Rick Boyer: Billingsgate Shoal

"Yeah I know this isn't my jurisdiction, but I am a law officer. Matter of fact I am Chief of Police, OK? And this is Detective Lieutenant Joseph Brindelli of the-huh, you know him? Well good because we're here to stay."

Brian Hannon, my brother-in-law in tow, stomped around the corner of the building and toward me. He was flicking his eyes everywhere, his trenchcoat flapping open in the wind of his walking. He stuffed a Lucky into his mouth and cranked fire to his Zippo, trailing clouds of pale blue smoke behind him. Joe gambled along in his wake, murmuring apologies and explanations to the local officers.

"We're gonna nail this thing down. Bell, Donnato, get moving. Each of you take a building. We're gonna swarm over this place like flies on dogshit."

I waved my arms and they caught sight of me. DeGroot, bless his heart, had called them after the alarm went off, only he'd waited thirty-five minutes first just to make sure I was overdue. I confided to Joe that I did not feel like answering questions and leading the fuzz all over Cordage Park, showing them exactly what happened, how, when, and why. But he told me I bloody well would have to, and to bear up nobly under it, and that he and his loudmouth friend-this was said in a whisper-would stand by me.

And so I told the whole thing, from the time I left the Whimsea in the dead of night until the first police cruiser arrived and spotted me hunched over O'Shaughnessey's prostrate form.

"And the other man," asked Brian, "the big man you say is an IRA Provo. You have any idea where he might have gone?"

"Laura Kincaid mentioned a boat called the Coquette. It was to be their escape. You might alert the Coast Guard and tell them to be on the lookout for it. I have a hunch it's on the big side. I kind of hope the guy gets away, this time anyway. He saved my life."

We called Mary and she wept. But she was glad to hear Schilling was put away for keeps. Then we got into Brian's car to head for home. I saw a cabin cruiser swing into the dock. DeGroot flung a line to a waiting cop and seconds later was jogging down the pier toward us. He rapped on the window and I rolled it down.

"I see you're OK, Doc. Anything happen?"

"Nah."

"For a minute I was worried. I was listening to the VHF a minute ago; there was an explosion not far from here. For a second I thought you-"

"Where?"

"Some boat ten miles offshore from here. Blew apart and sank."

"Was her name Coquette?"

"How'd you know?"

"I'll bet you that blue and white boat we saw last night had something to do with it. Did anyone report seeing it'?"

He shrugged his shoulders and then asked what all the blankets were for.

"To cover the bodies, you dummy. Listen, thanks for calling for help. Can you make it back to Cape Ann alone? I gotta go home and rest. I've been puking and bleeding too much."

At home I hugged Mary hard and lowered most of myself into a warm bath. I sat there and soaked and poured a hot toddy into self, telling her everything. She stared wide-eyed at me, shaking her head slowly, murmuring. Then I crawled into bed and passed out. I awoke in late afternoon.

The phone rang. It was the Globe. They wanted the story on how I'd smashed the gun-running ring. I told them to speak with Brian Hannon. That would keep them busy. It rang again. It was a man with a husky voice and thick accent.

"Gott-damn good, Doc! You chop them up really good, eh!"

"Who the hell's this?"

"Roantis."

"Hi, Liatis."

"You chop them up real good. Nice"

"I heard you were in some kind of trouble. Tommy told me. You OK now'?"

"Hmmm. I got to go to trial. Dat's all."

"How's the uh, guy you hit?"

There was an uncomfortable silence. I heard him sigh in a resigned way.

"Well Doc. I gott some bad news I tink-"

"Oh God. You mean he's dead?" `

"No. He lived."

"Now c'mon, Liatis-"

"No dat's the bad news. He dint die. I'm getting too old to fight I tink. But other real bad news, Doc. The boy was killed with you, he was Tomrny's nephew."

I sat up in bed. I felt too weak to hold the phone.

"Liatis, don't kid me."

"ReaIly, Doc. It was Tommy Desmond's li'l nephew. The cops they found out it was Larry Heeney."

