The Death of an Irish Sinner by Bartholomew Gill Read Free Book Online Page B

sprightly gait, more like a kind of lope, that McGarr believed he had seen before. But where?
    Rolling down the window, McGarr reached for the butt of the Walther, which was again tucked under his belt. He had made mistakes enough for one night. “Help you?”
    “Know me?” the man demanded, bending so his face was in the window.
    McGarr said nothing, the face—like his odd gait—being only vaguely familiar.
    “You don’t know me?”
    Still, McGarr waited.
    “And there I was hoping you’d be the consummate Sherlock—never forget a face and all that rot. You’re Peter McGarr. I’m Dery Parmalee, publisher of Ath Cliath . Doubtless you remember me. We’ve met several times.” His large right hand now accompanied his face in the open window.
    Yet McGarr continued to regard the man. Named after the Irish language phrase for Dublin, Ath Cliath was a weekly tabloid newspaper that was distributed free of charge on streetcorners and dropped off at shops citywide.
    But unlike so many erstwhile publications of the sort, Ath Cliath had flourished, if page numbers were any measure of success. The weekly tabloid was now the size of a thin book, and Noreen herself had taken to advertising her painting gallery in the rag.
    “Why?” McGarr had only recently asked her, since the expense was nearly as great as advertising in one of the national dailies. Also, the quality of the stories was more than a little suspect. They were based mainly on scandal, innuendo, and gossip. Many began with the lead “Sources have revealed to Ath Cliath …” And Parmalee himself was often in the news fighting some slander charge in court.
    “Ach, it’s ‘the word behind the hand,’” Noreen had replied, “what everybody in this town can’t get enoughof, and you know it. The inside scoop, what the other papers are afraid to print.
    “Also, they cover all the films, plays, and concerts better than anybody, and the reporting about museums and galleries is the best I’ve ever read in Ireland. People pick it up to know what’s going on. Add in a few gossipy exposés”—she had shrugged—“and it’s a winner. Tell you true, I can’t afford not to advertise in Ath Cliath .”
    McGarr now remembered that the cover exposés were nearly all written by Parmalee himself.
    Who now withdrew the hand and straightened up. “To business then? I know what happened inside, what’s going on, and why you’re here.” Parmalee waited for McGarr’s reaction.
    Seconds went by.
    “I think there’s several things you should know.”
    Removing his hand from the butt of the Walther, McGarr slipped the Rover into neutral.
    “Mary-Jo Stanton? She was a numerary—an acolyte—of Opus Dei. In fact, this”—the hand gestured at the bronze gate—“is no mere private dwelling. It’s an Opus Dei compound, their unofficial headquarters here in Ireland, with Fred Duggan in command.”
    “Father Fred?”
    Parmalee nodded.
    McGarr tried to remember what exactly Opus Dei was. In Latin, the phrase meant “the work (or works) of God,” he knew from the years he had been forced to study that ancient language. Could it be a Catholic religious order? He seemed to think he had heard or read the name before. “Opus Dei?” he asked.
    “John Paul the Second’s reactionary shock troops,”Parmalee said. “They fashion themselves as modern-day Crusaders, and they’re zealots of the worst sort. They’ll say and do anything to promote what they think is God’s work. How did their thaumaturgic founder, José Maria Escrivá, put it? ‘Our life is a warfare of love, and in love and war all is fair.’”
    José Maria Escrivá was the name engraved on the brass plate of the painting that had been cut out and stolen from Mary-Jo Stanton’s rifled study. But thaumaturgic ? What exactly did that mean?
    “ Pillería is what Escrivá called the campaigns that Opus Dei has carried on around the world in the name of God’s work. Dirty tricks, such as massive bank