Chapter 28

 

New York City, 1981

 

Thomas Devlin slumped on the over-size couch. Like everything in the office/den combination, it broadcasted a masculine flair. He licked at the rim of his glass. Central air kept the room comfortable but made the leather cold against his back and he shivered. Between the plane incident and the time of year, he’d anticipated Mike would call him tonight, so this phone call had been no surprise.

Michael O’Neill had been in the pool when Devlin answered his summons and hadn’t bothered to change. The ivory of the terry robe he now wore blended evenly with his skin. O’Neill only swam indoors for he held no fascination for a sun that freckled him unmercifully. Adjusting the leather recliner, he leaned back and the robe parted. He scratched at the sprinkling of auburn hair that adorned his chest. O’Neill appeared to be in a pensive mood. They knew each other so well, that Devlin didn’t deem it necessary to force conversation. As he waited his memory drifted back to the first time he’d been ushered into this inner sanctum.

He’d had two hundred Yankee dollars and a few pound notes in his pocket and he wore a wrinkled new suit that hung too loosely on his teenage body. O’Neill had barked at him, “Still wet behind the ears and yah dress like you were fuckin’ going to a wake. You need ass-wipin’ too?” Devlin had stammered he was sorry; about what he wasn’t sure. He then proceeded to down each drink as it was poured. For three days after he thought he was going to die. Strangely, it was the big man who tended to him: dumping him under cold shows, forcing food down his throat, cleaning the vomit he splattered all over himself.

That first time was bad. Still other times were worse until he confronted the truth that he couldn’t keep up. He’d be falling down drunk before O’Neill reached his roaring stage. Hampered by size, a foggy brain, and pitiful reflexes, too often Devlin ended up using ice for more than his hangover. ‘I’ll not go near the bastard again’, he would promise himself as he gingerly touched a swollen mouth or traced a purple-yellow stain encircling an eye. But then the phone would ring.

With never the slightest apology, O’Neill would order, “Get your ass on over here. Got a job to keep you humping all summer.” And he would go. For a long time he told himself he went because he had no choice and the big man owned him. As he grew older Devlin stopped lying to himself.

O’Neill had finished off two double shots and was working on his third. The whiskey caused the jaw muscles to sag adding a weary expression to the handsome face. “Your family get in okay?”

Devlin shrugged. “Seamus picked a lousy time to visit. I’m up to my ears. John went out on limb in raising donations for the IGA and it’s not making his daddy too happy. Raymond figures any connection with the ‘Irish troubles’ right now could work against John. The accidental killing of their leaders turned an innocent movement into an undercover network.” Devlin groaned. “Figure that one. So we have to distance the Connors’ from them in one big hurry.

“Pat O’Donnell came to the rescue—he took Seamus and the boys up to Canada for few days.”

O’Neill took a deep pull on the whiskey. “With Ann and the kid gone this house is a morgue. I’d kind of like to see Colin’s brother—was just a little fellow when I left Ireland. Drop them here when they get back. Dede’s got plenty of junk that those boys will enjoy.”

O’Neill’s mind seemed to shift gears. “If my kid had been on that plane I’d have blown the whole stinkin’ island ta hell.”

Devlin didn’t question which island. And Annie? He knew the other man would never say that’s what he meant. Men easily admitted emotional concerns for women they were legally bonded to, like a mother, a daughter, a wife—but a girlfriend. He eyeballed his glass that O’Neill was freshening; already he was feeling the effects of the first one. He wondered why he didn’t just tell Mike about the ulcer; why had he never told him. He still didn’t. Mike wanted to see Seamus? That was strange—well maybe not. After all Seamus and Mike’s kid brother Emanon had been close friends.

“Been thinking about it all day. ‘Bout how the kid died. Blown from the rear he never seen it coming.” O’Neill tipped his glass and emptied it.

“It was a lousy time. Catholics still believed the British Army had come to rescue them from the RUC. The Protestants had gone a bit berserk thinking the British government was betraying them. You ever been in a riot, Mike? Everybody’s crazy. No logic just insane panic. Bound to bring on sacrifices because the law’s not immune either.”

“Sacrifice! Shit! It sucks to go that young. Like he never lived.” Noticing Devlin’s nearly full glass, he ordered, “Drink up,” before he refilled his own. “That kid lived.” O’Neill corrected himself. “All the time grinning. Funniest wean I ever saw. Round and fat couldn’t close his legs ‘til he learned to walk. You know I was nearly fourteen before Emanon was born. More like a son than a brother.”

Devlin just shook his head in agreement not mentioning how he’d heard it all before—so many times before. “Fine lad he was. Tended me like a nurse time the law laid the fear of the Almighty on this hide. Never knew a finer lad.”

“Aye, he was that.” O’Neill rubbed the half empty quart across his brow. “Always seeing to others Emanon was.” He snorted and poured. Then in a flash of memory grinned. “Took ‘em fishin’ time or two. First when ‘e was no more than a whelp. All over the bloody boat he was. Got so mad, I threw him in. Damn, when I pulled him out wasn’t he laughing. Don’t ‘e turn round and jump back in. Loved it; fuckin’ swam like a fish.”

“Never knew he could swim.” Seemed important to a man who could not. Devlin added, “Never said he could.”

