AHMM, December 2006 Read online

  The fight was over. The crowd was stunned into silence. The fat man across the ring sat frozen with his mouth open. The fight had ended in the third round. The grin and the smirk were gone. It took moments before the fat man could comprehend that he had been handed defeat by the man looking back at him from the ring.

  The buzz and then the roaring boos of the crowd grew to a crescendo. The fat man glared daggers of blind rage at the priest before filling the aisle with his bulk. The back of his neck was beet red as he puffed his way to the exit.

  I had my eyes on the tall man with cold eyes. The eyes were locked on Father Flaherty, and when their eyes met, a passionless grin broke the tall man's features. He raised his right hand as if it were a pistol, took aim at the priest, and pretended to fire.

  * * * *

  Saturday morning would have been a sleep-in day but for the annoying weeklong habit of waking at six o'clock. I turned on the morning news and caught the report of a shooting the previous night. Father Matthew Flaherty of Saint Anthony's Church in Charlestown had been gunned down by an unknown assailant on the steps of the rectory as he returned home. Despite being struck several times, he was alive in critical condition at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital.

  I hit the numbers of Mr. Devlin's cell phone out of reflex. He had heard the same broadcast.

  "I'm on my way to Saint E's, Michael. I'll see you there. One thing..."

  "I know. Tom Burns."

  "Right. Do it now."

  * * * *

  I dialed the private number of the head of the Burns Investigative Agency. Tom was expensive, particularly for personal service. But the gap between Tom and the second best in his line of work made the price reasonable.

  "Tom, this is Michael."

  "What's up, Mike?"

  "The priest that was shot last night in Charlestown. He's at Saint Elizabeth's. You heard about it?"

  "I heard, Mike."

  "His name is Father Matthew Flaherty. He and Mr. Devlin go way back. The word's out that he's still surviving. He needs tight protection from right now. Whoever did it may try to finish it. He could be well connected with the local police. We don't know. Can you get on it?"

  "I'm on it, Mike. Incidentally, if you go to the hospital, you may not see my people. Doesn't mean they're not there."

  "I know, Tom. Stay on it till Mr. Devlin calls it off."

  * * * *

  I met Mr. Devlin in the waiting room outside of the intensive care unit at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital in Brighton. Mr. D. looked grim, and I was feeling the shock myself.

  We just arrived when someone in green pants and shirt came through a swinging door and asked for Lex Devlin.

  "He wants to see you, Mr. Devlin. It's touch and go. Keep it short."

  Mr. D. waved me along without asking permission, and we stood beside the bed of a pale, struggling version of the man I had seen boxing two days earlier. He had more wires and tubes connected to him than a string puppet. His breathing was labored, but when he saw Mr. Devlin a bit of a spark lit the clouded eyes.

  Mr. D. put his ear down next to Father Flaherty's mouth. It was more breath than voice, but I could just make it out.

  "How's Tony? Did they get him too?"

  "No, Matt. He's okay. Take it easy."

  "Lex, tell Tony I had to end the fight. If he'd taken a dive the way they wanted it, they'd have him forever."

  "I know, Matt."

  "Tell him, Lex. Tell him he'll have his day."

  Mr. Devlin leaned in closer.

  "Did you see who shot you, Matt?"

  Father Flaherty shook his head slowly and took a couple of deep breaths. His voice was slow and fading.

  "I'm getting old, Lex. He came right up behind me before I knew he was there. He was a foot away. First thing I heard was the shot. I don't know..."

  He dropped off into sleep or a coma, and I began to feel the loss of him already.

  * * * *

  We were back in the waiting room when Mr. Devlin took me aside.

  "I didn't have a chance to tell you, and I certainly didn't tell Matt. I got a message from Billy Coyne at the D.A.'s office. Billy goes back with me and Matt. He thought I'd want to know. They arrested Tony Amato. They're charging him with shooting Matt."

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. That was the whole message. I'm going to stay here. Will you run over to the county jail? See what you can find out."

