Chapter 9

 

New York, 1976

 

It was March seventeenth, one hundred ninety-nine years, three months and counting towards the two hundredth birthday of the Red, White and Blue. Thomas Devlin’s eyes focused on the huge flag. Old Glory waved in full splendor atop the sky-reaching pole brightly lit by ground spotlights and planted on the front lawn of the O’Neill estate. Devlin raised his hand to his forehead and gave her a salute. He pulled his car up at the end of the queue.

Devlin scanned his features in the rear view mirror as he practiced the stern scowl he’d been working on for years. ‘The look’; his professors wore it, judges wore it, and even a traffic cop could call it up. But he was a few months shy of thirty, and it didn’t harmonize with the youthfulness of his un-lined face so he ditched it. The breezy grin, which hid the truth from within the spoken word, came naturally. It could remain his companion for a while. He would leave the scowls for his bosses, men like Senator Fitzgerald and the District Attorney Mark Storm. Humorless men who needed to lord it over others to feel powerful.

Winter had relinquished its hold early this year, which felt like a good omen. The new life of spring was evident in the glistening green shades reclaiming the earth. With Nixon a blight on the Republican Party, the final fall of Saigon not a year old, even a wimp astride ‘The Donkey’ could make a run for the Whitehouse. After so many years of an unpopular war, then the rotten stink coming out of the Nixon Whitehouse; Carter had that innocent homeboy appeal the voters were hungry for. They had put the perfect actor on the stage of a conciliatory government attempting to regain its credibility. Devlin smiled. Being a Democrat was looking mighty good.

Tom Devlin’s going to make it big in the good old US of A. He laughed out loud and savored the determination he could hear in the sound. His wiggly worms of nervousness would remain tightly under his control.

“Your debut, lad. Stick a board in your pants if I have to, but you’ll act like a man.” Michael O’Neill’s badgering of that morning remained fresh in Devlin’s mind. Nothing new. When didn’t the son of bitch badger him? O’Neill didn’t need to warn him. Thomas Devlin knew the danger of snuggling with giants; if they rolled over they’d crush you.

Michael O’Neill’s home stood in the distance. A checkerboard of dark-gray stone walls and bright lights. The sprawling structure dominated the landscape.

It had been several years since the first time Thomas Devlin came here. He could still conjure up a good scare when he thought about that day. O’Neill hadn’t portrayed the warm welcoming daddy, grateful to the man delivering his child, like young Devlin had expected.

At Kennedy Airport, Devlin had felt like a stowaway as the big bloke ushered him into the large rear seat of the automobile. It seemed illogical to think of the Lincoln Continental as a car. To a nineteen-year-old never before out of Ireland, everything appeared gigantic in this city of concrete lawns and sky-kissing buildings. The silver auto resembled a bullet plowing through the mass of yellow targets marked taxi that swarmed around it.

O’Neill hardly spoke on the long drive. The chatter of the child Devlin did his best to ignore. He sat alone in the rear seat, wide-eyed and frozen. He was afraid to break an imposed silence.

A wretched outcast, he had followed the giant of a man and the bouncy little girl through the garage doors into the mammoth house. Devlin didn’t know then, what he learned later, that it was disappointment that plagued Michael O’Neill that day. Right up to the last minute when he spotted the impostor, the man had held on to the hope it would be his kid brother getting off that plane. Neither of them had been aware Emanon O’Neill was already dead.

Normally, Thomas Devlin still used that family entrance. It had taken him a while before he realized it was a privilege Michael O’Neill bestowed on few people. Tonight was different. Tonight Devlin turned his car over to a valet and entered like the other guests though the gaily decorated arched doors at the front of the mansion.

A warm night for the middle of March in New York, he encountered a crowd spilling out from the main rooms onto the long terrace. There was no escaping the splendor though for every area was adorned with the tricolor motif for the occasion. Banners of green, white and orange fabric were spread across the length of a prominent wall in each room. Shamrocks and Irish bells adorned tables covered by Irish linen tablecloths. Waterford crystal sparkled beneath chandeliers. Ice sculptures, portraying characters from Ireland’s past, were awarded their own places of honor in the center of sparkling waterfalls of colorful green and orange cocktails.

The desire for a false face left Devlin, replaced by a disgusted frown. This elaborate stage Irish décor didn’t remind him of the island he’d fled at nineteen. Like the tearful voice spieling from the speakers, “Glen to glen and down the mountain side…” it was all garnish.

He grinned as he remembered how Emanon O’Neill, ridiculed his Yankee brother’s yearly Saint Patrick’s Day bash. Mike goes for the glory. That lad never goes for the cheap. For an instant Thomas had to struggle not to laugh as he imagined his boyhood chum Emanon in the middle of all this glamour, unzipping and taking a public pee.

A stranger to most of the guests though many he recognized, Devlin moved through a gauntlet of questioning stares and a few slight acknow-ledgments. Now and then he used one finger lifted to his forehead to give a salute to a portrait of some dead Irish hero. Michael O’Neill didn’t play favorites. A painting of Michael Collins hung beside that of Eamonn deValera, the man rumored to have ordered Collins’ execution.

Devlin stopped between two pillars bedecked in twisted ropes, of green streaked with white ivy, to enter the main banquet rooms. He waited as Michael O’Neill headed towards him.

