Dublin Noir

And Michael O’Leary and Ryanair conquering the skies. The priests are scarce on the ground these days. Divorce is legal. The Bishop of Galway has a love child with an American lover, and the President of Ireland has crossed the religious divide to take communion in a Protestant cathedral. The IRA is about to call it quits and the border separating the Republic from Northern Ireland is gradually becoming an imaginary line. Money talks. And money goes where it’s well treated. And the Celtic Tiger is treating it well.

Money! That’s really why I’m here, he reminded himself. Not here to feel sentimental. Still, the old city looks good, he thought. New roads, new houses, construction cranes everywhere. Plenty of Mercs and BMWs. They’re not taking the Liverpool boat anymore. No! They’re in investment banking, working for McKinsey and Microsoft. Turning Ireland into the largest exporter of computer software outside of the United States.

At Ballsbridge, Burke paid the taxi fare and walked up Shelbourne Road. Dublin 4. The most sought after neighborhood in the city. Bright skies and the early morning briskness countered his lack of sleep. Old stately homes lined the streets. Surrounded by sturdy stone walls, they exuded wealth and power. As a kid this would have been an alien place to him. Still is, he thought, as he reached a modern four-story apartment block in Ballsbridge Gardens. He already had a key, mailed to him in New York before he’d left.

Once inside, he realized that he could be anywhere. Luxury that would be right at home on Fifth Avenue. He dropped his bags, started the coffee machine, and minutes later sat in the large Jacuzzi bathtub watching the bubbles welcome him to Dublin.

Refreshed and dressed, he arrived at Lillie’s Bordello at 6:00. The most elite club in Dublin. Had he been here a few nights ago, after the Irish Film and Television Awards, he could have joined Pierce Brosnan and James Nesbitt as they sang “Danny Boy” at the piano in the VIP room.

This was Murphy’s idea. Drop him into the deep end. Meet who’s who in Dublin society. Hit the ground running! That’s always been Murphy’s modus operandi. Murphy was his old law school buddy at Trinity and the reason he’d returned to Dublin. Murphy had built a successful legal business, rich from tribunal money and litigation. Now, with more business than he could handle, he’d developed a distrust for his partners.

It didn’t take much persuasion to tempt Ed Burke back to Dublin. His mob clients were a little annoyed at the moment. One with a bullet behind his ear in a ditch in Westchester. Another behind bars on a federal indictment for corruption.

Jesus Christ! I really could be in New York or L.A.! The same confidence. The same body movements. Damn it. Even the accents are mid-Atlantic.

All the right people at tonight’s reception for a noble cause. Charity. Aid for Africa. Medicine for Chernoble. Sexy stuff. Good publicity for the rich and powerful.

He felt a finger trace its way up his spine, lingered to enjoy, then turned slowly and came face-to-face with her.

“Edmund,” she said, moving to within inches. No one else except his mother called him Edmund.

Just then Murphy arrived with drinks. “Ah, a reunion, you two… okay! Okay!” he protested their stares, then handed Burke his drink and moved on. But the spell had been broken.

“Pia, it’s been a long time,” said Ed, looking at the woman who had broken his heart. Days and nights of endless lovemaking when they both attended Trinity. Summers in Donegal. Running naked into the sea on the Fanad beach at midnight. Dark, Latin beauty, born in Barcelona, Irish father, Spanish mother. Something Irish flashing through, the same way you see the Irish in Anthony Quinn’s Mexican face.

“Twenty years, Edmund. You’re looking well. If I’d known you were going to be such a success…” She let the sentence hang in the air.

Ed wanted to hold her, kiss her, take her to that Fanad beach again. His mind spoke to him: Oh, Pia, I loved you so much. And you left me for that geek. Now he’s one of the top Ministers in the government. Being touted as a future Taoiseach.Speak of the devil. The man himself approached.

“Ed, I see you’re back. Good. We need your talent here. Building a great country these days.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it, Minister. Had things looked like this twenty years ago, I might never have left.”

