“Ah, damn his eyes,” Patrick answered in the same tone. Then, more seriously: “Of course we have to look at this in light of his longtime membership — and indoctrination — in an organization that executes informers. Worst thing you can be, apart perhaps from being a member of a Brit-funded paramilitary group, is an informer. Loose talk was historically the bane of the Republican movement. Have you ever seen any excerpts from the
IRA
’s Green Book?”
We shook our heads no.
“Fascinating document. So fascinating that I’ve always wanted to study it professionally, and study the membership as well. It’s very well written, for the most part. And it warns away any recruits who might be joining up out of romantic notions and a desire for adventure. No romance to be found here, it says. It acknowledges mistakes made by the Army in the past — bombings gone wrong — and how they rebound against the movement. It gives volunteers detailed warnings of what they can expect by way of physical and psychological torture if captured. The book of course stresses the vital importance of security. Don’t tell your family, your friends, your girlfriend that you’re in the ’
RA
. Drink-induced loose talk is suicide.
“Even if the death sentence has lapsed, it would still gall a man like Declan to be considered an informer. I suspect that — regardless of his feelings about the
IRA
and his treatment at its hands — he prides himself to this day on maintaining his silence about anything connected with its activities. Or his activities on its behalf. If the shooting was a Republican operation, his natural inclination would be to tell the police nothing. And if it arose out of his dealings with some other organization, I think he’d take the same approach. All this combined with his own natural reticence —”
“Reticence!” Brennan exclaimed. “I prefer to call it —”
“I came as soon as I heard,” a sardonic voice announced behind me.
“Francis!” Brennan looked up in surprise.
Patrick rose and embraced the newcomer. “Fran! Good to see you.”
“Hi Pat. Hey Brennan, how’s God?”
“Asking for you.”
“Oh, yeah? What did you tell Him? To strike me down with a bolt of lightning?”
“I implored Him to take you by your little hand and lead you home.”
“Fuck off. Where’s the old man?”
“Out,” answered Brennan.
“He’s got an appointment with his doctor,” Patrick explained. “So where have you been living, Fran?”
“Mexico. Place called Tlapa. Ever hear of it?”
“No,” answered Patrick.
“Yes,” answered Brennan. “I know one of the —”
“You would.”
“How did you get the news?” Patrick asked him. “Nobody knew where you were.”
“We get the papers, for Christ’s sake. We’re not completely beyond the pale down there.”
Francis Burke was the only one in the family who sounded like a typical New Yorker; I wondered whether it was put on for effect. He was shorter than his brothers, and thin, with hazel eyes and unruly dark hair to his shoulders. Boyish good looks were marred by an expression of petulance.
Patrick made the introductions. “Fran, this is Monty Collins, a friend of Brennan’s from Halifax.”
“How are you doing? Another soldier of Christ?”
“Afraid not.”
He shook my hand indifferently.
“Are you going to stay with us for awhile, Francis?” Brennan inquired.
“I doubt it. Do my paternal duty and then split.”
“Filial,” Brennan corrected.
“What?”
“Filial duty.”
“You haven’t changed any.” He flopped down on the couch and closed his eyes. “It took me two fucking days to get here on standby.
I could use a drink.”
Patrick got up. “What can I get you?”
“Got any tequila?”
“Not bloody likely,” Brennan put in.
“How about a shot of Irish? Or a beer?” Pat offered.
“Gimme a brew. Thank you, Patrick. Well? How’s the old coot? Out of danger?”
“The shot missed his heart.”
“Guess the shooter didn’t have the latest precision guidance system. It’s not easy to hit such a small, hard, barely there —”
“Can it, Francis,” Brennan interjected. We heard the front door opening, and Declan Burke’s voice demanding to know who had piled all the shite in the doorway for him to trip over. “Ah. Here he is now.”
“Hey, I’ve managed to piss him off already and he hasn’t even seen me yet.”
Declan came down and squinted into the dimly lit room. “There’s a great lump of a knapsack up there. Have you boys taken up outdoor camping, or something? You’d be a fine pair out in the —”
“Hello, Da. How are you?”
“Francis!”
Francis got up and moved towards his father. He gave him a tentative embrace, avoiding contact with his wounded chest. Declan released him and looked him over. “How’s the lad? This is a surprise. One of many over the past week. When did you get into town?”