“Damn! Didn’t I just tell yah? Never a lesson, mind yah, lad knew to do things right. Bloody girl—spend a fortune on lessons. Wish they’d a lesson to train her mouth. You’re a lucky lad Tom Devlin—you got no kids.” O’Neill emphasized by refilling their glasses and toasting.

 As if struck by a sudden pain, Tom closed his eyes and whispered, “Shouldn’t a murdered him. Ain’t right to kill a lad like that.” Devlin knew he had crossed the imaginary line he decided on years ago. Why tonight? He drew breathe deeply through his nostrils, swiped at his forehead with the glass-filled hand. His words were slurring now. “Weren’t right. Fuckin’ well killed ‘em for no reason. Sure, now, Mike wished it’d been me instead.”

“Cut that crap! Don’t wanna hear it.”

“Sure, Mike, sorry.” Devlin hunted a hanky in his pants pocket, an old habit, located only his billfold and forgot what he was after while he sucked at his drink. “Pity,” he moaned, “good gotta die young.”

“Damn!” O’Neill bellowed as he leaned forward and grabbed the front of Devlin’s shirt. “Why’d ya say that fuckin’ thing?”

His foggy brain warning him not to struggle, Devlin squealed. “Sorry, Mike, it’s a stupid saying—don’t mean nothing.”

And the big man’s fingers let loose and smoothed the crushed fabric of Devlin’s shirt. “Here, lad, drink up. You’re slow tonight. My pa.” He could never forget. “He said that asshole thing ta me the night the kid died. Called to tell me that. There I was sobbing like a blooming babe and my own daddy, he says to me, stay there—ain’t nothing for you here. I’m sending your nipper to you. I’ve got nothing left to give. Like I’d be askin’ him for somethin’. Me ask him!”

“Sure, but you’d already sent for the lass.”

“Not so. Not that way at all. Wanted the lad with me. Figured if Emanon brought Dede, he’d end up staying himself.” Tears trickled unmolested down his cheeks. “Damnit, Tom, if he’d listen to me—come.”

“No good, Mike, can’t be blamin’ yourself.” Devlin slid down on his side mumbling, “Can’t count ifs.”

O’Neill’s chin drooped on his chest. “Told me tah keep my nipper, he did. And ain’t he been draggin’ her back ever since.” Then he moaned. “Still hunting for pieces. Not a whole friggin’ body’s been found. Not a face a pa could recognize.”

“The way she blew. Forget the damn plane, Mike.” Devlin slipped the rest of his way down on his back. Carefully he propped the nearly full glass on his belly. One way or another, he thought, I always end up on my backside, and he chuckled.

“What the fuck yah laughing at?” O’Neill snorted. “Human beings turned in ta fish food? You’re a sick man, Tom Devlin, a sick man.” He discovered one drink left in his bottle.

“Called Pa today. My kid’s nuts,” he grumbled. “Spends the better part-o-the-year staying as far from me as she can manage, both in the same house. Not gone a couple a days, from an ocean away, she blubbers, ‘Daddy I miss you’. Puts on the act, Dede does, for the old man. All sweetness and light ‘round him. Round you too, bastard.” He attempted to glare at Tom but his muscles couldn’t hold it.

“Not true. She bullies old Tom worse than you. You got a mean—”

“Don’t you go callin’ my kid no dirty names. Sure’n I don’t bully you no how. Jack your ass now and then—keeps yah straight. Use ta clobber the kid, not often, never cried though. Stand there looking at me with those big eyes. Made me feel like shit for hittin’ him. Didn’t cry, didn’t sulk, weren’t no red-ass like you.”

“Right ya are.” Devlin was only tonguing words to fill in O’Neill’s now and then gaps.

“Remember those eyes, Tom? Were his eyes open when he died, Tom?”

“Weren’t there. I wanted to stay. Your pa made me leave. Said that’s what Emanon wanted.”

“Forget—forget—I wasn’t even there. More like a son than a brother. Never wanted a son, never thought about it. You want a son, Tom?”

~~~

 

Devlin couldn’t answer. His mouth was gaping and he was breathing noisily through it.

“Damn kid.” O’Neill pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. He attempted to rescue the glass, lost it somewhere between Devlin’s belly and the desk but didn’t notice. Bracing himself with one palm on the wall, he yanked off Devlin’s loafers and stripped away the man’s belt. The buttons at his waist gave him trouble and he swore. “Wear your fuckin’ britches too tight.” He popped the buttons as he yanked the zipper. With a check of the open collar, to make certain if the man puked he wouldn’t strangle, O’Neill stumbled his way to the closet. He drew out a comforter that he tossed over Devlin. Switching off the light, he used the walls for balance until he made his bedroom.

~~~

 

Devlin came awake as the first howl rang through the darkness. Only Tom Devlin had ever heard the pain when the big man cried. Opening his eyes he stared through a murky haze as his own tears welled up. He was keenly aware why Michael O’Neill needed him. O’Neill couldn’t bury his kid brother. Tom Devlin remembered how he couldn’t wait for his friend to die. He felt that he’d fled Ulster bearing Emanon’s spirit along with his identity. Tom Devlin couldn’t bury Emanon O’Neill either.