“Bet you thought you were pretty fucking clever tracking down Colm Sullivan, am I right, Collins?”
“Maybe.”
“You couldn’ta done it without me ratting Frankie out to the cops. Giving them a tipoff where that box could be found. I figured Frankie’s prints would be all over it. I also figured he’d rat me out.”
Willman’s eyes swept the area around the gym as we stood there,
him half in the building, me outside. He said: “So once I set things in motion by directing the cops to the gun box — also filled with worthless chunks of stone and soil, the better to trace that gun to Ireland — I practised my act as Colm Sullivan. The accent, the feigned surprise at the notion that the smuggling scheme was my idea.”
Now I had the answer to a question that had been plaguing me all along: why had Francis given me Sullivan’s name? Because he thought Sullivan would confirm his story, a story Francis thought was the truth. That all he was smuggling into the country was a box of Irish artifacts. Poor Francis was just a dupe, after all.
Gerard Willman had been convincing as Sullivan, just a guy with a little scam going, a guy who had no interest in trying to point the finger at Frankie Burke. He led me to believe he did not think Frankie was up to the job, but he made sure he left me with no other conclusion to draw.
“How did I do?”
“You did a good job. A good job all round.”
“Like I told you, that wasn’t a Frankie Burke kinda hit.”
It was an enormous relief that this had not been a Frankie Burke kinda hit; at least Declan and his family were spared that. It reminded me of something else, though.
“Were you after Brennan too?” I asked.
“Who? One of the sons? Why would I be after him?”
“Never mind.” A couple of shots must have gone wild. If Francis thought there had been an attempt on both his father and his brother, that said more about Francis’s frame of mind than it did about the events as they unfolded so quickly in the gym. I remembered Leo Killeen saying the shooter’s location was less than ideal.
“How much did you know about your father when you were growing up, Gerard?”
“Not much. Judy was fucking clueless.”
“Your mother.”
“Yeah. She had no idea what happened. But I remember her saying there was money coming in. She thought it was from the
IRA
— right, Jude! — a payoff for the guns that were sent to Ireland. Like I said, clueless. Then the tap was turned off and the family standard of living took a dive. Down to where you’d expect it to be with my
stepfather, Garth Willman, at the helm. Useless shitball. You know, you hear about these girls who want to have a kid and raise it by themselves — they don’t need a husband — and it pisses you off. Then you look at a loser like Willman coming into the house and you think, hey, we would’ve been a lot better off just three kids and a mother. He treated me like shit. Nothing I did was good enough. I wanted to be an actor! Well, old Garth wasn’t going to let that happen. All he wanted was for me to join the Army and rise through the ranks. I finally did join and I hated myself for giving in. Lasted a few years, then got discharged.”
“When did your mother take up with Garth?”
“It was around the time I was one and a half, two. I think he sniffed out the money — followed it right into her bedroom.”
“You said the payments stopped at some point.”
“Oh yeah. I know exactly when they stopped. A few years ago I paid Judy a visit when the old motherfucker was out of the house. She said my father was murdered in Attica. She didn’t know who did it, why, how. Guess it never occurred to her to look into her husband’s death. Ay, these things happen, right? Anyway, she said: ‘And then they stopped paying.’ I asked her when this happened and she kinda laughed and told me to dig out the old photo album. She thumbed through the black-and-whites of us as kids till she got to this colour picture of old Willman with a big grin on his puss. Only time I ever saw him in a good mood. Standing at the tail end of a brand new ’57 Chevy, hefting a set of golf clubs into the trunk. It was right around then that the money stopped coming. I think you can draw your own conclusions.”
I could. Declan Burke’s worthy charity — Judy Connors — had been downgraded to unworthy status thanks to the conspicuous consumption of Garth Willman. The family had a wage earner, and Burke was not about to finance his car payments or his golf dues. Must have come as a relief to Ramon Jiminez, whose efforts at blackmail had been turned against him, and who had unwittingly bankrolled Judy and her family up till then.
Willman was getting edgy. I wanted to keep the talk flowing. “You must have spent a fair bit of time around here casing the place before the wedding.”
