I sat up in bed. I felt too weak to hold the phone.
'Liatis, don't kid me.'
'ReaIly, Doc. It was Tommy Desmond's li'l nephew. The cops they found out it was Larry Heeney.'
'I didn't know Tommy even had a nephew.'
'I dint either. But he was.'
'Tommy's gonna kill me, Liatis. But honest, I didn't-'
'No Doc. He's proud of you. Dint you know where those guns were going?'
'Uh huh. They were going to Ireland,. to be used against the Republic-'
'Yeah Doc. That's what Tommy told me. They been after this bunch for years now. And that man was with you, who was also shot?'
'Stephen O'Shaughnessey-'
'Yeah. He is with the Irish police I tink.'
'Right. And who told you all this stuff, Liatis?'
'Ask Tommy; Desmond. But I tink you did real good, Doc. Nice job the way you chop them 'up.'
'Thanks, Liatis. You've made my day.'
I lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling. I wondered what Tommy Desmond had to tell me. How much had he known all along about the IRA's operations in America, especially in Boston and Southie? But I didn't have long to consider it because the phone rang again. It was Brian Hannon, telling me the press was all over him and his staff, and could I get down there, too, because I was in part responsible for cracking the whole thing. In part… '
'In part? Gee, Brian, I'm glad you saw fit to mention my name.'
'Hey c'mon, haven't I always given you a fair shake?'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I finally had my brother-in-1aw right where I wanted him: in the rearmost booth of Frankie Caeserids Happy Landings saloon in Marblehead, Mass. We were busy killing brain cells. When I estimated the Body Count was to my liking, I was going to make a suggestion to him. The proverbial 'offer he couldn't refuse.'
It was three-thirty, peee emmm. The few sailing boats left in Marblehead Harbor rode on the gray slick outside the picture window of the Happy Landings. A bevy of local housewives were drinking and laughing up front, at the stand-up bar. They all had tennis outfits on, having no doubt just come from lessons given at one of the indoor clubs. They wore little skirts that flipped up when they wiggled their hips, and showed their panties underneath. Joe and I liked this, and kept our eyes glued on the set of thirtyish women, some with tipped hair, who shook and strutted at the old-time men's bar. We waited-like buzzards on a limb-for a glimpse of the curve of buttocks, the smooth sweep of inner thigh, the bounce and jiggle of bosom.
Middle age is a terrible, terrible affliction. Thank God Senility, Decrepitude, and Death put a stop to it.
'Another drink, gentlemen?' asked the cocktail waitress, who had a pretty interesting outfit herself.
'Gee…' Joe began, 'I really don't think-'
'Sure, why not? I'm buying. Two more of the same.'
She grinned and took the two tall-stemmed glasses back with her. She switched away from us, wearing an exaggerated (and, I might add, extremely abbreviated) eighteenth-century maid's uniform. It was sexist and tacky and revealing. It was extremely popular. I saw she was wearing the shiny pantyhose that I like so much. The ones worn by barmaids and stewardesses on the less-well-known airlines. The ones that catch all the shiny highlights of the legs, and feel slick to the touch if you happen to brush across them. The ones Mary maintains are cheap and tawdry. Yep, they're my favorite.
Via several longish talks with O'Shaughnessey, I'd found out a lot about the Kincaid/Schilling outfit during the past week. Some of the interesting stuff confirmed early suspicions I'd had. For example, the Laura Kincaid/James Schilling affair. Perhaps it was Laura Kincaid's expensive face 1ift operation and her desire-her fetish rather-to remain imperially slim that planted the initial seed of suspicion. Certainly it was remarkably parallel to Schilling's quest for physical perfection and eternal youth. Walter Kincaid had borne the affair for some time with an almost parental patience and aloofness. But finally his pride and possessiveness forced him to fire Schilling. The fact that his wife didn't file for divorce and follow her lover must have told Kincaid something, i.e., that she placed extreme value on her plush surroundings. To give up Walter Kincaid was to part with the fortune he'd made. So they lived together much as she had described when we first met, with her taking off for long-and not-so-secretive-weekends with Schilling while he spent his spare time aboard the Windhover searching for artifacts and treasure.
'So what made Schilling pull the disappearing act in Alaska?' asked Joe as he cradled his third whiskey sour, which had just been placed in front of him.
'Because he'd just made contact with an old army buddy of his who'd pulled the first of a series of armory heists. Schilling was attracted to breaking into armories for several reasons. One, it allowed him to hurt the army, which had given him a D.D. and hurt his chances for landing any decent job. The fact that Kincaid overlooked it, or didn't know about it, was perhaps the only reason he got as far at Wheel-Lock as he did. Second, one of Wheel- Lock's biggest contracts ever was obtained during the early Vietnam buildup. Wheel-Lock designed the complex locks and security devices for armories. Since Schilling knew the systems and locks, he knew how to get around 'em.'
'And by disappearing he could be more mobile and invisible.'
'Yep. And leave his wife and be with Laura. I figured he came back to New England shortly after his 'death' on the Kenai Peninsula to make contact with arms buyers. Right away he uncovered two hungry sources with lots and lots of dough: The French Separatists in Quebec and the Irish Republican Army. According to O'Shaughnessey he'd even trucked with the Mob for a while, but found that too risky, or scary. Dealing with foreign buyers was cleaner, safer. But there was one thing he needed badly to do it right: a boat. He didn't have the money for one big enough to range as far as he wanted.'
'And that's when they decided to kill Kincaid?'
'Maybe they never planned to kill him. But in early summer two events occurred that forced the issue. One: Kincaid's company began a sharp decline, one that perhaps was irreversible. Two: Kincaid found the jackpot he was seeking.'
'Yeah bullshit.'
'Wait. Wait, I'm getting to that.'
'I want my two grand back, Doc.'
'And you'll get it, whether or not I sell the Rose. But anyway, Kincaid decided that by disappearing, he could rid himself of his wife, his failing company, and all the unpleasantness he'd endured for the past several years and skip to the Caribbean.'
'It's curious he had the same idea Schilling had,' said Joe.
'Not when you consider the fact that they had the same needs and motives. With a miniature Fort Knox in bullion sealed into the Windhover's hull-which was now reshaped and named Penelope -he was going to slide down the Big Trough, skip over to Grand Cayman and deposit the fortune, tax-free, then head on over to his prepurchased condominium on St. Thomas.'
'Then why the hell didn't we find the bullion, Doc? Why? Even though we cut up that hull until the Rose looks like a goddamn tea-strainer. Why?'
'I'm getting to that-'
'I want my two-'.
'Shut up and listen. Laura and Schilling discovered Kincaid's plan to disappear. Since he'd done all the groundwork for them, wouldn't it be easy for them to help him along? And they'd have the boat they needed too.'
'So Laura Kincaid wasn't independently rich as she claimed.'
'Doesn't look that way. Though she thought she would stand to gain at least something by her husband's death. That's why they thought of putting the house up for sale. Though it would net them about four hundred grand, and they wouldn't have to run guns anymore. Just as soon as Schilling made this last series of hauls, they'd
