Unknown - 22_Cat_In_An_Ultramarine_Scheme

“She’d seduce a stump for the cause,” Mulroney said, rolling his eyes, “except us boyos. Said she didn’t want to stir dissension among us. We got not a bit of it, just the money from her ‘adventures.’ When the doings in Ulster simmered down, and the U.S. money slowed down even for the alternative IRA after nine/eleven, she was off to any Catholic country she could find to ‘recruit’ wealthy Irish émigrés her own way, on her back. She screwed her way across the U.S., of course, and Canada, Australia, Argentina, New Zealand, Mexico, South Africa, Brazil, even the Caribbean and Continental Europe.”

Liam nodded. “She traveled constantly the last years after the settlement in ninety-eight. Always a faithful source of supply, no matter the mood of the moment.”

“And then she disappeared,” Max suggested.

“Spectacularly,” Liam said. “She was talkin’ about sending us a bloody fortune and even a shipment of smuggled assault weapons from Mexico. Had us all salivating. Then … the Peace Agreement happened, to the surprise of most of the world, including us.”

“The most surprising thing,” Max said, “is that the Agreement has worked.”

“Nine/eleven did us in,” Mulroney said, shaking his head. “Our cause was just, and our people had paid with their lives and souls and hearts over centuries of oppression, but that mass destruction of what would be a fair-size town here, of seeing the same New York City that had finally allowed our immigrants to thrive have its tallest buildings attacked from the top, the very sky—”

“It shook our souls,” Flanagan allowed.

“The IRA listened to the widows,” Finn said, “our own and others from all over the world.”

Max nodded.

“That doesn’t mean,” came Liam’s slow, soft voice, “that we’re willin’ to surrender what’s ours. Guns, yes. Money … no. We have our widows-and-orphans fund, with plenty in need, and our own loyal boyos maimed or their minds frayed like denim at the knees.”

“You want Kathleen’s score,” Max said.

Liam’s pale eyes glinted. “Correct. You don’t be needin’ to put any polish on it, as you see. That money was donated by our American kin. We need it for putting our people right here in Ulster.”

“And you think we’d know its whereabouts?” Gandolph asked.

“I think if you don’t, you’d know how to find it.”

“The woman is dead!” Gandolph said. “My friend was almost killed.”

“And why would that be?”

“Some avenging Irish soul from the past, perhaps?” Gandolph was now taking over negotiations.

Max realized they had played these roles before—one leading, one subsiding, always in tune, always partners. He watched the older man as Liam would see him: shrewd, a bargainer, a man with the confidence of unspoken but serious connections and faith in his partner.

Damn! Max thought. I am a lucky man.

And he wondered if he’d been as lucky in love recently, and his traitorous memory also had betrayed him there.

“You both know Las Vegas,” Liam was saying. “We’d go there ourselves, but we’re village boys, as lost there as those be-damned nine/eleven terrorists who wanted a last girly show for all their hatred of the West.”

“You’re expecting my friend,” Gandolph said, “to go back to where he was almost killed?”

Liam eyed Max. “He was ‘almost killed’ a lot of places and had the nerve to come back here, didn’t he?”

“We know and honor loyalty,” Flanagan put in. “It’s kept us alive long enough to see peace. We just want what’s ours.”

“What do you want?” Liam asked.

“The whole truth about Kathleen O’Connor,” Max said. “That woman dogged my life from boyhood on and created plenty of collateral damage.”

“You lived to see her dead, man,” Liam urged. “Let her go.”

“People died because of her. I killed indirectly because of her. Truth is still truth,” Max said, “and we haven’t found all of it.”

“Granted,” Liam said. “We can help you find what you want, if you find, and deliver, what we want.”

“How are we to know the money is for the community good, as you claim?” Max asked.

“We are all brothers of Erin,” said Liam.

“Money is the root of all evil,” Max answered. “Neither my friend nor I need Kathleen’s … dark dowry. If we find it, we could donate it to the organization of your choosing.”

“And ask if we trust all the bureaucrats who run cities and countries any more than we trust you two.”

“We’ll be in Belfast a while longer,” Gandolph said. “I’m sure we can negotiate further.”

“And you have other contacts here willin’ to lay out Kathleen’s trail of broken hearts and blood money?” quiet Flanagan said, slamming a fist to the tabletop.

“Perhaps,” Gandolph said. “You of all men know that negotiations are always open and situations change and men’s motives and hearts with that.” He stirred to get up, being older and more likely to telegraph his intentions.

Liam and his friends leaned tight across the table as the headman spoke. “You’re not leavin’ until you commit to a deal. We’re alone here and outnumber you, a cripple and an old man who’s not been out in the field for too many years.”

Max stood, pushing the wooden table over on them as Gandolph drew two collapsible metal canes from his trench-coat pockets and snapped them to full length into stiffening steel whips.

By then Max had smashed two pint glasses on the table’s downed edge and was holding them like jagged glass fists.

The pair backed to the door, an eye on the barkeep, wary behind his sleeve-polished wooden barrier. The reek of spilled beer steamed up from the damp wood like purified piss.

Max and Gandolph pushed open the heavy pub door with their backs and inhaled the night chill and mist on matching deep breaths.

“They let us go because they can find us anytime they want,” Gandolph said, after a deep gulp of air.

“And we them.” Max darted his eyes up to the lit-up pub name above. O’Flaherty’s.

“It’s good to have contacts on both sides of the law,” Gandolph said. “Peace doesn’t mean total harmony.”

“We don’t need Kathleen’s blood money,” Max agreed, “but we need to find out more about where it came from and where it is now. We know she was haunting our backyard recently. Damned if this little set-to hasn’t exercised my memory as well as my legs. Don’t tell me I’m going to have to go back to Vegas to track down the last bloody acts of Kitty the Cutter and look up that little redheaded spitfire you like so much.”

“Oh, Max,” Gandolph said, mopping his brow with a fine white linen handkerchief he pulled from a breast pocket. “You’ll be the death of me yet.”

“Meanwhile, let’s get the hell back to our hotel,” Max proposed.

“And pick up a Big Mac on the way.’ ”

“I hope you’re referring to a firearm.”

“Sounds like we’d have better luck at that back in Vegas, after all.”

Getting Their Irish Up

Blackie and Blackjack (people are so unimaginative in coining street monikers for strays, but that is how I was named, back in my Palo Alto days) are running alongside me now that we are in the tunnel, aka Chunnel.

“This is a terrific shortcut, Mr. Midnight,” Blackie tells me. (I have instructed them in proper protocol and respect.)

“I love all these wall-to-wall billboards,” Blackjack adds. “I love to watch people-fights.”

“The urge is mutual among species, unfortunately,” I say. “But these images are from motion pictures. They form what is called a diorama, and when those tracks are filled with automated vintage cars, the place will be Slaughter City for ignorant cross-traffic. Keep your eyes peeled for rats and cut the chatter. We need to save our wind for a long subterranean journey with a pyramid climb at the end of it.”