“Margaret.”
“What did everybody call her?”
“I called her Ma, as did my brother. Everyone else called her Mags.”
Now the Bostonian nodded a little. He asked, “Where did Rory meet her?”
“In East Belfast. A pub in Short Strand, or so I’m told. Neither of them talked about that much, so I knew better than to ask more questions.”
Kearney smiled at this a little. “Aye. Best you don’t. I was there, though I was a wee boy, had no business in a pub myself.” He added, “It was young love between them, but itwaslove. I saw it blossom myself. Rory was a tough bastard rendered weak by Mags, if only momentarily.”
Campbell Coyle said nothing.
Kearney continued with the vetting process. “Think back now, lad. There was a man with a scar. A ginger. Always ran around with your pop. Quiet, didn’t drink, not a drop, unlike the rest of us. You remember anyone like that?”
“Aye. I was young, but that scar was hard to forget.”
“From the butt of a British soldier’s ArmaLite, taken right to the cheekbone.”
Coyle said, “He was missing some teeth, too, if memory serves.”
Kearney grinned now. “Your memory serves you well. Now…the scarred man’s name?”
“Robbie.”
“Robbiewhat?”
Coyle thought back. “He was just ‘Uncle Robbie’ to me. Always brought me and my brother sweets or crisps, he did. If I saw him, I knew I was getting a treat.”
Kearney gave a gentle wave of his hand. Coyle was confused by it but quickly felt the men behind him melt back and away, until the door to the big office shut behind them and they were gone. The old man said, “Well, lad, your Uncle Robbie’s name was Robbie Kearney, and he was my much beloved brother.”
Coyle nodded. “I quite liked him. A gentle soul.”
“Not to the British, he wasn’t. Rory and Robbie were the terrors of Belfast for a while, they were.” Kearney said this with a twinkle in his eye.
“He’s still among the living, I hope?” It was said as a question.
“No, no. Died 2008. Natural causes for an Irishman. Smoking, backbreaking labor, fried food.” Kearney waved a hand around the funeral home. “The kind of behavior that keeps me in business, even now, even here.”
“Right.”
Kearney led Coyle to a leather sofa, and they sat down together. The old man said, “You passed the test. An honor to meet you.”
“You, too.”
“Cup of tea?”
“No, thanks. I can’t stay long.”
“Your father, quite a legend, he was. He was the best. My brother ran with him for years before your da moved to Derry. I was younger. I only knew your pop a little, you understand, but Robbie loved him, and I loved Robbie.”
With sadness in his eyes, he said, “I moved to America when I turned eighteen; Robbie and Rory were in their twenties, fighting the British. I’ve never forgiven myself for leaving the cause behind.”
Coyle wanted to say he wished his da had gone to America and left the cause behind, but he did not.
Kearney said, “Now…how can I help you, young Campbell, son of the magnificent Rory?”
This, Coyle knew, was the moment of truth. He said, “I’m here in America to do a series of jobs. I don’t know how long it will take. Might be weeks. Hopefully less. I’ll be paid well for my efforts here. The work will be dangerous, and the people I’ll work for are not to be trusted, if you get my meaning.”