“Well, you’re back. That’s what matters.”

Looking at his wife, he said, “Pia, you and Ed are old friends. Introduce him around. New blood he should meet here.” And with that he was gone. Working the audience. Consolidating his mandate.

Ed Burke knew that it was a mistake. But he was addicted. Always had been. In the days that followed, he and Pia threw caution to the wind. They were inseparable and indiscrete. Glued together in cozy corners in the best pubs and clubs, unabashedly naked in private saunas. It seemed their passion had only been fueled by the passing of time.

Just three weeks after his arrival, Ed Burke found himself “in at the deep end,” defending Dan Mortimer, one of Dublin’s elite, against a class action suit brought by a rabble of welfare-dependent inner-city denizens. As Murphy had said, “Good way to announce your presence to the world. This is a case you can’t lose. And making an ally out of Mortimer will seal your career. Besides, it’ll be great PR for our firm.”

Some said that Mortimer was the public face of the Celtic Tiger. A good quarter of the construction cranes crisscrossing the Dublin skyline bore the Mortimer name in huge capital letters. The new dockland development had Mortimer stamped all over it. But this case had aroused the emotions of the people. The class action suit claimed that Mortimer had illegally acquired derelict inner-city land that should have been used for the community, and had then used his influence to have it rezoned for commercial purposes. Site development had commenced, excessive noise polluted the air, cracks had appeared in the foundation of adjacent houses. The suit also claimed that Mortimer had used aggressive tactics to persuade local homeowners to sell and leave so that he could demolish their homes and make way for further commercial usage. Two hungry young lawyers represented the claimants. Just like me twenty years ago, thought Burke, idealistic and naive. They could not support their case with solid evidence. They promised to produce a witness who would testify that Mortimer had made illegal payments to someone in government to get the land rezoned. But the witness did not show up in court. The judge gave them a second chance. Produce the witness within one week, otherwise the court finds the claim unsubstantiated.

A late-evening wind blew the rain into Burke’s face as he stood on the corner awaiting the taxi he’d ordered. It had been a long day in court and he felt uneasy about the whole business. New York was different. There, he knew the good guys from the bad guys. Everything was direct. In your face. Here, nothing resembled that. Too much gray, too little black and white. This country thrived on ambivalence.

An elderly man approached him. Something familiar searched his brain for a memory, a connection.

“Hello, Eddie.”

The Eddie completed the circuit in his brain. He hadn’t been called Eddie since he was a little boy. Marty, Marty Rainey. Age now hid the vitality he remembered. Marty had been almost a surrogate father. Often there for him when his own father was down in the pub in the evening.

“Marty! Is it you?”

“’Tis indeed. Not as supple as you remember. But the old head still works.”

“Marty, it’s just great seeing you again.”

“Eddie, I need to talk to you. It’s life or death for me.”

Saying it so matter-of-factly took the surprise out of it. The taxi pulled up, saving Ed from looking lost. He insisted on taking Marty home.

As the taxi pulled out into rush hour traffic, Marty said: “I’m your witness.”

For a moment Ed Burke was mystified. Then it struck him that Marty’s telling him that he’s the missing witness at the trial. Ed gripped Marty’s arm and looked at him. Marty continued: “I couldn’t show up. They threatened me. Told me that I’d wind up in the Liffey. They meant it, Eddie. I suppose I’m a coward.”

“Who threatened you, Marty?”

“Thugs! That’s who. You don’t think they do their own dirty work, do you? No, they hired a bunch of thugs who don’t give a shite. They’d kill me as easily as look at me.”

“Who ordered it, Marty?”

“Come on, you know who. You’re defending one of them in court. I suppose you’re gettin’ well paid for that. But you’ve forgotten where you came from, Eddie.”

“Damn it, Marty! Don’t fucking lecture me. If you’re telling me the truth, then you were the bagman for these