O’Neill’s trip, hindered now and then by a boisterous hug, a quick peck on a woman’s cheek, a short whispered conversation, took a bit of time and Devlin studied him. Power shouted out with every gesture of Michael O’Neill. His two hundred thirty pounds plus distributed on the bones of an over six-foot-four frame allowed for an unfair advantage. O’Neill rarely looked up to another man. The ginger hair, deep-blue eyes, and alabaster complexion celebrated a Celtic lord of legend.

Devlin grinned as his host approached him. “Christ, Mike, you plan on importing the whole bloody island next year?” He finger-combed an unruly strand of hair from his forehead.

O’Neill poked Devlin’s chest and did a pretend boxer’s shuffle as his answer was accompanied by a rowdy laugh. “Got to play the role on Saint Paddy’s Day; once a year the whole country’s Irish.”

He lifted two glasses from a passing waiter’s tray and handed one to Devlin. “Red Breast, bet you never expected to guzzle that in New York?”

“Never tasted it in Ulster.”

With a sweeping glance over the crowd, O’Neill said, “The whole damn tribe is gathering.”

“For me?” Devlin said recalling O’Neill’s debut promise of that morning.

“Hardly.” O’Neill sneered, tipped his glass and drank deeply. Then he motioned with the glass towards the far side of the room and chuckled. “The Connors clan begins to arrive. Damn, that Kate’s a looker. Pity she’s my cousin. Even Johnny Boy is here.”

Devlin’s eyes cautiously followed the gesture as he asked, “John Connors?”

“Connors, the closest the bastard has come near me since Mark Storm started this union shit!”

“Can’t blame him. You’re not exactly the pride of the Democratic Party right now.”

“Yeah…just you play low key around me. Give the asshole the idea you’re not too fond of The O’Neill. I’m about to move you in on Johnny Boy.”

O’Neill had kept his voice low, now it rose noticeably. “Andrea! Love!” he bellowed. He hurried toward the woman coming through the main alcove into the ballroom.

Devlin, following more leisurely, had caught O’Neill’s last muttered word, “Bitch.”

Women came and went in Michael O’Neill’s life but this attractive black lady Devlin didn’t recognize. A cream color gown set off the rich caramel shade of her skin. With a tight bodice ending at the waist, the fabric cascaded in soft folds to swirl around her hips. As he moved closer, she smiled at him with narrow purple lips set beneath a long patrician nose. Worn high swept and laced with silver frosting, her hair was smooth and dark-chocolate brown. Her eyes flashed with the roving strobe lights and Devlin saw the smile as an established fixture she awarded everyone.

She laughed as if on cue to a remark made to her.

O’Neill’s outsized paw captured her elbow. His lips brushed her cheek. “Been ages,” he said. “Hear you just got in. Have a good flight?” Not allowing for her answer he yelled, “Connors!” And motioned to John Connors.

Devlin had no difficulty placing John Connors. The eldest and prized son of the politically active family had a face that showed up regularly. His wide gleaming smile was captured on the front pages of tabloids as well as legitimate newspapers. His muscular body, topped with a slightly thickened neck, moved upward to a square jawed face that radiated his sex to the point women found him striking. Connors, not surprisingly, also possessed a strong masculine appeal. His handsomeness, which should have fostered jealousy, instead advertised a confidence that men saw as trustworthy.

John Connors eased out of his present conversation. He sported his white trademark beam as he moved to join O’Neill’s forming group.

“John,” O’Neill said. “You know Andrea? Tom,” he waved Devlin closer, “come join my admirers. You three can start up a lynch O’Neill movement.”

“Mike…”

Devlin watched a tightness appear only for an instant at the corners of Connors’ mouth then quickly smooth out and he laughed as O’Neill said, “Forget it John. A sorry joke. This egghead.” O’Neill slapped at Devlin’s back. “Is Mark Storm’s new Wonder Boy. Thomas Devlin meet John Connors. Oh, and of course, Andrea Nelson.”

As Devlin accepted Connors’ offered hand, he noticed how Andrea looked daggers at O’Neill. The lady was clearly pissed off about something. Devlin wondered what as their host tossed a, “Get acquainted,” and rushed off to welcome newly arriving guests.

“John, I’m…”Andrea Nelson halted as if warned by the sharp lift of John Connors’ chin. Instead she turned her attention with its developing smile on Thomas Devlin. “This is a mix-matched group if I ever saw one,” she said. “Where do you fit in?”

Devlin shrugged. “Didn’t know it was required. I’m not much of anybody.” Devlin felt like a specimen under a microscope.

Connors openly considered him. There was curiosity blended with a slight annoyance in the man’s face. Still, he maintained a friendly tone as he said, “Mike doesn’t usually invite without a reason.”

Devlin gave a soft laugh. “I must be the mistake that happened by.” He spread a quick glance around the room to give the impression he wondered himself. “I’m a real small cog in Storm’s office. A paperboy.” He broadened his mischievous grin. “That’s what O’Neill calls me on his better days. With a lady present I can’t repeat what he calls me on a bad day.”

Connors motioned over a waiter circulating with a tray of drinks. His steady glance shifted from Andrea who nodded, yes, to rest again on Devlin. If confronted by that look from O’Neill, Devlin thought, he would have gulped—figured he was about to forfeit his ass or another part of his anatomy. The intimidation ploy lacked the same strength in John Connors. The stare shifted as Devlin held it.

“Stay with this.” Devlin indicated by raising his nearly full glass.

Connors removed two drinks from the waiter’s silver tray. He handed a goblet to Andrea and claimed one himself.

“Sink The O’Neill.” Andrea laughed softly as she offered the toast before she took a swallow of champagne. Both men followed her lead. But Devin knew that neither actually drank to her toast.