AS MARTIN DODGED through the crowd, looking in every direction for his ginger-haired brother, he had to ask himself: Wouldn’t they all have been better off if Francis were still in jail? If Francis were locked up in Mountjoy, Michael would be in the seminary, still in full possession of his senses, and he himself would be setting up at the Croke Park Club for the break that would bring a new and better life. But instead, look at how much Francis had cost them. All around was damage and disarray: first Michael had been hurt, then all of them were put in danger, and now Martin was here—surrounded by some fantasy of the future—trying to stop his brother from killing a king instead of at the reception, where his real future was waiting. His brother’s recklessness knew no limits. Even Peggy had almost called off her wedding after only a few hours with Francis.
But if not for Francis and his wild schemes, Michael would still be stuck in the seminary and miserable. Francis himself would be rotting away in jail for another year or more, and who could prefer that to the chance of freedom? And without Francis, Martin would have learned of his father’s death through the mail, and likely would have boxed up and set aside whatever pang of guilt or sadness the news provoked.
There was something to it—the business of having a family that extended beyond the walls of your own home. He had felt it during the dinner on Sunday and again at the bar with Francis and then all last night as they painted the town. Without Francis and Michael, he would have gone about his life in America without admitting that some side of himself was missing, silenced. If having his brothers around forced upon him a knowledge of his own shortcomings, his own selfishness, then so be it. So much of his and his brothers’ past had been hidden under years of silence and separation. He hoped there could still be time to fit the pieces together—of his past, of his family—and all he had to do to make that possible was stop Francis from one more reckless act.
Pressing closer to the Court of Peace, where the crowds were a dozen deep, he caught the sound of a band playing loose and fast. He stepped onto a bench for a better view: Clusters of police and a military color guard occupied the near end of the massive plaza, backed by a sea of five thousand teenage Boy and Girl Scouts. At the far end of the court, the monarchs and the mayor dined inside on capons and corn fritters, but the police-and-fire-department band had grown restless with waiting and launched into a Benny Goodman number. Hundreds of the Scouts, always prepared, began to jitterbug. All around Martin, people cheered, and a roar went up when the mayor himself appeared at the window. At least Martin wasn’t the only one at the fair who was supposed to be at Peggy’s wedding.
Moments later, the dancing stopped and the band launched into “God Save the King.” Fountains spouted water the color of syrupy shaved ice, fireworks popped against a background of cloudless sky, the king reviewed the troops, and then his party mounted a blue-and-orange tractor train, of the type used at a children’s amusement park. If this was the future of royal transport, then the future was sure to arrive slowly. Through the festivities, Martin scanned the masses, his eyes searching for his brother’s face. Police and soldiers seemed almost to outnumber civilians around the court. He could not imagine how Francis could get close, but then Francis was clever, and reckless. If he saw a chance, he would take the shot. Martin was sure of it.
EVERYTHING INSIDE FRANCIS strained to move, to have this done, to wipe the slate clean. No more king, no more debt, no more Angus, no more Francis. But this mob with their sunburned faces checked him at every step. Watch it, will you? What’s the rush? Nice skirt, buddy! He tried to move with purpose, knifing between couples, surging when he could. Cronin’s map had been drawn like a cartoon, without regard to scale. On the map, the buildings were enormous, the gaps between them small, but in reality the distances were broad and pockmarked with obstacles: pushcarts selling lemon ice, souvenir vendors, and angular statues ready to hurl lightning bolts at the unsuspecting. Again he saw soldiers, and everywhere, again, police. They formed a wall against the crowds, they milled about on the lookout for trouble. Francis had to remind himself that for all they knew, he was just another Scotsman bound for the reception in the English garden. The sweat that glazed his skin could be blamed on the heat and his formal attire and not on the clock that ticked in his head and told him that time was running short. At 3:40 there would be a twenty-one-gun salute marking the king’s departure, and if it sounded before Francis could fire his own gun, it would also mark the end of the Dempseys.
As he neared the British Pavilion, a band was finishing “God Save the King,” and with the closing bars, the fountain in the Lagoon of Nations erupted in colored lights and flames. A cheer went up and fireworks crackled overhead. Tiny flags—British and American—rained from the sky and the people whooped and scrambled for the souvenirs. Francis paused to take it in. He wished for a moment that Michael could be here to see it; in some other world, it would have been nice to spend a day at the fair surrounding themselves in the wonders of the future.
But now the king, on some sort of motorized cart, was approaching the British Pavilion. In the paved courtyard fronting the entrance, men in cutaway coats and top hats, and women in floral-print dresses with their own flowery toppers, waited for a royal handshake. Two massive lions perched at the doors of the pavilion, claws raised and teeth bared. Francis couldn’t get in the courtyard and he didn’t trust his aim from the fringes—his hours in the warehouse with Cronin had proven that he was useless outside of ten feet—but if he could get to the point where the king would disembark from his cart, then he might have a chance, and it was likely to be his last. The king would be indoors for an hour inspecting the handicrafts and artifacts from his far-flung empire and then, if the papers were to be believed, he would be bustled into a car whose running boards were lined with bodyguards. Twenty-one guns would fire and that would be the end of it.
Onlookers leaned forward, five deep, six deep, then ten. The police shifted their line as the king’s motor train neared, and a gap opened in the crowd, just ahead of the advancing monarch. Francis checked the clasp on the sporran to make sure it was unhitched. In a moment, he would grasp the gun, raise his arm, and fire. He saw the face of the king now, the queen next to him. The king waved to the assembled throng, leaving his heart a target. Francis’s hands were shaking. Festina lente, he said to himself. He yanked the gun from its pouch and prepared to punch his hand through the line of police.
MARTIN WAS SWEPT along in a surge of well-wishers eager for a closer look at the king. He stood on tiptoes as the train made its slow advance toward the British Pavilion, but there were so many heads and such a thicket of bodies that it was hopeless to think he could ever find his brother, if he was even here. The cart swept in a wide arc, and the cordon of policemen linked arms and pushed back against the mob, opening a lane to the pavilion’s entrance. As the crowd before Martin parted, he saw Francis not twenty feet away, and with a clear path to the king. Martin tried to push closer, but he faced a hedge, all shoulders and elbows, and it would not budge. The gun was in his brother’s hand, and Francis’s face was white, stricken, empty. This was his brother, reckless and selfish, but also generous and large-hearted. He was going to kill a man to save his brothers from death and misery.
“Francis!” he shouted, and again: “Franny!”