Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
The middle-aged man from Northern Ireland stepped out of the cab, looked up at the building in front of him, and read the sign.
Kearney and Sons Funeral Home
At the front door he took off his hat and paused.
This was Boston, South Dorchester, and Campbell Coyle had been in America for less than three hours. The jet lag would hit him later, but he’d fight it, and he’d be fine.
He’d been to Boston before, working, but never had he been to this place, with his hat in hand, asking for a favor from a man he did not know.
He didn’t like the feeling of others being involved in his business; he had been comfortable in hiding, using a fake name, living a fake life.
But he’d deemed today necessary, so here he was, standing in the snow, hesitating a moment before opening the door.
But open the door he did, and when he entered, he put a calm smile on his face and lifted his chin.
The lobby was empty, fake flowers in massive urns, a reception desk unattended.
Soft music played, piped over a sound system in the ceiling.
Coyle saw no evidence of a funeral going on right now, so he suspected the somber music was a constant around here. Families came to buy caskets and such, so the music had to remain fitting to the situation.
“Can I help you?” The accent was all Boston.
Coyle tracked the voice to one of a pair of men walking up a hallway on his right.
Both men were in their thirties; they both wore dark gray suits that looked off-the-rack but fit well enough.
One of the two was slightly taller; the shorter one had a mustache, but otherwise they were nearly indistinguishable, so Campbell Coyle took them to be brothers.
He was expected, so he said, “Jon Jo Sheehan, here for Mr. Kearney.”
Both men continued approaching him. The shorter of the two appeared a little older, and he said, “My brother will take your hat and coat, sir.”
As the taller of the pair reached out for the coat, Coyle caught sight of the grip of a single-stack Glock pistol in the man’s shoulder holster.
Coyle himself was unarmed, which was good, because after his hat and coat were taken, he was thoroughly frisked by the shorter of the two men.
The search of his body was done without comment or ceremony.
Strange behavior for a funeral home, Coyle thought, but all three of these men knew there was much more to this place than met the eye.
Soon he was led out of the lobby, down the hall, and into a back office that telegraphed to Coyle that the occupant of it didn’t make his money exclusively by burying the dead of South Dorchester.
It was as opulent as it was expansive, with luxurious-looking leather furniture in a seating area, and a long bar across one wall.
A man sitting at the bar looking at his cell phone rose and walked quickly to Coyle, with a spry step out of place for the surroundings, and also out of tune with his appearance.
The man was well into his seventies, heavyset, bearded, with reddish and gray hair swirled around the top of his head as if he’d just survived a tornado.
He wore a turtleneck sweater that looked expensive, and black suede slippers with the image of dancing skeletons stitched into the tops. His corduroy pants were baggy, but the watch on his wrist, just visible from under the cuff of the sweater, appeared to be a gold Rolex.
The old man shook Coyle’s hand with a smile. “Welcome to Boston. We spoke on the phone yesterday. My name is Gerry Kearney.” Kearney had an Irish accent to anyone here from the United States, but to Coyle he sounded American.
And Campbell Coyle hadn’t needed this man to introduce himself. He was the sole reason Coyle had come to Boston.
“Mr. Kearney, thank you for seeing me.”
“Mr. Sheehan, it’s a pleasure.”
“It’s Coyle, of course, as I mentioned on the phone.”
The older man smiled, raised an eyebrow. “Is it now? We’re about to find out about that.”
Coyle felt the presence of the two men who’d led him here; they were now standing very close behind him. Well within striking distance, and the Northern Irishman understood they might get orders to do just that at any time.
“So…” Kearney said, “you claim to be the son of Rory fucking Coyle, I’ve got that right, do I?”
“I am.”
“I don’t know you, and I’m not the type to trust any young fella who saunters into my place of business claiming to be the spawn of the finest man with the biggest balls to have ever walked this godforsaken earth.”
“I didn’t bring any family photos, and he died when I was fifteen.”
Kearney said, “If you’re Rory Coyle’s son…tell me, what years was he at Long Kesh?”