  * * * *

  I was at the county lockup within half an hour. I stretched the truth about being Tony's lawyer, and they brought him into the interviewing room. I've never seen such a perfect specimen of a young human being look so totally bewildered. I waved him into a seat behind a metal table, and I sat opposite him.

  "Tony, we've never met. I'm a friend of a close friend of Father Flaherty. Actually, I'm a lawyer. If you like, I can represent you."

  He cut to the top of his list of concerns.

  "How's Father Flaherty? Did you see him?"

  "I saw him, Tony. I'll be honest. He's on the edge. The only thing he was worried about was you. He doesn't know about this."

  I saw tears forming, and I hoped they weren't tears of guilt.

  "What happened last night, Tony?"

  He took a minute, but his answer was calm and direct. I looked for eye blinking, a good test of lying, but there was none.

  "I showered after the fight. I just walked around about an hour and went home. I was scared more than anything."

  "About what?"

  He just looked down. I leaned over close to him.

  "I know about the fix. What were you afraid of?"

  "They said they'd kill Father Flaherty if I didn't go down in the sixth round. He should'a let me."

  "He doesn't see it that way. Who are they?"

  "I don't know."

  "How did they get the message to you?"

  "A man came to see me outside the gym. Skinny little guy. He's kind of bald. Has a reddish mark up here on his forehead."

  "Name?"

  He just shook his head.

  "Did he say who sent him?"

  "No."

  I packed up and held my hand out to him.

  "Don't talk to anyone else, Tony. I'll be in touch."

  He stood and took my hand. He still looked bewildered and vulnerable. I could feel my anger level rising still higher at the lowlifes who were blindsiding this kid who was “the next middle-weight champion of the world."

  * * * *

  I dialed Mr. Devlin's cell phone. He was still at the hospital. Father Flaherty was still hanging on. I passed on what little I learned. We agreed to meet at the office.

  Twenty minutes later I was in my usual seat in front of Mr. D.'s desk, and he was on the speakerphone to the district attorney's office. The receptionist put him through directly to Deputy District Attorney Billy Coyne. They were both relics of a generation of lawyers whose most valuable asset was their word, and both bore the scars of honest mutual combat in the arena of the criminal session of the Suffolk County Superior Court. They had also shared a friendship with Matthew Flaherty since elementary school.

  "How is he, Lex?"

  "I've seen him better, Billy. So have you."

  There were a few seconds of silence.

  "It's a wonder he's alive, Lex. They got him with three shots in the back. That's not public information. The worst one pierced his left kidney and came out through his right rib cage. The bleeding would have killed anyone else."

  I could see the pain in Mr. Devlin's face.

  "I guess Matt can still take a punch."

  "Yeah. I'm going over, this afternoon. Dear God, why Matt of all people?"

  "I don't know, Billy. What's this about Tony Amato?"

  "We got an anonymous phone tip early this morning. He said Tony Amato shot Matt. Said the gun he used was in the glove compartment of Amato's car. We got a search warrant. It was there. Ballistics says it was the gun that shot Matt."
<
br />   "Did you know the tipper?"

  "No."

  "Billy, you can't get a search warrant on an anonymous tip from someone with no background."

  "I know, Lex. This is Matt Flaherty we're talking about. I called in a favor. Don't give me grief on this. You'd have done it."

  I always enjoyed the honesty between these two.

  "Yeah, probably. I may have to challenge it later, but you're right. I'd have done it."

  "Right."

  "But, Billy, come on. Does this smell like a setup? Anyone could plant that gun and phone in a tip."

  "I go with what I've got. You have anything better?"

  "I don't know. There was a puffed-up, sleazy-looking, cigar-chewing character at the fight last night. He kept looking at Matt with a self-satisfied grin up till the fight ended. Then he stormed off like a bull out of control. Ring any bells?"

  "You don't get back to the old neighborhood much, do you, Lex? Yeah, I know him. Seamus Quinn. You pegged him right. He's a would-be Godfather on the Irish side. Most of it's minor racket stuff. I've also heard rumors that he's a collector of donations from the big Irish supporters around here for the IRA, the part that likes to play with bombs. I don't know about that. That's for the Feds to worry about."

