Chapter 65

 

London, England, 1984

 

Just after dawn, a call went from London, England to Palermo, Italy. Though the caller spoke in flawless Italian, the Sicilian operator responded with an aggravated tone. Franco Baumont’s inbred habit of speaking down to underlings caused the irritation.

The tea had a bitter taste this morning. He was nervous. That damn Irish bastard, he thought, was on his case. That’s what was wrong. He shouldn’t be ass-kissing a bloke who had a middle school education. Baumont was no longer in the habit of thinking in his native tongue, so when his party was reached he literally snarled into the mouthpiece in English, “Marco is the shipment leaving on time? Is everything according to schedule?”

“Yes, yes.”

“It better be. You hear me?”

“Of course. Your mama was—”

“Forget my mother! We don’t fart around with these bastards. I have to report a successful delivery by two on Thursday afternoon.”

“Of course,” came the hurried response. “I’ve seen to everything like always.”

“You better. Anything goes wrong…”

“But nothing can,” Marco promised. Then gave a short grunt. “Why are you so disturbed? Why the big worry?”

“You try shaking hands and watching your back at the same time. All you have to concern yourself with is the law, Marco. I’m dealing with the devil.” Franco Andre Baumont the Third replaced the receiver, and then blaming the over-indulgence of the previous night fled to the nearest toilet.

~~~

 

Rory Hanlon returned from another daylong jaunt aboard Baumont’s fancy boat feeling confident in the arrangements he’d made. Franco Baumont’s connections were paying off. Though introduced by Baumont, Hanlon was now able to contact certain people without depending on the irritating young man.

Only a week before, Tom Devlin had been impressed. He hadn’t said so, but Hanlon could see it in the way he acted. Those big shots fawning over Devlin like he was a ‘Second Coming’ while Tom continuously deferred to him. “You talk to Rory about that. Rory will handle that. Rory’s got my full trust.”

Damn it had felt good. How tall I stand. No fucker screaming, “Hanlon move your ass! Hanlon ya jump when I say jump!” First names only, lads. “John meet Rory.” This was how men talked to each other when there was mutual respect. He touched his mouth and realized he was grinning. That was all right he thought, no one around and Rory, lad, you earned it. Even after Devlin left, you held your own with them high fluting blokes buddying up to ya. Not one of ‘em guessed he was shaking hands and making deals with a raunchy old ex-con.

Take them Arabs today, not so long ago a couple of their underlings were kicking his ass now these hot shots were kissing it. Money was no object when you played for high stakes. Helping a man get elected to the presidency of the most powerful country in the world was playing a very wise and profitable hand.

He’d do some celebrating tonight. Maybe after Jock was tended to and Paddy asleep, he’d make that trip up them stairs. Kinda casual like, just inquiring if things were satisfactory…if she was comfortable…

He opened the door of his own flat.

“Shu-ss-ss,” Paddy Thorn, held a finger to his mouth warning, “Papa ‘ick bad.”

“Papa be fine.” Hanlon knew he lied as he gathered the small boy in his arms. Jock Quinn had fought hard since his last stroke, but Hanlon was aware death was hovering close to the old man. He thought he’d prepared himself but how did one prepare a child? “I’ll look in on Pa.”

He set Paddy on his feet with the promise, “Then you and me will take us a walk.”

“The ‘ark?”

“Where ever you’re of a mind to go?” Faithfully Hanlon had taken the boy out each evening that he could make it home. A pathetic sight, with the tiny arm tapped to his chest, Paddy was forced to watch healthy groups of playing youngsters. Now, as the pixie grin spread, Hanlon conceded to himself, the little bloke’s getting better looking; might end up halfway handsome.

When Hanlon entered the bedroom, Sandra Thorn was sponging off Jock’s withered flesh. She smiled with pity at the pretend son. “Been askin’ after you.”

“Jock?” he bent low to whisper, “darn you still on your backside?”

“My guess, I’m staying here too,” was followed by a weak groan. “Lass gone?”

Unaware she was still at the door behind him, Hanlon shook his head yes.

“Ain’t right,” Jock accused. “You beddin’ her?”

“You’re an evil old goat.” Hanlon laughed softly missing the brightly blushing Sandra’s quick flight.

“And you’re a bloody fool. Always knew you were. Lass loves ya—ya blind ass. Boy is more yours than the man that fathered him, God rest his soul.” Such exertion visibly weakened Jock further.

Attempting to calm him, Hanlon rubbed an ancient shoulder and said, “These things take time, and a man’s got to think.”

“With what? You got nothing ta think with. Done all your thinking for ya—gettin’ tired.”

“Sure, Jock, you gotta hang in for the wedding.”

“Goin’ marry Sally?” There was deep satisfaction in his tone but still he said, “Poor lass. She’s an idiot, she mates up with the likes of you.” A fit of coughing came on him and the frail body jerked cruelly with the effort.

Hanlon held a glass to the parched lips as his strong hand slid beneath the wrinkled neck. Jock only sipped a drop when his face turned away and moisture glistened in his colorless eyes and he whimpered like a hurting child. “Mine too—they was mine too.” His head rolled restlessly, the white hair blending into the pillowcase. “Andre Quinn—stupid sounding. Never called him that. Called him Andy, I did. Bloody British Army took two. Tommy, short nineteen years, hadn’t sprouted a beard when they killed him. No more stupid Frenchie names—never let her. Bombed the school—shouldn’t been in it—fancy ass ideas. My fault—I was a weak man.” He began to sob, but shortly strength left and it became a sniffle.

Hanlon fought tears that threatened his own eyes as he went to his knees with the plea, “Jock, don’t die.”

“Tired…So tired—dug-dug—wee nippers had no faces left. Hated that woman.” His sight cleared for an instant and he looked into Hanlon’s eyes and said, “Good lad, they never gave ya a choice. Give our Paddy a chance.” Then the colorless gaze fell open and blank.

Rory Hanlon, alas Richard Quinn, stood up. Gently he closed the starring eyes, the gaping lips, and crossed the withered arms over the sunken chest. He softly touched the parchment cheek in a final farewell before he drew the sheet up over Jock Quinn’s face.

“You’ll see to the necessary calls?”

Sandra Thorn nodded her tear stained face at the pretend son’s plea. Though her smile was touched with pity, she knew a sense of contentment as the man took her small son’s hand in his as he said, “Paddy and me, we got some walking and talking to do.”

