkempt fellow standing by the bar.

“What’ll you have?”

“I’ll have a pint of Guinness. That is, if you’re able for it.”

“I am,” Brennan assured him, and took his place behind the bar that had been manned by a Burke since Anno Domini 1919.

Brennan picked up a pint glass and set it under the Guinness tap at an angle of forty-five degrees, reached for the tap handle, pulled it all the way back, and poured about three quarters of a pint, then put it aside to settle. When he decided the time was right, he put the glass straight under the tap, poured until a dome appeared at the top, and handed it to the man. A perfect two-part pour.

He served a couple more patrons and found himself adapting quite comfortably to the routine.

Monty returned following his errand, looked towards the bar, and gaped at his friend. “Brennan! After a fraction of a second of astonishment, I now see this as completely normal. Why wouldn’t you be behind that bar? You look utterly at home there.”

“I am. What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a Singapore Sling with a cherry and a twist.”

“Coming right up.”

He poured a Guinness and, when it was ready, handed it to Monty. “Here you are, my lad. That will be 170p.”

Monty pulled out a five-pound note and said, grandly, “Keep the change, my good man.”

“I intend to.” Brennan stuck the bill in the cash register.

“Now. Will you tell me what the hell is going on? Where’s the previous generation?”

“My uncle is indisposed today.”

“Would a hair of the dog cure his ills?”

“Nothing I can do for him here. You may be able to help.”

“Not legal difficulties!”

“He was arrested this morning. But I can’t get into it now . . . What can I do for you, sir?” he said to an elderly gentleman who was waiting serenely by the bar.

“Tullamore Dew, if you’d be so kind.”

“Certainly.”

He turned to the array of bottles behind him and poured the man his drink. He took the payment and made change as if he had been doing it all his life.

“How many bartenders do you figure have their doctorate in theology, Brennan?” Monty asked.

Brennan smiled. “They’re all theologians, I’m thinking. All the good ones anyway. Philosophers, psychologists —”

“Good heavens!” Now it was Michael O’Flaherty. “Brennan! What’s going on? I couldn’t reach either of you on the phone so I thought you might be here. But I never would have guessed . . . Why are you behind the bar? But then, why wouldn’t you be? You fit right in there!”

“Where’s Finn been hidin’
you
?” The speaker was a young woman — well, younger than Brennan; she may have been forty — with short curly black hair, freckles, and bright blue eyes.

“He’s had me in training,” Brennan answered. “It took a while for me to get the hang of it. I’ve been out of things for a time.”

“You mean the kind of time Finn himself goes away for, couple of years at a stretch, that sort of thing?”

“You said a mouthful there.”

“Ah. So is there anything else you’ve been missing? Are you in need of a refresher course in life’s other pleasures perhaps?”

“Well now, there’s a story there as well. I —”

He was cut off by a crashing noise, then a shout. What now? The door was opened and a squad of guards poured in. Again. This time the lead man was brandishing a paper.

“Everybody out! We have a warrant to search this place. The officers will accompany you outside. Don’t take anything with you except your own belongings.”

“You!” one officer addressed Brennan, who scowled back at him. “Open the cash register.”

“A robbery, is it?”

“It will all be returned to you, every punt accounted for. Open the cash and step away from the bar.”

Brennan looked over at Monty, who was reaching for the cop’s paper. Monty said, “Could I have a look at that, guard? I’m a lawyer and, for the time being, I’m Christy Burke’s solicitor. I’d like to see the warrant.”

The guard hesitated, then handed it over.

Monty skimmed it, frowning, then handed it back. He looked at Brennan, who nodded,
Yes, Finn’s in the soup
. The cop folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. “All right, everybody. Make your way outside.”

Everyone filed out under the watchful eyes of the gardaí, then gathered outside in the bright midday sun. Brennan, Michael, and Monty passed the evicted drinkers, some of whom were peering in the windows, trying to see what the police were up to.