  Mr. D. described the tall, cold-looking individual sitting beside Quinn at the fight, but Billy had no clue.

  I jotted a quick note to Mr. D., and he asked Billy about a skinny little guy with a red patch on his forehead, the one who carried the message about fixing the fight to Tony. Billy said he was a little weasel who ran Quinn's errands for him. His name was Fin Feeney. He mostly hung around the Shamrock Bar in Charlestown. Quinn had his office in the back room of the bar.

  Mr. D. turned around to look out the window at Boston Harbor. I recognized his fighting position.

  "Billy, about Amato. If you've got the wrong man, the right one could make another try at Matt. What motive could Amato have?"

  "Are you kidding, Lex? This fight could have put him in the major league. Matt said so. All of a sudden there's a little blood, and his manager ends the fight. He sees the end of his career. You think he's not mad enough to go after his manager?"

  "Billy, for the love of Pete, Tony Amato was going to take a dive in the sixth round. He was throwing it away himself. Matt just changed the timing."

  "Good old Lex. A dive, was it? I think you pulled that one right out of your ear."

  "Billy, it's true. He knuckled under when they threatened to kill Matt. Matt didn't know about the fix himself till the fight was on. That's why he stopped it before the sixth round."

  "Uh-huh. Says who?"

  "Says Tony. Says Matt, as soon as you can see him."

  "Very convincing, Lex. Tony says it to save his skin, and you know Matt. He'll say anything to save his boy."

  "If he'd shot him?"

  "Matt's in the forgiving business."

  "Let's face it, Billy. If I can prove the fix, what have you got? The gun was a plant. Didn't even have Tony's fingerprints on it."

  There was a silent moment.

  "If you can prove the fix, Lex. I'll personally walk Amato out of jail."

  When he hung up, I asked Mr. D., “How did you know Tony's prints weren't on the gun?"

  "If the gun was just planted last night, Tony'd never have touched it. In other words, I was taking a stab in the dark. I notice Billy didn't correct me."

  * * * *

  I figured our immediate needs were twofold. One was proof that the fix was on before Father Flaherty stopped the fight. The second was to neutralize whoever might want to finish what he started with Father Flaherty—assuming nature didn't do it for him.

  By two o'clock I was back in Charlestown. The Shamrock Bar catered to a clientele that ranged from blue collar to no collar—mostly the latter. In a two-piece Hart Schaffner Marx suit, I did not exactly blend, but it served the bluff.

  I checked the patronage at the bar for the closest resemblance to a weasel. He was sitting alone at the far end of the bar, squinty eyes and all. I could see in the mirror over the bar that he had a red birthmark on his forehead.

  I got the bartender's attention and asked if Seamus Quinn was in his office. I needed a clear deck to operate on the weasel, Fin Feeney.

  The bartender straightened up and scanned me from my cuffless pants to the Armani tie.

  "Who wants to know?"

  I gave him an instant flash of my membership card in the Boston Athletic Club and said, “Internal Revenue Service."

  I figured that would get a straight answer.

  "Mr. Quinn ain't here. Should be back inside half an hour."

  "I'll wait."

  I walked down to the end of the bar and slid up on a stool next to the aforementioned Fin Feeney.

  Outside of a couple of sneaky glances, he pretended to ignore me until I said, “You and I have business, Mr. Feeney."

  He jumped a little before squinting sideways at me.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "In your case, Fin, I could be the difference between life and death."

  He was stuck for an answer so I played on.

  "Mr. Quinn asked me to represent you. You're about to be indicted as an accessory to aggravated assault on a priest, perhaps even murder."

  I was moving a bit fast for his comprehension, but I liked it that way.

  "You set up the fix on the Amato fight. Tony Amato can identify you."

  He was stiff as a board and squinting at me eye to eye.

  "Wait a minute. Mr. Quinn knows I was just a messenger."

