James Benn - Evil for evil

"Nothing much to tell, is there, Colin?"

"No. Last I'd heard of Red Jack, he'd got himself a nice cushy job in Dublin, with the Irish Hospitals' Sweepstake."

"The Irish Sweepstake?" I said. "Doesn't sound like the kind of job an IRA man would have."

"Oh, don't be so fast, Billy," Emmet said. "A lot of those tickets make it to America, don't they?"

"Sure. My dad always bought them."

"And the money has to come back to Ireland. I hear that it was a regular practice to send the IRA money through the same channels so it could be hidden from the American authorities and the Dublin crowd that swallowed the treaty."

"You're well versed in the ways of finance," I said.

"A man who knows how to handle his boat in rough waters ends up learning a lot of things, and no more will I say on the matter. Understand, though, that Red Jack was well regarded by those on the IRA General Staff. You'd do well to watch your back if you're after him."

"Do I need to watch my back when I leave this room?" I asked, feeling the tension flow from Emmet as he leaned in close to me.

"No, no," Emmet said, shaking his head as if waking from a dream. "You've no worries from us, right, Colin?"

"None at all. That's all behind us now. It's come down to the likes of this redheaded fellow threatening us, who have served the same cause. It's a miserable business now, I say."

"Thanks. I'm trying to stop things before they go too far, that's all."

"What has Red Jack done exactly?" Emmet asked.

"Stole fifty automatic weapons from the U.S. Army."

"That sounds like him, it does! Oh, what a grand scoundrel our Red Jack is, and no offense to you, Billy," Emmet said, slapping me on the back. "Reminds me of the old days, or at least the best of them."

"It pays to forget the worst of them," Colin said.

"Aye. Or to try," said Emmet, his eyes searching the floor.

"Can I buy you both a whiskey?" I asked.

"Well, sure you can, and we'll have a toast," Colin said, setting up three glasses and pouring the Bushmills. "To what?"

It was Emmet who spoke. "To those who lived and those who died, whether they be right bastards, thieves, fishermen, bartenders, or Americans. All were brothers once." We touched glasses and drank.

A voice called to Colin that my food was ready, and we locked eyes for a second, unwilling to return to the common world.

"Eat hearty, Billy," he said, putting down the plate of sausages and boxty, which looked and smelled delicious, the meat crisp and glistening from the fry pan, the potato pancake thick and steamy.

"If you come upon any next of kin of Mr. Mahoney, you tell them I have his things all packed up nice and proper."

"What?" I said, dropping my fork.

Colin was an honest man. Eddie Mahoney had left his wallet behind with four twenty-pound notes inside. A driver's license in another name-John Davies-and a few odds and ends made it look like he was a guy named Davies and not a feared IRA killer. He'd left all traces of identity behind when he went out on the heist, figuring to beat it back here for breakfast and then hightail it out.

Of course, Colin could have been too afraid to take the money or maybe there had been more and he left some to divert suspicion. That's the price you pay, I guess, for being a cop. Everyone is suspect, even for apparent honesty. You start wondering what angle the guy's playing. Then, sooner or later, you start wondering why you've stayed honest so long-or at least what passes for honest-when everyone else is bent.

I had my own definition of honest and it didn't include stealing a dead guy's cash, even if it had been left under an assumed identity and he was an outlaw. Those last two things tested me, but I left the money in the wallet. I tossed it aside and went through the rest of the stuff in the box Colin had stashed on a shelf in his storeroom. I moved the box to a small table under the single bare lightbulb that hung from a cord. There wasn't much to see. A shaving kit and a few toiletries. A roll of black electrical tape, a jackknife, and a fountain pen. A dog-eared paperback, Appointment with Death by Agatha Christie, waited for its reader to discover who the murderer was, a page toward the end folded down to mark where he'd left it.

Some objects hold nothing once a person dies. I'd handled his wallet and his toothbrush, and they were just things. But that folded page still held the aura of his hand, the feel of his fingernail on the crease, the expectation of life going on, of another day, the sun shining, a cup of tea, and a paperback waiting to be finished. It was the kind of thing that got to me, more than the big stuff, since life was really made up of little things. The things you kept on your night table. The jackknife in your pocket. The photo you kept in your wallet. The book you were reading.

I fanned the pages to see if anything was hidden but all I got was air. I stuffed the book in my pocket. Someone had to finish it.

A crumpled pack of Senior Service cigarettes still held a couple of butts. He'd probably taken a fresh pack with him. A few hard candies showed he had a sweet tooth, and the stub of a pencil and a crossword puzzle from a month-old London Times told me he was bright but not bright enough to finish it. The only thing left in the box was a book of matches. I grabbed it and idly turned it in my fingers, eyeing the suitcase next. I opened it on the chance something might be stuck inside but all I found were three lonely matches. I closed it and made to toss it into the box but something caught my eye. It was so familiar I almost didn't realize how out of place it was.

I held it under the light and stared at the picture of Warren Spahn, left-handed pitcher for the Boston Braves, our National League team. They gave out matchbooks with pictures of all their top players. They were a dime a dozen in Beantown but I never expected to see one east of Boston Harbor. Spahn had been in the news during his first season with the Braves in '42. He hadn't gotten along with their manager, a guy named Casey Stengel, and was sent down to the minors after refusing to hit a batter. Spahn had enlisted after that season, and for all I knew, he was somewhere in Northern Ireland. Maybe he'd left the matchbook in a bar and Eddie picked it up. However it got here, it was a little bit of home, and I tucked it away in my shirt pocket, thinking of Braves Field on a bright spring day, wondering how long it would be until I watched a game again.

Next was Eddie's suitcase. It was small, well used, scuffed, and worn at the corners. One pair of trousers and a shirt were neatly folded on top, nestled in among undergarments and socks. A scarf and one wool sweater, worn through at the elbows, completed Eddie Mahoney's wardrobe. He traveled light, and given the condition of the suitcase and clothes, I guessed they were secondhand props, used only while on this job for the IRA. Which meant that there wouldn't be anything of value, any evidence, left here. Eddie expected to be back but if he did have anything important in his possession, he would have hidden it. An IRA professional would take precautions out of habit.

"Colin," I shouted over my shoulder, "anyone in his room?"

"It's vacant. Go on up if you want a look," he said, sticking his head in the door. "It's open-just don't leave a mess, will you? First door on the left."

There were four rooms upstairs, two on each side of a narrow hall. I entered Eddie Mahoney's last abode, turned on a light switch, and surveyed the room. Bed against the wall to my left, bureau to my right. Washstand along the wall by the door, and a thick rug on a hardwood floor. A single curtained window straight ahead looked out over the harbor. Next to it was a wooden chair with wide arms and embroidered cushions. Is that where Eddie sat, reading his mystery, waiting?