“You think I walked around the gym in overalls and a tool belt posing as a handyman, Collins? Nobody at the school caught a glimpse of me. You could build a row of condos between the gym and the bushes out there, nobody would see them. I did my advance work at night. Loosened a window so I could get in and out. Didn’t take the time to do that tonight — I just broke one. Anyway, I went in and removed the back wall of that plywood closet. What a shitty place to hunker down for five hours. Not the best vantage point for a sniper. Fortunately for Burke. Oh, by the way, the old guy I hired to sing at the wedding reception has no idea who I am or why he was there. I imagine these days he’s lying low.”
I looked at the man standing in front of me, tense and agitated. “I think we’d better end this here, Gerard. You have nothing to gain by any more —”
“Where the fuck is Burke?”
“I have no idea.”
“He tipped you off about this meet, and you told him not to show!”
Gerard’s hand went to his pants pocket then came out again, swift as lightning. It took me a moment to realize that I was looking into the barrel of a gun.
I fought to stay calm. “I don’t know where he is, Gerard. He said he was coming. He’s expecting to hear something about Francis. Don’t make this any worse than it already is. Declan doesn’t know anything about Gerard Willman.”
“I’m about to set him straight on that.”
“Walk away, Gerard. There’s no physical evidence tying you to the shooting.”
“You got that right. All they have is a gun box with Frankie Burke’s prints on it, and an obituary written by a little old lady who’s not going to do any favours for Declan Burke. So until you walked onto the stage in this drama, Collins, there were no witnesses. Nobody to badmouth me in front of a jury. Now there’s you. What —”
Willman stopped speaking and cocked his head to the right, then took a step forward. He pointed the gun at my stomach and spoke in an undertone: “Here’s Burke. Keep your mouth shut if you want to stay alive. Mr. Burke!” he called out. “Over here.”
I turned my head and felt the gun pressing into my flesh. Before
I could decide how to handle the situation, or even decide whether I had any options, Declan was beside me and Willman moved back. Only then did Declan see the gun.
“Inside! Both of you.”
“Do I look like a fucking
amadán?”
Declan retorted. “I’m not going in there with you, Sullivan, or whoever the hell you are. And whatever your problem is, this fellow had nothing to do with it.” He inclined his head towards me.
“You don’t know who I am, Burke?”
“No.”
“My name’s Gerry Willman. If my father was still alive, I’d be Gerry Connors.”
Declan looked as if the bullet had been fired and, this time, had found his heart.
“I can see you recognize the name. So maybe I don’t have to bore you with a big, long explanation of my activities. Now, get a move on. I want you both inside that building.”
“Whatever you’re going to do, do it out here.” Declan didn’t move.
“You’re not in a position to give orders, Burke. The man who carries the gun into the meeting has the floor. Go!”
“No.”
Willman reached out, grabbed Declan’s arm and gave him a shove. But Declan flattened himself against the glass door and resisted being forced inside.
“You know, Burke, until this Collins guy threw a fuck into things, I was finished with you. I didn’t manage to inflict a fatal wound but all in all I was pleased. I made a statement and I got away. Even tonight, if it was just the two of us, I wouldn’t be all that concerned. Because, as I mentioned to Collins before you joined us, I’m not really worried about being hauled before the courts for this. You know why?” No response. “I said, do you know why?”
“No.”
“Think what it will take to get this case before a jury. It will take Declan Burke sitting down and grassing to the cops about why somebody named Gerard Willman would want to see him dead. Because the only evidence against me is motive. And it’s you, Burke, who would have to provide that evidence. The whole fucking story of
what you did when you were with the
IRA
, why you had to shove your family on a boat in the middle of the night and flee the old country, what you did on Pier One in Brooklyn, leaving one watchman in hospital, another without a job, and leaving my father to go to Attica alone, where he died in a vicious attack that left his family fatherless, and left me with a brutal, moronic stepfather. That’s how I got where I am today. Do you think you’ll want to get up and tell that story?
“But now there’s this guy.” Me, he meant. “He tracked me down, he phoned me up, and now he’s here. It’s no longer just between you and me. And that makes me nervous. Nobody wants to leave a witness walking around. Not when there’s a charge of attempted murder hanging in the air.”