“I just landed. How are you feeling?”
“Brilliant. Where have you been?”
“Mexico.”
“Your mother was worried. Why didn’t you let her know where you were?”
“The mail’s unreliable. Takes weeks to get anything back and forth.”
“Next time avail yourself of the telephone, why don’t you. Reverse the charges.”
“At it already. My boy Francis? He’s the one who can’t afford to make a phone call.”
Declan sat heavily in an armchair. “Would you get me something
to drink, Patrick? Just a soda. So. Francis. Are you home for good now?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I have a life, believe it or not. And it doesn’t revolve around the great metropolis of Sunnyside, Queens.”
“Tell us about it. Your life. Thanks, Pat.”
“You wouldn’t be interested.”
“I just asked.”
“Maybe Fran will fill us in later, Da. He’s worn out from the trip. Took him two days to get here. Why don’t you flop down on one of the beds, Fran, and have a rest.”
“I don’t need a nap, Paddy. Though maybe you could put me on the couch and get to the root of my attitude problem. I’m such a —”
Brennan spoke over him. “Ready to head out, Monty?” I had no idea we were headed anywhere, but Brennan obviously wanted to get clear of the house, so I nodded. He turned to the others. “See you fellows later. Dec, you look a little peaky. Get Patrick to give you something and take it easy for the day. And try to avoid any undue aggravation. If you can.”
“Would O’Malley’s be a good idea right now?” I said to him when we got outside.
“O’Malley’s is imperative right now.”
After a brief session at the bar, I returned to the hotel. That evening, Maura and I took Normie to Times Square, got treats, and revelled in all the activity. There was a telephone message from Brennan back at the hotel, so I called him.
“Ever hear of Vi Dibney?”
“Of course. My parents had her records. My father was a sucker for show tunes.”
“Well, guess what?”
“What? Wait, I know. She’s the same —”
“Right. She’s in town on a concert tour and she used to go by the name Evie.”
“No shit!”
“No shit. Pat got out the entertainment pages and found that Vi Dibney was the only performer of the right vintage and physical
appearance who’s doing a tour. Apparently she tours the east coast every year. Baltimore last night. Here in New York tomorrow night. Pat charmed an appointment out of her entourage. You and I are going to the office of her publicist or her agent. One of her ‘people.’ Tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at the hotel.”
†
And so we arrived at the midtown offices of Spencer and Talbot, publicists for Vi Dibney. After driving around the block three times to score a parking spot, we entered the towering glass building and rode up in the elevator. For the first time since we arrived in New York, Brennan looked well rested.
Miss Dibney was seated on a faux Victorian sofa when the agent, Pru Spencer, ushered us inside. If she had been singing at the nightclub anywhere near the time we were interested in, she was in her late fifties or early sixties by now. She was attractive in an overdone way, too much makeup, too elaborate a hairstyle, too skinny for the flashy clothes that hung from her frame. The hair was a frothy blonde, the eyes green, the skin showed the ravages of too much tanning. She looked up at us from under thick black eyelashes and put out a bejewelled hand.
“Gentlemen callers. How nice!”
“Miss Dibney, I’m Brennan Burke and this is Montague Collins. Thank you for seeing us. We’ve something of a mystery on our hands and we’re hoping you’ll be able to help.”
“How exciting!” She leaned forward and spoke with an air of intimacy. “Tell me more!”
I cased the room while I stood there, checking out the framed photographs on the wall. Famous people grinning at other famous people. There were two pictures of Vi Dibney but none from the era we were investigating.
“May we sit?” Brennan asked.
“Of course, Brendan! You and Montgomery make yourselves at home.” We sat on a pair of squeaky new gold leather chairs. “Now, Brendan, this mystery. Where do I fit in?”
“It’s Brennan, and Montague. Now, Miss —”
“Oh, it’s Vi, please!” She gazed across at him with wide open eyes.
“Fine, Vi. I believe you may have known my father some years ago. Declan Burke.”
The name registered immediately. She was silent for two beats, then said brightly: “Declan! Of course I remember him. Such a sweet man!”
“Sweet, is it? Are you sure you’ve got the right man?”
