Chapter 15

 

New York, 1976

 

As so often is the case in New York, the bright March morning by 4:00pm had turned into an overcast afternoon. The skies above the city became ominous with wretched gray clouds. Through it had been a profitable day, the impediment of stormy weather and what could prove to be a thorny weekend caused Thomas Devlin to seek a bit of respite. He claimed his car from the downtown garage and drove out to Westchester.

Once he was securely locked inside his own residence, he stripped and headed for the bathroom. He filled the extra deep bathtub to the overflow level with water so hot he gingerly stroked the surface with the toes of one foot before he immersed it. He continued to gradually submerge his body. He left the tap running so the water would maintain its heat.

Then he spread out on his belly. Showers were a necessity but this was an indulgence—the warm liquid lapped about him like he was a fetus in the protected womb of his mother. Roll your face just a bit lad, breathe deeply and you will be safe forever. Nonsense. He groaned. They’d dragged your carcass out, dress it up in a fancy suit, and bury you. And if there really was a heaven and hell—you’d be warm forever lad. Too damn warm.

He’d already disposed of the bankroll O’Neill gave him through the proper channels so it was on it was on its way to Northern Ireland. This arrangement made them both popular with a lot of the Irish American crowd.

Moylan had been freshly baptized with a new name, Richard Quinn, and given proper credentials and was now on his way to Ontario. Still short of thirty, Moylan could play a Canadian for a few years; it beat hell out of landing in a British jail. O’Neill would have a coronary if he realized the man the Brit’s were interested in wasn’t originally named Moylan and he was a munitions expert.

Devlin grinned at an idea he always found comical; that Mike and his cronies really believed their donations to the Northern Aid Society supported only the victims of the endless Irish conflict and not the perpetrators who maintained it.

Things were moving along nicely with John Connors. That lad was exactly the way his sister described him. Shelia had told Devlin, “John’s got this macho image of himself; the prince getting ready to become king. But he’s really an adolescent at heart, always seeking approval, dependent on another man to tell him the correct moves to make. Michael had for years filled the role of bosom buddy but for some reason John stopped trusting him. Or maybe he felt too dependent on him. I don’t know. It could be Dad, he always hated the hold Michael had on John.”

Damn! Thinking about Sheila, Devlin wished he could put a period on that affair. Shelia had become too fucking demanding lately. What had started out, as a now-and-then pleasant encounter with the sexy socialite was becoming an inconvenience. Shelia just showed up on his doorstep whenever she felt like it—usually half plastered. Now this new complication—Andrea Nelson. Maybe to John Connors she was history, but he’d learned that Shelia was Andrea’s close friend. He had done his best to discourage Andrea. Then her trick this morning had taken him unprepared. It wasn’t the casual sex that concerned him; he could fulfill that task without difficulty. But even discounting the fit Shelia would throw if she found out; a lad couldn’t just fuck a judge’s daughter, toss her a few bucks, and walk away.

The steam caused fog to form in the small room while the warm water cradled him. Devlin had decided long ago the sparse moments of pleasure his male prowess provided did not always properly compensate for possessing a body that could trigger embarrassment, discomfort, and even pain. His memory drifted. He was back in Belfast, Northern Ireland and it was 1969.

~~~

 

The pub was old; its ancient bar rubbed smooth by countless elbows. The young men drank their pints and spoke in murmurs simply out of habit not fear of being overheard. “Aye, but you’re an old bloke now.” Tom Devlin chuckled. He raised his pint in tribute to nineteen-year-old Rory Hanlon. Then he set the glass back in its wet imprint on the bar as the racket of banging doors announced a common arrival.

Grim faced, rifles pointed, the uniformed figures barged in. “Grab the walls!” the soldiers ordered.

A room full of reluctant young men jostled each other in their effort to obey. Their hands went palm against the damp wooden surface.

“One hand, ID out and open.”

He had been through the drill countless times. Still, at eighteen, Tom Devlin shivered as leaned into the wall with one hand and held his ID out with the other. No reason to be spooked, he assured himself, but still he shivered.

Beside him, Rory Hanlon stood facing the wall with his arms dangling at his sides. Rory was deliberately ignoring the order. He knew what would happen—it had already happened to several other stubborn fellows in the bar whose intent was to irritate the police.

He groaned. Why did his friend have to be such a hardnosed bloke?

A rifle’s stock slammed into Rory’s spine shoving his belly flush with the wall. A constable extracted the leather folder from his back pocket. A flip, a quick glance, and the call out, “Hanlon!”

It was bad when they called a name. Why had they singled out Rory?

“Turn Hanlon over. This one too. He was with him.”

A baton tapped Devlin’s shoulder.

Spun about, his back connected with the wall. Nausea churned in Tom’s stomach, as his jacket was pulled open. “Lift your arms.” He obeyed and the constable’s hands moved roughly over his body. “Spread your legs.” They unzipped his fly and rudely the fingers roamed beneath his trousers and he blushed in embarrassment. “A pocketknife. A few bob—nothing.”

“Take Hanlon! This bas’ard too!”

Tom trembled at the order referring to him. He tried to complain but his voice refused to work.

Then Rory Hanlon said, “Leave the lad be. Sure, but I’ve only just met him.”

The officer’s baton bloodied Rory’s mouth. The threat followed. “Shut your yap, Hanlon, you both ‘ill do plenty of talkin’ later.