~~~

 

They tramped along the ancient sidewalks. How many countless times John Quinn walked this way. His young sons chased each other over these same blocks. English Streets, Hanlon smiled to himself. The old man had cursed his wife with his dying breath, still, she’d tagged the Jock on him and he carried the name to his grave—a stupid silly Frenchie name… Hanlon found sad humor. “See that old tree, Paddy?” He pointed. And they paused to stare up.

The child remained unusually quiet only rolling his head up and down. “You know why the branches grow like that?” Paddy’s nodding switched to back and forth. “Well they grow at different levels. The ones at the top are long and bushy with leaves so they can take a lot of abuse. The ones beneath are younger and stay healthier because the old ones protect them till they finally fall away and the younger ones are ready to take their place. All the way down you can see different groups of limbs each younger and weaker than the ones above, till you only have sprigs. You understand?” He looked down to see a worried frown on the near infant features as the head moved slowly side to side.

“So much for nature,” Hanlon said. “You want fish and chips?” And the tiny head reversed to a rapid up and down as a grin replaced the frown.

He had no appetite but to please the child he ordered the same. As usual, Paddy stopped filling his own mouth every so often to demand, “Papa eat.” Desperately he searched his memory for words a mere toddler might understand. Hanlon came up sadly empty and ordered a second pint of Guinness.

Unexpectedly, the boy climbed down from his own stool and into the man’s lap. The small features pinched in worry, Paddy said, “Other papa gone?”

Taken by surprise, Hanlon repeated the child’s words. “Papa’s gone.”

“You ‘eel bad?” The large blue eyes overflowed and tears dripped on the plump cheeks. “I ‘eel bad too. Mama take me ‘way.” He repeated his own version of what his mother had tried to explain to him several times.

“What? Nobody’s taking you anywhere, lad.” Hanlon’s arms tightened possessively about the small carcass as he promised, “Be some changes. You and your ma will move down with me. Fix up Papa’s room for you. He wanted you to have it. Okay?”

The tiny face beamed as the Paddy Thorn got up on his knees and squealed, “I can ‘tay with you al’ays?” The suffering adult drew a bit of relief from the small arm wrapped around his neck and the warm little cheek pressed against his own.

Then the concern came. How was he going to tell the woman? Tell her, her future was being decided without consulting her. “Best you don’t say anything to your ma,” Hanlon warned. “I’ll do the telling in my time. Don’t you go blurtin’ it out. You keep hushed?”

“Shuss-ss-’ecret.” Paddy’s Thorn’s face was comical as he mimicked the adult’s seriousness and pressed a finger against his lips. The finger felt right, and was allowed entrance into his mouth.

“Secret,” the man agreed, and yanked the finger from the boy’s mouth. “Don’t start on that hand.”