Vi looked at her publicist, hovering in the doorway. “It’s all right, Pru. I’ll speak to these gentlemen in private.” The woman was about to protest, then smiled gamely and closed the door.
“Declan, oh, yes. Did you say you’re his son?” She made a show of examining him. “You’re so tall, and so dark. You,” she said, turning to me, “are more like him in colouring. But you, Brennan, seem to have his quality of, what shall I call it? Ruthlessness, I guess the word is. I hope you’re not offended. His son! Well! Where does the time go? Tell me, how is dear Declan now?”
“He’s been shot.”
Her left hand flew to her heart. “I must go to him!”
“No. You mustn’t.”
She quickly masked a look of annoyance, and settled on a coquettish pout. Her lower lip went out and she asked: “Are you afraid my appearance on the scene might upset him?”
“He’s already upset. The man’s been shot.”
She was silent for a few moments, and then came back to life: “Does the fact that you’re here mean I could be implicated in some way, Brennan?” she asked, disingenuously.
“Did you shoot him?”
“Of course not! Brennan! How could you say such a thing? I haven’t even seen him.”
“There you go then. You’re not implicated.”
I spoke up. “So tell us, Vi, about your time at the White Gardenia when you knew Declan.”
She splayed the fingers of her left hand out in front of her and brushed something off a lacquered pink nail. “Well of course Declan was in the club most nights. He was in charge of security. He never said much to me, though I often saw him talking with the other men who ran the place. The other owners were shameless flirts, shameless!
A girl had to be firm! But I always found Declan very polite. And he could be intimidating. Not to me, but to anyone who tried to cause trouble in that club. Nice looking, I have to say! I was dating one of the waiters, a young man around my own age, but — I hope this won’t embarrass you, Brennan —” She laid one of her manicured hands on his knee.
“He doesn’t embarrass easily,” I said.
“Don’t challenge a girl like that, Montgomery!” she warned with a tinkly laugh. “Anyway, what I was going to say was I developed a bit of a crush on Declan. An older man, handsome, with those penetrating bright blue eyes. I thought of him as very worldly. Older man! He must have been what? Thirty-five? How young that seems to me now! I’m fifty-nine, would you believe that?”
“Never,” I assured her.
“I was always trying to think of excuses to speak to Declan.”
New York City, 1952
Is that Mr. Burke coming in? Yes! Declan. He said I could call him that. Swell name. All the men his age back home are named George or Wilf. Should I ask him for requests again, or should I sing “Just One Of Those Things” and look at him when I’m singing?
“Good evening, Declan!”
“Ah. Hello there, Evie.”
He looks like he’s got something on his mind. Oh, no, here’s that friend of his again. Every time this guy comes in he just drinks soda, and Declan barely touches his own whiskey, and that means he never loosens up. They huddle over a table together and talk all night. And Declan doesn’t even glance my way. This guy looks Irish too, with that wavy reddish hair. He’s cute. That’s not really the word for older men, though. He’s handsome but not as handsome as Declan. I’m beginning to think older men are my destiny! I’ll sing “Younger Than Springtime.” It’s about a man with a younger girl.
Oh, wouldn’t you know? Here comes Ramon. I find him so immature now. I’ll have to break things off with him. And here he is in his role as bodyguard for Declan and his guest. “Burke don’t want no other company around his table tonight.” Poor Ramon. Everybody knows he’s from Puerto Rico, even though he tries to pass for an Italian. His English is terrible but he’s going to language school to learn Italian instead! He loves being around the big shots in this place, giving them special attention, shooing the other waiters from their tables. He just wants to hang around them himself, hoping to overhear some Mob talk. Well, the heck with Ramon or this other Irish guy. I’m going over there.
“Any requests tonight, Declan?” He’s thinking about it. What? That’s a weird combination of songs. Well, if that’s what he wants. . . My “Danny Boy” will make his eyes well up with tears, and I’ll do such a sultry “Love For Sale” it just might make something else swell up! Oh, yeah, I’ve got their attention now. All eyes on stage!
It’s been a long night. But maybe it’s not finished yet. Declan is calling me over to his table. “That was brilliant, darlin’. Meet my friend, Danny. This is Evie. We’re moving on to another bar, Evie. How’d you like to join us? Let someone else do all the singing, and you can sit and have a couple of glasses with us.”