James Benn - Billy Boyle

“That’s it, Kaz,” I finished up. “Now I just need to hear from you. What did you find out in London? It must’ve been good.”

The slightest of little sounds escaped his lips, just a puff of air. One finger moved.

“Kaz, it’s me, Billy.”

I could see him try to move his head, but it was too much. He winced. He lifted his hand, holding it as if he wanted to shake hands.

“What do you want, Kaz?” I heard another little sound. I leaned closer to his mouth.

“Bbb…”

“Yeah, it’s Billy. I’m here.”

“Bb… Bbbb…”

It was like he was trying to say my name but couldn’t get it all out. I tried to take his hand, thinking that’s what he wanted. He shook me off with an effort that must have been painful. He gasped, then didn’t say anything for a long time.

“I’ll stay right here, Kaz. When you feel strong enough, try again.”

His eyelid fluttered and I could see he was trying to open it. A thin slit appeared and he tried to focus on me. He must have been really doped up, because he faded pretty quick. I waited. Minutes passed. Long minutes.

“Bb… bbb.” Again, the hand. He tried to open his eye again. This time, he got the lid halfway up. I was sure he saw me.

“Bbb… re…”

“What?”

He worked his hand again, holding it like he was gripping something. His eye was fully open now, and he held me in his gaze, willing me to understand. I got it.

“Briefcase!” I shouted. “Your briefcase! I understand, Kaz. I’ll find it. That’s where the evidence is, right?” This time when I took his hand he squeezed it. Yes.

“I’ll get it, Kaz, I promise. Then I’ll come back to see you.”

I wondered if he knew about Daphne, and if I should tell him. But I wanted to get out of there, away from the antiseptic hospital smell and Kaz’s suffering. Then I saw the tears leaking from his one good eye. He knew. He had delivered his message and now he was done. All that was left was grief. I squeezed his hand.

“I know, buddy, I know. I know.”

I stood up and let his hand slip from mine. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, just above his eye, about the only patch of skin that wasn’t wrapped in bandages. I sniffed and guiltily wiped my own tears away, glancing around to make sure no one had seen. Boston cops don’t cry, much less kiss Polacks.

I stood back from the bed and let out a sigh that came from way down in my gut. Kaz was out, his strength used up by uttering half a word and squeezing my hand. I felt the hardness of the linoleum floor through my feet. The close, warm air of the room brought beads of sweat out on my forehead that dripped down my temples.

It had been a long time since I’d been in a hospital room. I wasn’t counting Doc O’Brien’s office, where I had taken Danny to get his leg stitched up last summer, or even the emergency room, where I’d escorted my fair share of bums, drunks, and Brunos who thought they could take on a guy who knew how to use a billy club with their fists. No, a hospital room was different; it was a place where they stashed you until they killed you or you happened to get well enough to walk out. At least, that’s what most everyone in my family said, ever since somebody’s great-aunt got taken down to Cork and put in a hospital she never came home from. I wasn’t sure about it myself, but the tightening in my stomach now was the same as it was the last time I’d stood at the foot of a bed like this, hat in hand, trying not to cry and feeling the room close in on me. The uniforms had been blue then, and it had been Dad on the bed.

Uncle Dan had picked me up on my beat, siren blasting away, and brought me straight to the hospital. We didn’t know what had happened, just that Dad had been shot and was alive last anyone heard. The place was crawling with cops-out front, in the main lobby, all of them parting like the Red Sea as Uncle Dan looked at everyone and no one, demanding to know where his brother was. Somebody led us up a flight of stairs and down a hall to a room. A room like this: too warm; hard floor; smells of chalky gauze, antiseptic cleaners, and open wounds mingling.

The difference was, Dad could talk. “Bastard couldn’t shoot straight” was the first thing he’d said, wincing with the pain the words brought him. He lay on his side, his right shoulder packed with thick gauze front and back, bandages around his chest and neck holding everything in place. Dried blood the color of rust showed through the gauze, and the sheets were pink where blood had dripped and spread. Dad’s skin was so pale it was almost as if I could see through it to the flesh and muscle beneath. He looked old, weak, and hurt. That scared me more than the bandages.

“A through and through,” Uncle Dan said, his hands clenching and unclenching as his fear turned to anger. “Who did it?”

“Don’t know,” Dad said. “I heard somebody come up behind me from an alleyway, then a click, like a hammer pulled back.” He stopped, closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and then flinched, the act of filling his chest with air causing shredded muscle to shriek in protest.

“I started to turn,” he said, “and then he fired. I went down, heard another shot, but he missed. Must’ve been nervous, there were cops close by.” He closed his eyes again.

“Where?” I asked. “Where were you?”

“A block from the district courthouse, not ten minutes after I left the D Street Station.”

“Did you see the guy?” I asked. I looked at Uncle Dan and saw him exchange glances with Dad, then look at me.

“Naw,” Dad said. “Didn’t see a thing.”

“Who would shoot you two blocks from the courthouse, in broad daylight? And why?” Dad didn’t answer; he just looked at Uncle Dan.

“Well, Billy, I’d say someone who didn’t want your da to get to the courthouse,” Uncle Dan said with slow certainty.

I had a million questions, about open cases and guys getting out of the slammer, but neither of them wanted to talk. Uncle Dan had given me the keys to the squad car and told me to go home and get Mom, tell her everything was OK. I wasn’t so sure it was, but I did as I was told. I took my dad’s hand, something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid, and held it tight. He squeezed it and smiled, a brave smile, and I gave him one back. As I walked out of the room, I turned to pull the door shut behind me. Uncle Dan was already leaning over Dad, nodding his head as Dad whispered to him. I shut the door and walked down the hallway lined with cops-plainclothes and bluecoats-all thankful Dad was all right, patting me on the back and telling me all I had to do was ask if we needed anything. I remember nodding and saying thanks, all the while wondering what had led to an ambush just steps from the South Boston District Court.

Dad was home in a week and we had constant visitors and meals brought in by neighbors and the wives of cops. Everything from corned beef to platters of cold cuts, pickles, and cheese to lasagna and meatloaf. We needed it all, too, with cops visiting Dad at the end of every shift, sometimes just sitting outside on the front stoop, watching the traffic go by, waiting. Uncle Dan brought some of his IRA pals around, too, quiet men in black suits and cloth caps who spoke Gaelic to each other whenever someone they didn’t know came into the room.

The case was never solved. Dad went back to work, desk duty at first, after three weeks at home. Every day after work one of the IRA boys would pick Dad up at the station and drive him home. That went on for a week, then Basher McGee was found floating in Quincy Bay, hands tied behind his back and two slugs in the back of the head. Just like an IRA execution, although no one commented on that. There was a big police funeral, with black armbands, brass, and bands. After that, Dad took the trolley home.