"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 someone who knows he's had too much to drink and is doing his damnedest not to show it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"The curse of the livin' among the dead, that's what the lad's sufferin' from," declared Grady. "He believes everyone but him has a date with a bullet. It's comical like, if you know what I mean. All a soldier wants to do is go on livin', and there's one who can't stop, and it eats him up inside. Almost comical but it fails the test," Grady said.
"What test?"
"No one's laughing, boy." With that he let out a wheezy string of air, more sigh than laugh. Grady O'Brick's hair was gray and his face lined and pale. His shirt was worn at the collar and elbows. A ragged scarf hung around his neck against the chill. His glass was empty and the look in his eyes said he was too proud to admit he was broke.
"This is good ale," I said. "Will you have another with me?"
"That's kind of you, boy, I will. They teach good manners in America."
"My folks tried their best," I said, and brought the empty glasses over to Tom. I wasn't thirsty, I was tired, but I knew Grady would be more talkative with a fresh pint to lubricate his tongue. While Tom pulled our pints, I watched the four GIs trying to figure out the British coins. Farthings, pence, and shillings were spread out on the table as they ran their fingers over them, arguing about their worth. It made me feel like an old hand, and as I confidently thumbed out shillings to pay for my ales, I realized I was older than these guys. They looked nineteen or twenty tops. When I was their age I was still wearing blue, and now here we were in khaki and brown, the only difference between us an easy familiarity with English coins and killing men.
That depressed me. I'd been shot at, either directly or indirectly, and I was far away from anyone who cared about me, if Diana still did. I was in the country of my ancestors, but on the wrong side of the border. One of the few people who had treated me decently was dead, and the closest I'd gotten to finding the BARs was the business end of one. I shuffled back to the table and slid onto the bench. Cool foaming bubbles spilled onto my hands as I set down the glasses.
" Slainte," I said, toasting Grady.
"And to your health too, Billy," Grady said. "Best you look to keep it."
"Couldn't agree with you more," I said. "Tell me, Grady, do you think Pete is hiding from Jenkins?"
"There's plenty good folk who fear to speak to the man. Any Catholic who wanders lost into his neighborhood in Armagh is not likely to leave alive. Those streets and alleys belong to the Red Hand. Jenkins is a devil, a man filled with hate, the worst of a bad lot."
"I'd bet there are some Catholic neighborhoods a Protestant should be afraid to walk in."
"Maybe, maybe. But here in the north there's no justice for a Catholic. The RUC are as likely to kill us as arrest us, and they turn a blind eye to Jenkins and his crew. Some say the Red Hand gets their arms directly from the RUC and the British army. It's a bad business all round."
Grady shook his head and took a drink. I did too, and the fresh, sharp taste of the ale cut through my weariness.
"You didn't really answer my question."
"Pete's a good lad who's been through a lot. Why not leave him be?"
I wasn't getting anywhere with my questions, so I thought I'd circle around and come at them from another direction. "You've been through a lot too," I said, glancing at his hands.
"Aye, but that was long ago."
"What happened?"
"I was a young man, that's what happened," Grady said, offering a sad smile that faded as quickly as it came. "I had ideals, and I was ready to die for a free Ireland. After the Easter Rising, I joined the IRA. They had us training out in the hills, climbing Slieve Donard, showing us how to set up ambushes, that sort of thing. A lot of foolishness, we all thought. We wanted guns, and we wanted to fight the British and the Loyalists too."
"Did you get them?" I asked, as Grady wet his whistle.
"Oh, aye, we got them. We'd been broken down into cells, as they called them. Ten lads in my cell, and the only person who knew anything was the man in charge, to best keep plans secret, you know.
Everyone in the IRA swore to keep secrets, and everyone told their pals and mothers everything. But Mick the Master, he took it all serious."
"Mick the Master?"
"Aye. Mick O'Flaherty. He was foreman on a Protestant farm, and that's what everyone called him. And it fit, let me tell you."
The door opened, and a couple of local fellows came in. Grady's eyes darted over them, to Tom the barkeep, and then back to me. He leaned in, his voice lower.
"We did get our guns. Mick the Master got an Enfield rifle; the rest of us got pistols or old shotguns. They weren't much, but we put them to good use. We raided police stations, ambushed Black and Tans, and built up our own arsenal. Mick the Master knew his job well, and he made sure we followed all the rules. Never say nuthin' is what he told us. Not a word to anyone outside the cell, not even to brag you were in the IRA. We went about our work like there was no war at all. Some of the boys didn't like the idea of folks thinkin' them cowards for not joining up but Mick didn't care. When we've won, he'd say, then everyone will know. One lad, he couldn't wait. He told a girl, and she told her da, and he told Mick."