Michael started to speak but the young woman with the curly hair got there first. She was looking up at Brennan with a smile playing about her lips. “Now which one of the Burkes are you?”

“Brennan. Declan’s son.”

“Declan would be . . . Finn’s brother?”

“Right.”

“So where have you been? More important, where might you be tonight?”

“Probably behind the bar if the guards leave us in peace.”

She noticed Michael then, and said, “Who’s this fine fellow now? Another new face in the neighbourhood.”

“This is Monsignor O’Flaherty. Visiting from Canada.”

“Hello, Monsignor.” Then to Brennan, “How do you know the monsignor?”

“I’m his curate.”

“Well, yeah . . .”

“I mean curate in the true sense of the word. He’s my pastor, I’m his priest.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I’m not.”

“No!” she cried.

Brennan nodded.

“I’m gutted,” she said. She shook her head and walked away.

He smiled after her for a second or two, then took the opportunity to ask Monty about the search warrant. “What are they looking for?” He tried to sound casual as he contemplated the fact that whatever they were looking for, he had snatched it from their grasp before they could make their move.

“Guns,” Monty replied, “and artifacts of some kind, manufacturing or craft-making equipment, a variety of things.”

“Ah.” There wasn’t anything else he could say, because everything he knew had come from Finn’s half-arsed confession.

“I wonder why they didn’t have the warrant when they made the arrest. They must have received new information. Maybe he opened up when they got him to the station. Hard to imagine, though, from what I’ve seen of him.”

“Wouldn’t happen.”

“Well, we’ll see how it plays out. Has anyone been in touch with him?” Monty asked.

“Not since I watched them drag him out of here in handcuffs.” He wasn’t about to go into details.

“Where would they have taken him?” Michael asked. “Up the street to Mountjoy Prison, I suppose.”

“Not yet, I don’t imagine,” Monty said. “Police station first, most likely. They’ll process him, take him before a judge, who’ll either release him or order him remanded to Mountjoy or some other institution.”

“I should go find him,” said Brennan.

“He’d probably prefer that you stay with the ship, Brennan,” Monty advised.

“They’ll let him out on bail, though, right, Monty?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know Irish law but, to the extent that it’s similar to ours, they’d have to hold a bail hearing. Whether he’d be released would depend on a number of factors. Including his history. If it’s not his first offence —” Monty looked at Brennan, who gave a quick shake of his head “— then that might affect his chances. And if, for instance, he’s on probation or on parole already, it won’t go well for him.”

Nobody got a drink at Christy Burke’s for the rest of that day or evening. The pub was cordoned off as a crime scene. The pub regulars were indignant and convened an emergency meeting to decide where they would go for the rest of the day. They voted to take their business to Dec Gallagher’s and headed down to Dominick Street to their temporary headquarters.

“I’m going to stop in at St. Francis Xavier’s Church in Gardiner Street and say a prayer for Finn,” Michael announced.

“Thanks, Mike,” said Brennan. “I’ll do the same when I get back to my own parish.”

“What are you fellows up to this evening?”

“I can’t speak for Monty, but I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“I can believe it. See you tomorrow, perhaps.” With that, Michael took his leave.

Monty was showing no inclination to leave. “Well, Brennan, what now?”

“Off to the convent, I guess,” Brennan replied.

“Oh, yes, the convent. They’re giving away clothing to the poor and the defrocked today.”

“Bless them.”

“I’d better accompany you on your shopping trip, in case you want to try something on. I’ll tell you whether it makes you look fat or not.”

“How d’yeh think yeh’d look with a fat lip?”

“Like if somebody punched me in the mouth, you mean? Instead of doing that, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Start with the suit.”

“The suit’s the end of the story.”

“Which is?”

“I did some cleaning up.”

Monty looked him in the eye. “You cleaned up the pub. Somehow I find it hard to believe that even someone as fastidious as you would make cleanliness a priority, given the events of the day. So I am left to conclude that you cleaned
out
the pub. In anticipation of the police.”