Declan didn’t answer. Neither did I.
“Problem is, Burke,” Willman continued, “if I eliminate Collins, you become a witness to that. You see where this is going.”
“There’s something I want to tell you, Connors,” Declan said.
“My name’s Willman!”
“To me, you’re Connors. Your father’s son.”
Gerard blinked, but his hand didn’t waver.
“What I want you to know is . . .” Declan’s voice faltered. He put his hand to his head, and began sliding down against the door until he was on his knees. I had never been more alert in my life; he was fading before my eyes.
“Declan!” I shouted, and Willman whirled on me with the gun.
“Get down there beside him, Collins, now! And don’t try anything. I have Army training; you don’t. Now get down.”
I looked at Declan. His eyes were on me. A warning not to get down. He started to speak in a faint voice. “When your father went to prison, Gerard . . .”
“I can’t hear you! Speak up!”
“As soon as your father was sent to Attica . . .” Declan’s head flopped back against the door. His eyes closed, and his voice was barely a whisper.
Willman leaned close to the old man. “Tell me! Don’t have a fucking stroke on me, Burke!”
There was a sudden movement, the deafening crack of a gunshot,
and a yelp of pain. Willman was down on the ground, and Declan was struggling to stand. I launched myself onto Willman’s back and grasped his right hand. It was empty. Declan got to his feet and stood over us. He had the gun in his hand; it was pointed at Willman’s head.
“Don’t move, Gerard,” Declan commanded, as he backed away to a safer distance.
Gerry Connors’s son twisted his head to look into the chilly, unblinking blue eyes of the old Irish outlaw. Gerard wasn’t the only one with Army training.
“It’s all right, Monty. Get off him.”
“Declan,” I said, as I cautiously released the man, “is he —”
“Nobody got shot,” Declan interrupted. “The gun went off but the bullet went wide. I lured him in close, kicked his leg out from under him, and he went down.
“We don’t have much time, Gerard. That gunshot will be reported. I want you to know this: from the time your father arrived in Attica, I had a lawyer working on an appeal. And I arranged for protection for your da inside, through people I knew in the world of organized crime. There were fellows in the prison keeping an eye out for him. But they couldn’t foresee a completely random attack, and they couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry, Gerard. I’ve been sorry for forty years and I’ll be sorry till the day I die. I don’t expect forgiveness. Ever. And you’re right. I won’t be giving your name to the police. Neither will my lawyer here.”
Gerard was the picture of misery, anger, grief. Declan backed away, then removed the clip from the gun, extracted the bullets and dropped them one at a time onto the ground. I counted five rounds. Gerard started to move, and Declan pointed the weapon at him again. Gerard sank back to the ground. There must have been one round in the chamber ready to fire. Then Declan took out a snowy white handkerchief and wiped the gun free of prints, pushed the barrel into the grass, fired the last round where it could do no harm, and laid the weapon on the ground.
“That’s it,” was all he said. We walked away.
†
Francis appeared, as if on cue, the following day. I had packed and checked out of the hotel and was spending my last afternoon haunting the premises of Declan Burke. I had just finished describing last night’s drama to Brennan, who absorbed the news in stunned silence, when Terry called to say he was picking Francis up at Penn Station. Would anybody like to come along? So we headed in to Manhattan. There was only one topic of conversation on the way. Terry and Brennan reluctantly conceded that, if Declan did not want to press charges against Gerard Willman, they would go along with his wishes.
When we pulled up outside the station, Brennan said: “I didn’t even know Francis was out of town. Where did he go?”
“Iowa.”
“Iowa!”
“His girlfriend is from there.”
“Ah.”
We caught sight of Francis then, limping towards us with a knapsack on his back. His shoulder-length dark hair had been cut short. It looked good on him, or would have if the effect had not been marred by a cut lip and bruising around his left eye.
“Oh, good!” he exclaimed when he saw Brennan in the car. “The high priest of brotherly love.”
“What happened to you?” Brennan barked at him.
“They don’t like strangers,” Francis replied in a twangy accent.
“Who? Her family?” Terry asked.