But he’d deemed today necessary, so here he was, standing in the snow, hesitating a moment before opening the door.
But open the door he did, and when he entered, he put a calm smile on his face and lifted his chin.
The lobby was empty, fake flowers in massive urns, a reception desk unattended.
Soft music played, piped over a sound system in the ceiling.
Coyle saw no evidence of a funeral going on right now, so he suspectedthe somber music was a constant around here. Families came to buy caskets and such, so the music had to remain fitting to the situation.
“Can I help you?” The accent was all Boston.
Coyle tracked the voice to one of a pair of men walking up a hallway on his right. Both men were in their thirties; they both wore dark gray suits that looked off-the-rack but fit well enough. One of the two was slightly taller; the shorter one had a mustache, but otherwise they were nearly indistinguishable, so Campbell Coyle took them to be brothers.
He was expected, so he said, “Jon Jo Sheehan, here for Mr. Kearney.”
Both men continued approaching him. The shorter of the two appeared a little older, and he said, “My brother will take your hat and coat, sir.”
As the taller of the pair reached out for the coat, Coyle caught sight of the grip of a single-stack Glock pistol in the man’s shoulder holster.
Coyle himself was unarmed, which was good, because after his hat and coat were taken, he was thoroughly frisked by the shorter of the two men.
The search of his body was done without comment or ceremony.
Strange behavior for a funeral home,Coyle thought, but all three of these men knew there was much more to this place than met the eye.
Soon he was led out of the lobby, down the hall, and into a back office that telegraphed to Coyle that the occupant of it didn’t make his money exclusively by burying the dead of South Dorchester. It was as opulent as it was expansive, with luxurious-looking leather furniture in a seating area, and a long bar across one wall. A man sitting at the bar looking at his cell phone rose and walked quickly to Coyle, with a spry step out of place for the surroundings, and also out of tune with his appearance. The man was well into his seventies, heavyset, bearded, with reddish and gray hair swirled around the top of his head as if he’d just survived a tornado.
He wore a turtleneck sweater that looked expensive, and black suede slippers with the image of dancing skeletons stitched into the tops. His corduroy pants were baggy, but the watch on his wrist, just visible from under the cuff of the sweater, appeared to be a gold Rolex.
The old man shook Coyle’s hand with a smile. “Welcome to Boston. We spoke on the phone yesterday. My name is Gerry Kearney.” Kearney had an Irish accent to anyone here from the United States, but to Coyle he sounded American.
And Campbell Coyle hadn’t needed this man to introduce himself. He was the sole reason Coyle had come to Boston.
“Mr. Kearney, thank you for seeing me.”
“Mr. Sheehan, it’s a pleasure.”
“It’s Coyle, of course, as I mentioned on the phone.”
The older man smiled, raised an eyebrow. “Is it now? We’re about to find out about that.”
Coyle felt the presence of the two men who’d led him here; they were now standing very close behind him. Well within striking distance, and the Northern Irishman understood they might get orders to do just that at any time.
“So…” Kearney said, “you claim to be the son of RoryfuckingCoyle, I’ve got that right, do I?”
“I am.”
“I don’t know you, and I’m not the type to trust any young fella who saunters into my place of business claiming to be the spawn of the finest man with the biggest balls to have ever walked this godforsaken earth.”
“I didn’t bring any family photos, and he died when I was fifteen.”
Kearney said, “If you’re Rory Coyle’s son…tell me, what years was he at Long Kesh?”
Long Kesh was an infamous prison in County Down, in the southeastern part of Northern Ireland. Originally an RAF base, it had been converted to hold IRA prisoners by the British.
Coyle thought a moment. “He was put in an H-Block right after I was born. Late seventies, that would be. Was there for the hunger strike, did forty-six days before it ended. He got out when I was five, which was the first time I met him.” After saying this, Coyle jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Don’t suppose one of these blokes has a calculator in his shoulder holster, but we can figure out the years.”
Kearney smiled at this. Coyle knew he’d passed the first challenge. He said, “Your dear mother. Her name?”
