She was turning cop on him, and he was getting defensive. Interesting. Whatever was going on between them had turned into an interrogation. Could the son of Liam Byrne be a suspect in the murder of Byrne’s former partner? Why not? The more the merrier. Robert was only disappointed that he hadn’t seen the possibility sooner. It would have been nice to add a piece of evidence to the crime scene implicating the boy. Maybe he’d still have his chance.
It lasted a moment more, the conversation, and then the cop slipped away to head back to her partner. They’d talk about the kid, they’d keep an eye on him, which meant Robert couldn’t go right over. He’d have to wait.
His moment came after the priest had finished his monotonous oration, after a few prayers from the little pamphlet had been read, after the coffin had been lowered and dirt had been spilled onto its dark wooden surface with the pattering thud of finality. The three women from the front row had been helped into their respective limousines, the crowd was shaking heads and shaking hands and dispersing toward the cars parked tightly on the road that wound around the gravestones. Robert spied Kyle Byrne walking alone with his head down toward an old red sports car parked well away from the others. “Mr. Byrne?” said Robert as he came up from behind. “Mr. Kyle Byrne?”
The kid stopped and turned around and gave Robert a careful look before saying, “Yes.”
“Liam Byrne’s son?”
“That’s right.”
“I knew your father,” said Robert. He stifled his smile as he saw the son’s eyes widen with curiosity. He had wondered what to offer as bait, and suddenly he knew. “Your father was a fine man.” “Was he?”
“Well, sometimes he was. And sometimes not so. If you’re interested in the details, maybe we should talk,” said Robert, fishing a card from his pocket, offering it to Byrne. “I think we can help each other.”
Byrne took the card, glanced at it. “How can you help me . . . Mr. O’Malley?”
“I know things about your father.”
“Things? What kinds of things?”
“Things about his life, his frailties, his death.”
“His death?”
“Things that might surprise you,” said Robert. “Secrets. What child doesn’t want to probe the secrets of his father? But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you have no interest at all in your father’s past. And if so, good for you. Only the foolish look back. Forward, forward is all. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“No, no, wait,” said Byrne as Robert started to turn away. “We can talk. Why don’t we talk now?”
“They’ve just buried your father’s partner,” said Robert. “This is an inappropriate venue for our discussion, don’t you agree? Call me, and we’ll meet someplace seemly.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Call me.”
“Wait, don’t leave.”
“Soon,” said Robert as he backed away.
“Mr. O’Malley?”
“Yes?”
“You said we can help each other. How can I help you?”
Robert stopped, stared for a bit, and then walked up to Byrne so his softest voice could be heard. “I am looking for something. I was a client of your father’s, and I gave him certain information that he put in a file. A legal file. With my name upon its label. I would like that information back. Do you have any idea where the file might be?”
“No. None.”
“That’s too bad,” said Robert as he backed away and then turned again to leave.
“But we should talk.”
“Find me my file and we will.”
“I don’t even know where to look.”
“Think,” said Robert over his shoulder. “Think hard, and then give me a call.”
CHAPTER 10
THE OLDE PIG SNOUT TAVERN in South Philly was as close to a real home as Kyle had anymore, if home was wherever family could be found. Kyle’s father and mother both were dead, he had no siblings, and the only grandparent he ever knew was his mother’s disapproving mother, who was now long gone. He was closer to Kat than to anyone else on the planet, but as far as blood went, Kyle had only one family member left, and he could invariably be found drinking away his disability check at the Olde Pig Snout.
“Well, lookie who the hell it is,” said Uncle Max as Kyle stepped into the bar. “Yo, Fred, you know my nephew Kyle?”
“Sure,” said Fred, the tall, lugubrious man who forever stood behind the bar of the Olde Pig Snout. “How you doing there, Kyle?”
“Good,” said Kyle.
“That’s good,” said Fred. “That’s real good. You still playing ball?”
“I was. For Bubba’s.”
“Good. Are they doing any good?”
“No.”
“Good. Anything I can get you?”
“A beer is good.”
“On my tab,” said Max.
“Good,” said Fred.
Conversation was always scintillating at the Olde Pig Snout, a simple corner joint that never seemed to change. The prevailing color was nicotine brown, the hamburgers were always overcooked, the television was always on, the Phillies were always losing. Over the years the clientele had shifted from all white to a mixture of white and black and Vietnamese, a veritable Rainbow Coalition, but this was no great circle of man holding hands and singing “Kumbaya.” Because they were at the Olde Pig Snout, and that brought everyone down to the same low level, drinking for the same sad reasons, eating the same overcooked hamburgers. But that night Kyle wasn’t there for the burgers.
Ever since the funeral that afternoon, and the conversations with that cop Ramirez and the strange Mr. O’Malley, Kyle had been plagued by questions. Why was Laszlo Toth murdered? Why were questions being asked about Liam Byrne’s death? Was there a link between the two? What surprising things about his father’s life and death could this O’Malley character really tell him? And what was in that file that O’Malley was seeking so keenly?
They were all mysteries most likely better left shrugged off and forgotten. And who was better at shrugging off questions than Kyle Byrne? Kyle didn’t want to steer his life, he wanted to bob in the currents, take in the scenery as he floated here and there. Any idiot could dress to impress, work his ass off, kiss butt and climb that solid and respectable ladder of success, but only a few had the temerity to slack off as baldly as Kyle. He would always sooner spend the afternoon blowing dope and obliterating aliens on the Xbox than pounding the streets in search of the truth.