"I didn't know Tommy even had a nephew."

"I dint either. But he was."

"Tommy's gonna kill me, Liatis. But honest, I didn't-"

"No Doc. He's proud of you. Dint you know where those guns were going?"

"Uh huh. They were going to Ireland,. to be used against the Republic-"

"Yeah Doc. That's what Tommy told me. They been after this bunch for years now. And that man was with you, who was also shot?"

"Stephen O'Shaughnessey-"

"Yeah. He is with the Irish police I tink."

"Right. And who told you all this stuff, Liatis?"

"Ask Tommy; Desmond. But I tink you did real good, Doc. Nice job the way you chop them 'up."

"Thanks, Liatis. You've made my day."

I lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling. I wondered what Tommy Desmond had to tell me. How much had he known all along about the IRA's operations in America, especially in Boston and Southie? But I didn't have long to consider it because the phone rang again. It was Brian Hannon, telling me the press was all over him and his staff, and could I get down there, too, because I was in part responsible for cracking the whole thing. In part… "

"In part? Gee, Brian, I'm glad you saw fit to mention my name."

"Hey c'mon, haven't I always given you a fair shake?"

I finally had my brother-in-1aw right where I wanted him: in the rearmost booth of Frankie Caeserids Happy Landings saloon in Marblehead, Mass. We were busy killing brain cells. When I estimated the Body Count was to my liking, I was going to make a suggestion to him. The proverbial "offer he couldn't refuse."

It was three-thirty, peee emmm. The few sailing boats left in Marblehead Harbor rode on the gray slick outside the picture window of the Happy Landings. A bevy of local housewives were drinking and laughing up front, at the stand-up bar. They all had tennis outfits on, having no doubt just come from lessons given at one of the indoor clubs. They wore little skirts that flipped up when they wiggled their hips, and showed their panties underneath. Joe and I liked this, and kept our eyes glued on the set of thirtyish women, some with tipped hair, who shook and strutted at the old-time men's bar. We waited-like buzzards on a limb-for a glimpse of the curve of buttocks, the smooth sweep of inner thigh, the bounce and jiggle of bosom.

Middle age is a terrible, terrible affliction. Thank God Senility, Decrepitude, and Death put a stop to it.

"Another drink, gentlemen?" asked the cocktail waitress, who had a pretty interesting outfit herself.

"Gee…" Joe began, "I really don't think-"

"Sure, why not? I'm buying. Two more of the same."

She grinned and took the two tall-stemmed glasses back with her. She switched away from us, wearing an exaggerated (and, I might add, extremely abbreviated) eighteenth-century maid's uniform. It was sexist and tacky and revealing. It was extremely popular. I saw she was wearing the shiny pantyhose that I like so much. The ones worn by barmaids and stewardesses on the less-well-known airlines. The ones that catch all the shiny highlights of the legs, and feel slick to the touch if you happen to brush across them. The ones Mary maintains are cheap and tawdry. Yep, they're my favorite.

Via several longish talks with O'Shaughnessey, I'd found out a lot about the Kincaid/Schilling outfit during the past week. Some of the interesting stuff confirmed early suspicions I'd had. For example, the Laura Kincaid/James Schilling affair. Perhaps it was Laura Kincaid's expensive face 1ift operation and her desire-her fetish rather-to remain imperially slim that planted the initial seed of suspicion. Certainly it was remarkably parallel to Schilling's quest for physical perfection and eternal youth. Walter Kincaid had borne the affair for some time with an almost parental patience and aloofness. But finally his pride and possessiveness forced him to fire Schilling. The fact that his wife didn't file for divorce and follow her lover must have told Kincaid something, i.e., that she placed extreme value on her plush surroundings. To give up Walter Kincaid was to part with the fortune he'd made. So they lived together much as she had described when we first met, with her taking off for long-and not-so-secretive-weekends with Schilling while he spent his spare time aboard the Windhover searching for artifacts and treasure.