'Has Pete told you any of this?'
'Not in so many words. Grady passed some on, the rest is in his eyes. I can see you've come from the war but it hasn't torn you up complete yet.'
'Doesn't mean I want to go back either,' I said as I counted out the price of three ales.
'Aye, but you will.'
There was nothing I could say to that. I left the money on the bar, grasped the three glasses, and headed for the table.
'Saint Billy it is, come to the rescue of some thirsty gents,' said Grady, laughing at his own wit.
'Thanks, Lieutenant,' said Brennan as I sat down next to him.
'Name's Billy, Pete, at least while we're drinking together.'
'OK, Billy, then here's to you,' Pete said as he raised his glass.
' Fad saol agat, ' Grady offered, raising his glass and smacking his lips.
'Long life to you,' I translated for Pete.
'Ah, a Yank who knows the old tongue!'
' Fad saol agat, gob fliuch, agus bas in Eirinn, ' I said, giving out the full version of the toast. 'Long life to you, a wet mouth, and death in Ireland.'
'I'll take two out of three,' Brennan said.
'Well, it is the first time I said that one here in Ireland. It sounds a lot more nostalgic back home in Boston.'
'It's a fine thing to hear you have visions of the old sod in America, Billy Boyle. Do you know your name in Gaelic, boy?'
'I know the family name used to be O'Baoighill. My grandfather came to America with that name on a note pinned to his coat.'
'It's good you know that, boy. But it's a thing for certain that he never spoke it aloud in Ireland. Them peelers would beat you to a pulp. O Bruic, that's my name in Gaelic, but I still speak it quiet like-force of the habit, you know.'
'So, Grady O Bruic, tell me, why did you warn me to watch myself the day you picked me up in that boat?'
'I knew the American police were fallin' over each other to find the lads who took those guns. Are they good guns, boy? Anyway, it seemed to me that with a Yank copper waitin' for you, and you lookin' a good Irish boyo, that they'd be bringin' you in to do the dirty work as it were. Get in with the locals, you know, and worm the truth from them. If you put the finger on the IRA, your life wouldn't be worth an empty glass of Tom's good ale. And if you didn't, then all the blame would fall on you like spring rain comin' off the Mournes. Just my way of thinkin', mind you.'
'I'm in no position to disagree. Someone emptied a BAR into the Killough RUC station this evening while I was there. They missed me, but killed one of our guys, Lieutenant Sam Burnham.'
'Jesus Christ,' Brennan whispered.
'Only him?' Grady said. 'Why, for heaven's sake? Why shoot an American and leave all those RUC coppers alive?'
'Jesus Christ,' Brennan said again, staring into his glass, as if there were answers floating in the foam.
'Easy, Pete, easy, boy,' Grady said, his voice low and soothing.
'He was a decent man,' Brennan said through gritted teeth. 'They always seem to go first. Then the brave ones, then the guys who keep their heads down, and finally the cowards and goldbricks. It got so I'd watch the replacements come ashore and I could tell right away which they were, how long they'd last. I hated them, with their quick, nervous laughs, always wondering what to do to stay alive when they were already dead.'
'This isn't Salerno,' I said, trying to match Grady's tone. Brennan's eyes stayed glued to his glass.
'The place doesn't matter, don't you know that? It didn't matter to Sam, and it doesn't matter to those guys over there,' Brennan said, his head nodding in the direction of the GIs drinking at the other table. 'Italy, France, it doesn't matter. Do you want to know what matters, Billy?'
'What?'
'Geometry. Intersecting lines. They're everywhere, you just can't see them. Right now, this very minute, there's a bullet in a case of ammo somewhere, maybe in a factory in Germany, maybe stockpiled in Rome. It's moving, slow or fast, but it's moving, and so are you. Sometimes you both sit for a while, but sooner or later, you move. They send us to some beachhead, and the Germans order more ammo. Think about it,' Brennan said, drawing lines in the air. 'You can't stop it. A German truck brings up ammo, including your bullet, close to the front. Another truck brings you up to the line. Now you're in your foxhole, maybe a quarter mile away. You and that bullet have traveled hundreds of miles, from different parts of the world, and now you're close. A Kraut sergeant brings a case of cartridges up to his platoon, hands them around. Another Kraut loads his rifle, all the while you're moving, just like that bullet, on a path to an unknown place.'
'Intersecting lines.'
'Yep. And that's the only place that matters. Where the lines intersect. Don't matter what country, because once they do, once you and that bullet finally meet up, you're nowhere.' Pig was in Brennan's left hand, his belly being rubbed smooth.
'Maybe they won't intersect,' I said. Brennan looked up from his glass for the first time, and drew on his cigarette. He tilted his head and exhaled, then turned to look at me, his eyelids halfway shut against the smoky haze.
'I had you figured for a smart guy, Billy.'
I took a drink. It was my turn to stare into the foam. The GIs at the other table all laughed quick, nervous laughs. I'd seen it too, the eager-to-please grin, the darting eyes, the intense desire to learn the secret of staying alive, as if we were magicians who had learned a special trick.
'Pete,' I said. 'Thornton wants to bring you in. He has the MPs out looking for you.'
'Why?'
'Couldn't tell you. Why do you think?'
'I haven't done anything.'
'Do you know Andrew Jenkins?'
'That bastard,' Grady said, setting down his glass with a thump. 'That Unionist coward Jenkins? Why would a good lad like Pete know the likes of him?'
'I don't know that he does, Grady. I do know that one of Jenkins's trucks was used in the theft, and that he delivers foodstuffs to the base regularly. As he did this afternoon, right, Pete?'
'How would I know?'
'Because you saw him, or his truck, at least. Made you a little jumpy, according to Lieutenant Jacobson. Why would that be?'
He put Pig back into his pocket. 'Jumpy? He's wrong.'
I put the picture of Red Jack Taggart on the table. 'Is this the man you saw with Eamonn, the red-haired guy?'
'Yeah, that's him. Beady little eyes.'
'Old Red Jack himself,' Grady said. 'I didn't know he was up north.'
'Yeah, it's him. Pete saw him in here with Eddie Mahoney.'
'Hey, I just had a drink with Eamonn once, that's it.'
'Pete, if you have anything to be worried about, now would be a good time to let me know.'
'I got plenty of worries, but they're all named Fritz or Hans. Now excuse me.'
I slid off the bench and let him by. He was heeled, as I was. Except for MPs, Brennan and I were the only two I'd seen walking around wearing sidearms on and off duty.
'Where's your jeep?' I asked.
'Around back.'
'I didn't see it anywhere, and I looked. Where?'
'Down a lane, behind a hedge. What do you care? Sir?'
'Well, Sergeant, it seems to me you're hiding from someone. I have to wonder who.'
'Good night, Grady,' Brennan said. He ignored me and walked out with that rigid straight-legged walk of
