Death at Christy Burke's by Anne Emery Read Free Book Online

Brennan. We meet at last.” Leo turned to Monty. “Mr. Collins, welcome to Ireland. Better late than never at all.”
    Leo and Monty had met in New York, when Leo flew over to straighten some matters out for Brennan’s father after the shooting. Leo had taken Monty to task, him with the name of Collins and never having set foot in Ireland. The New York shooting, an eruption of Irish history on American soil, and now Mass at the barricades with tanks facing them; was any of this likely to engender in Monty an attachment to the land of his forefathers? Let’s hope things don’t get any worse , Brennan said to himself. He half expected a wisecrack from Monty about Leo and guns and trouble, but no. Even Monty, who had seen it all in the criminal courts for over twenty years, hadn’t seen anything like this. He appeared to have been left speechless by the spectacle today.
    Michael O’Flaherty said to Leo, “I have been attending Mass for seventy-one years, and saying Mass as a priest for forty-five years. Never, ever has the Mass moved me as profoundly as it did today.”
    Leo nodded. Obviously, there was a world of conversation O’Flaherty wanted to open up with Killeen, but this was not the time; Leo was a man with a lot on his mind.

Chapter 2
    Brennan
    When Brennan arrived at Christy’s the day after the tank-and-
barricade Mass, Finn had a set of keys in his hand and appeared to be on his way out. Standing in his place behind the bar was a young man in his twenties, with very short auburn hair and a close-cropped beard. His light brown eyes had a humorous look about them.
    “Ah. Brennan. You caught me on the fly,” Finn said. “Sean will be taking care of business while I’m out.” He made the introductions. “Brennan Burke. Sean Nugent. Brennan is my nephew, Sean, but you don’t have to take any guff off him. Feel free to toss him out if he gets scuttered and starts a row with somebody.”
    “I’m well able for him, Finn.”
    “Knew you would be. Brennan, come round the back with me for a minute.”
    Brennan followed his uncle into the darkness behind the bar. Finn turned to face him.
    “This vandalism has me concerned, Brennan.”
    “As well it might.”
    “I’m afraid the fellow has targeted one of the faithful here. I don’t know which one. But I’m afraid it might go beyond that. One of the lads could be in danger if this gouger thinks he’s a killer. And obviously I don’t want somebody coming in and shooting the place up, or setting fire to it.”
    “Have you called in —”
    “I don’t want the guards nosing about in here.”
    Why not? Brennan wondered. But he knew from long experience there was no point in asking.
    “So, would you help me out here? Keep your ears open. If you hear anything, let me know. Don’t get me wrong; if anyone has got himself into trouble, it’s not my business and it won’t go any farther than here.” He pointed to himself. “I don’t care what they’ve done; I won’t be informing on them. My concern is what might be done to them, by this unknown quantity with the paint can. Who knows what kind of weapon he might use next?”
    “I’ll do what I can for you, Finn, certainly. I can hardly fault you for being concerned.”
    He fixed his eyes on his uncle’s dark lenses as if he could penetrate their obscurity. But he could not, which, he had always assumed, was the point. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, Finn apparently preferred to keep his soul, pure or impure as it might be, hidden from public view. And, of course, the shades afforded him the opportunity to scrutinize the eyes of others while remaining inscrutable himself.
    “But,” Brennan asked him, “aren’t you the most obvious target here?”
    “It’s not about me. We’ve covered that ground already. Look elsewhere.”
    “Very well. Who do you have by way of regulars that I should be observing?”
    No reply.
    “Finn. The messages refer to someone who is known for spending his