Long Kesh was an infamous prison in County Down, in the southeastern part of Northern Ireland. Originally an RAF base, it had been converted to hold IRA prisoners by the British.
Coyle thought a moment. “He was put in an H-Block right after I was born. Late seventies, that would be. Was there for the hunger strike, did forty-six days before it ended. He got out when I was five, which was the first time I met him.” After saying this, Coyle jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Don’t suppose one of these blokes has a calculator in his shoulder holster, but we can figure out the years. ”
Kearney smiled at this. Coyle knew he’d passed the first challenge. He said, “Your dear mother. Her name?”
“Margaret.”
“What did everybody call her?”
“I called her Ma, as did my brother. Everyone else called her Mags.”
Now the Bostonian nodded a little. He asked, “Where did Rory meet her?”
“In East Belfast. A pub in Short Strand, or so I’m told. Neither of them talked about that much, so I knew better than to ask more questions.”
Kearney smiled at this a little. “Aye. Best you don’t. I was there, though I was a wee boy, had no business in a pub myself.” He added, “It was young love between them, but it was love. I saw it blossom myself. Rory was a tough bastard rendered weak by Mags, if only momentarily.”
Campbell Coyle said nothing.
Kearney continued with the vetting process. “Think back now, lad. There was a man with a scar. A ginger. Always ran around with your pop. Quiet, didn’t drink, not a drop, unlike the rest of us. You remember anyone like that?”
“Aye. I was young, but that scar was hard to forget.”
“From the butt of a British soldier’s ArmaLite, taken right to the cheekbone.”
Coyle said, “He was missing some teeth, too, if memory serves.”
Kearney grinned now. “Your memory serves you well. Now…the scarred man’s name?”
“Robbie.”
“Robbie what?”
Coyle thought back. “He was just ‘Uncle Robbie’ to me. Always brought me and my brother sweets or crisps, he did. If I saw him, I knew I was getting a treat.”
Kearney gave a gentle wave of his hand. Coyle was confused by it but quickly felt the men behind him melt back and away, until the door to the big office shut behind them and they were gone.
The old man said, “Well, lad, your Uncle Robbie’s name was Robbie Kearney, and he was my much beloved brother. ”
Coyle nodded. “I quite liked him. A gentle soul.”
“Not to the British, he wasn’t. Rory and Robbie were the terrors of Belfast for a while, they were.” Kearney said this with a twinkle in his eye.
“He’s still among the living, I hope?” It was said as a question.
“No, no. Died 2008. Natural causes for an Irishman. Smoking, backbreaking labor, fried food.” Kearney waved a hand around the funeral home. “The kind of behavior that keeps me in business, even now, even here.”
“Right.”
Kearney led Coyle to a leather sofa, and they sat down together. The old man said, “You passed the test. An honor to meet you.”
“You, too.”
“Cup of tea?”
“No, thanks. I can’t stay long.”
“Your father, quite a legend, he was. He was the best. My brother ran with him for years before your da moved to Derry. I was younger. I only knew your pop a little, you understand, but Robbie loved him, and I loved Robbie.”
With sadness in his eyes, he said, “I moved to America when I turned eighteen; Robbie and Rory were in their twenties, fighting the British. I’ve never forgiven myself for leaving the cause behind.”
Coyle wanted to say he wished his da had gone to America and left the cause behind, but he did not.
Kearney said, “Now…how can I help you, young Campbell, son of the magnificent Rory?”
This, Coyle knew, was the moment of truth.
He said, “I’m here in America to do a series of jobs.
I don’t know how long it will take. Might be weeks.
Hopefully less. I’ll be paid well for my efforts here.
The work will be dangerous, and the people I’ll work for are not to be trusted, if you get my meaning. ”
Kearney’s look gave nothing away. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Go on.”
“If you could loan me a small but solid crew of men to watch my back while I work, then all that I am paid, every dollar, I will give to you.”
“That doesn’t sound like a shrewd business plan on your part.”