  "That's what an accessory is, Fin. Then you called in an anonymous tip to the police about a gun in Amato's car.” That was a guess, but I figured Quinn used his gofer for any related odd jobs.

  "They can't prove nothin'."

  "Fin, have you ever heard of voice prints? They arrest you, take a voice sampler, and compare it to the recording they keep of the so-called anonymous tip you phoned in. They've got you."

  His mind was racing to catch up, but the look on his face told me I had a weasel in the trap.

  "Tell me about the fix, Fin."

  "I got to talk to Mr. Quinn."

  "He's not here. In the next five minutes I'll decide whether I'll take you on as a client. If I do and get back to the D.A. before you're indicted, you may not spend the rest of your life in prison. Tell me about the fix."

  He turned back to the bar and took another slug of the beer sitting in front of him. I thought I'd lost him until he turned back and leaned over close enough to whisper.

  "Mr. Quinn give me directions. He said to see Tony Amato when he comes out of the gym. Tell him he takes a dive in the sixth round or his manager ... you know."

  "His manager what, Fin?

  "He gets it. You know..."

  "He dies?"

  "Yeah."

  I felt the miniature recorder in my pocket to be sure it had been running. I still didn't know who pulled the trigger on Father Flaherty. I seriously doubted that Quinn would trust Feeney with anything that serious. I couldn't get out of my mind the vision of the tall man with Quinn sighting Father Flaherty with a pretend gun.

  "Who was the man with Quinn at the fight? Tall, about six four, well built, cold eyes."

  "Ah, that one. He got in from Dublin the day of the fight. He's a cold one, and that's right. I've only heard him called ‘Stone.’”

  "Does he work for Quinn?"

  "No. He's his own man. He has business with Mr. Quinn."

  "Have you seen him before?"

  "No. It's a different one end of every month. They come in for a couple of days and fly back to Ireland."

  "How do I find Stone?"

  "Who knows? I heard once he eats sometimes at Molly McGuire's up on Pearl Street."

  I stood up to leave, and Fin caught me by the sleeve.

  "Are you takin’ my case?"

  "I don't know, Fin. I haven't decided. Sit tight."

  On my way out, I made my way past two men co
ming in. One was the size of a side of beef and fit the bodyguard mold. The other was Seamus Quinn.

  I flashed him a grin, and he returned it until I raised my finger like a gun, aimed between his eyes, and pretended to pull the trigger. I was gone while the grin was still leaving his face.

  * * * *

  On the way back to Boston, I stopped at Molly McGuire's Restaurant. I left a message with the manager for the man called Stone. He didn't say he knew him, but he didn't deny it. I said, “Tell him we have business. I'll be in tomorrow at noon."

  I left my card. It felt nicely uncomplicated to be playing myself for a change.

  Mr. Devlin was in his office when I arrived with the recording of my chat with Fin Feeney about the fixed fight. Mr. Devlin played it over the phone to Billy Coyne. Billy listened and knew that if it came from Lex Devlin it was genuine.

  "I'll keep my promise, Lex. I'll have the indictment dismissed. I'll even walk Amato out of jail."

  "Not yet, Billy. Could you hold him in protective custody for a few more days? Just let him know he's off the hook for the shooting."

  * * * *

  We still had to neutralize the threat to Father Flaherty. It was noon the next day when I walked into Molly Maguire's Restaurant. I caught the eye of the manager and just waited. He nodded toward a room in the back with three tables. I sat down at a table. The only other person there was sitting behind the Boston Globe. When he lowered the paper, a chill ran the length of my spine. Stone looked at me with eyes that must have drained the blood out of my face.

  "You said we have business. And what might that be?"

  There was a quietness in the voice that said he was, as always, in control of the situation.

  "I have an offer for you, Mr. Stone."

  "Stone'll do. And what do you have that I might want?"

  "Anything. I'm a friend of Father Flaherty. I think you shot him two nights ago."

  There wasn't a flicker.

  "What I want, Mr. Stone, is an end to it. I want to call you off. And I'll pay whatever it takes."

  There was silence. His eyes never left mine, but something between a smile and a grin came across his lips.