First in Mountjoy, then at the funeral, and now here—the mention of his father’s name brought with it benedictions and curses. When he saw Martin—no, if he saw Martin again—he would tell him for certain that Da had been up to his eyeballs in some kind of IRA business.
Gavigan coughed into his fist again and mopped his mouth with the handkerchief. The heat was rising in his face, but why lose his temper in front of this boy? He would be dead in a day. “That money belongs to a cause greater than yourself—and you are going to give us back every penny. It’ll be the last honorable thing you do.”
“What has that money got you but a houseful of eejits who blew themselves to pieces? That’s who’s going to liberate Ireland?”
“What do you know about it? A boy who plays dress-up with a pocketful of stolen money? When I was your age I was taking over this city.”
“Look here, I’m not a week in this country and every door is open to me. I’m dining with millionaires! I’ve been invited to meet the goddamn king and queen! They’ve practically given me the key to the city. Any of your thugs—your soldiers for the cause—managed that?” He ought to shut his mouth now—Don’t involve the Binghams, keep Anisette clear of this mess—but he had worked with men like this in Dublin, in Liverpool, in Belfast. Underworld bosses who sharpened their grudges to a razorous edge and who kept on the payroll hard men tasked with settling scores. They respected strength, a clever man who lived by his wits, but as in all things, you had to watch how far you pushed.
“More lies,” Gavigan said.
“Ask the big fella. If he’s been following me around, then he knows where I was on Monday night. A feckin’ castle. And who do you think the family asked to escort them to their audience with the king?” He should have been more cautious, but the words kept pouring out.
“If you think this is going to save you—”
“Saturday at the World’s Fair, close as I am to you. Though I expect the setting will be a little more… royal.”
Gavigan remembered the folded newspaper, Russell and McGarrity, the arrest, the king just across the river. “Are you working for Russell?” he said. “Is this what he’s been cooking up?”
Francis was baffled. Whatever he’d said had set off the old man. And who the hell was Russell?
“What’s he planning?” Gavigan said, his voice stormy. “Is this why he was in Detroit?”
Francis swallowed hard. He had Earl of Glamis’d it again.
“I’ll get the truth out of you.” Gavigan snapped his fingers and pointed to one of the men in the hall. Within seconds, Jamie was standing over Francis. “Now I’m going to ask you again: Are you working for Russell?”
“And I’m telling you—”
At this Gavigan nodded to Jamie, whose fist caught Francis full in the mouth. He tried to rise from the chair but Jamie hit him just below the eye, and when he tried again, a punch to the gut sent him in a heap to the floor.
“Take our guest back to the closet,” Gavigan said. “I need a minute to think.”
Gavigan was fuming. He was ready to cut the bastard’s throat himself. But then he thought of his Sunday prayers, about having the smarts to make the most of whatever luck threw his way. Wasn’t this some kind of answered prayer? Hadn’t he asked for one last big score? Now, at the end of his life, God was saying, Here you go, John. I’m making this one easy for you.
Because if what Dempsey said was true—that he was going to stand within bowing distance of the king—then he could be very useful. Useful? He was a godsend. He could be the instrument by which Gavigan showed them all how it was done. Russell, McGarrity, the IRA Army Council, those Clan na Gael choirboys who took his money but would never let him enter the rolls of their little club, the whole lot of them. You understand, Mr. Gavigan, that we can’t give the authorities reason to suspect… Yes, Mr. Gavigan, but the practicalities… Of course, John, but the situation is delicate… Thank you, but the time isn’t right. He had carved a slice for himself out of the toughest city in the world and defended it against all comers. Could any of them say the same? Businessmen with clean hands, second-generation soldiers who had been children when the real fighting happened—that’s what they were. But when men like Russell and McGarrity looked at him, they saw only a bagful of dollars, and they acted like it was a privilege for him to let them—these generals, these geniuses—make all of the decisions. They would see what a blow he could strike. It would be his last bold act, a lifetime’s work culminating in a thunderbolt. This was bigger than the plan to bomb the cabinet, a louder rallying cry than a countryside uprising. Dempsey would hold the gun in his hand, but it would be the will of John Gavigan that pulled the trigger.
ONCE JAMIE LED Dempsey back into the room, Gavigan explained how it would happen. Francis would follow through on his plan to meet the king and queen, and when he reached the front of the line, he would level a gun at the king’s heart and pull the trigger.
Even Cronin flinched. He looked at Jamie, then back at Gavigan. Had he heard that right?
“Are you completely loolah?” Francis said through his busted lip. “I’m not going to shoot the king.”
A gargling noise rattled in Gavigan’s throat. Pure disgust with this whinging pup. “If it wasn’t for men braver than you, Mr. Dempsey, Ireland would still be in chains. Your father was one of those men, until he turned traitor. This is your chance to redeem him.”
“You’re mad,” Francis said.
“No,” Gavigan said. “I’m furious that the sons of the revolutionary generation won’t lift a finger to finish the job. That given the chance to strike a blow that will echo through the ages, they fidget like schoolboys. I’m giving you a choice that you were too cowardly to make during your own short, wasted lifetime. You can step up to that so-called king, and you can end his life, or your entire family will pay for your crimes. Your family tree rotted when your father turned his back on his comrades, and that rot has stained you and your brothers. You can purge it by taking action, or I will purge it in the best way that I know how.” Gavigan wiped his spittle-caked lips, his sweat-greased brow, and explained: If Francis refused to participate in this plan, Gavigan would be forced to apply added pressure. First, he would bring in the younger brother—
“Michael, is it?”
Yes. Michael would be killed in order to make clear just how seriously Gavigan took this endeavor. If Francis still refused to play his ordained role, then the next to fall would be his brother in the Bronx—
“Martin, am I right?”
And his family. It had been so hot these past weeks. Perfect conditions for a house fire.
Francis felt like a man coming off a three-day drunk. The color drained from his face and beads of sweat prickled at his hairline. He had called Gavigan loolah only minutes before, but now it was he who was losing his mind. How had he dragged them into this? Michael, Martin, Rosemary, his nieces.
“To be clear,” Gavigan said. “You are not buying back your own life. That is already forfeit. You are playing for the lives of your brothers and their families.”