“I’m not here in America to make money. I’m here to find someone. I’ll work for these other blokes, but only until I find who I came for. When I do, I’ll do what I have to do, and then I’ll go back home.”
“You’re asking me for men. Why is that? I mean to say…most people don’t go to a funeral director when they’re looking for a crew of soldiers.”
“Everyone knows Gerry Kearney runs the syndicate in South Dorchester.”
“If everyone knew that, I’d be in prison, wouldn’t I? How is it you know?”
Coyle shrugged. “I’d heard rumors. I asked around.”
“Asked who?” Kearney said, a deeper tone to his voice.
“Bill Tully, for one.”
The tone remained dark. “Tell me, how is Bill?”
“Good when I ran into him. Not so good when I left him.”
“Sent him to the doctor, did you?”
“Only to pronounce him dead.”
Now Kearney’s eyes narrowed. “You killed him?”
“Aye.”
“Who are you, then? Other than Rory’s son?”
“You know who Rory was, yeah?”
“I do.”
“Well, you might say that I’m a chip off that old block, except I’ve done it for money, not for a cause; I’ve done it all over the world, not just in Ulster and London; and I’ve done it for double the time my da did it before they got him.”
Coyle added, “Nobody’s got me.”
Gerry Kearney took all this in. “You’re an Irish Republican dissident?”
A shake of the head. “I don’t fight for that lost cause.”
“Then…then you’re some sort of a contract killer.”
“Aye.”
“And you’ve killin’ to do here.”
“Heaps of it, or so they tell me.”
The old man put his hands on his knees, let out a big sigh.
“The syndicate here isn’t what it used to be.
Twenty-five years ago, we were big. Now we’re a shadow of what we once were.
If I’d one hundred men, I’d hand them over to you right now, both for being Rory’s boy and for fucking up Bill Tully. But the truth is—”
Coyle interrupted. “The two who brought me in to see you just now. They’ll do fine. Another pair who look just as keen for action.
“Four men,” Coyle said. “Four capable men is all I ask.”
Kearney thought a moment. “Those at the front? The Donnelly brothers. Jack and Alfie. They’re good, the both of them.
They’ve done dirty work, as I suspect you’ve figured out.
I’ll also throw in the Walsh boys for you.
Three lads, a little younger, but wicked smart.
Able. Can have them here, bags packed, in an hour. ”
“These Walsh boys can handle themselves?”
“Aye. Gavin, Barry, and Nolan. Nolan’s just a lad. Twenty-three, twenty-four. But he’s loyal. His brothers are older; they’ve been heavies for me for years.”
“They know guns?”
“It’s America, son. We all know guns. I’ll outfit them. You, too, if you need it.”
“That would be grand,” Coyle said. “Pistols only. I can pay.”
“Your money’s no good here.”
Coyle said, “Then…what do you want in return?”
Gerry Kearney took Campbell Coyle’s hand, squeezed it tight. “I want to go to my grave knowing I did something for the great Roderick Coyle. Even posthumously. My big brother’s best friend. And the man I wish I was.”
Kearney’s eyes misted as he released his grip. Coyle thought this bloke seemed to like his father much more than he himself did.
Coyle said, “The money I make in America is yours, there’s no debating that. I’m on a different mission. But we have to leave today. I have a meeting in Washington, and I want those five heavies of yours watching my back, because you can best believe I won’t be trusting anyone else.”
Kearney agreed, and the two men stood. The older man said, “I wish you all the luck. But…whatever you’re here to do, if you don’t make it back alive, young Campbell, it would be my great honor to handle your burial, free of charge, of course. There’s a nice plot at St. Michael, where—”
Coyle interrupted. “Much appreciated, but we’ve a family plot, up north in County Antrim. Haven’t been there in ages, but nevertheless, I’ve family there, and something tells me that’s where I should be planted for the ever after when I go.”
Gerry Kearney nodded, then headed to his desk to pick up the phone to round up the five men he’d send out into the field with the son of his dead brother’s dead friend.