Boston, Massachusetts
December 1985
Patrick Reardon reached through the wreath on the thick oak door to find the lion’s head knocker and began striking it against the wrought iron plate without pause. John Reardon threw open the door fully clothed despite the late hour.
“Jaysus, Patrick. It’s two in the morning,” he whisper-yelled to his nephew.
“We got pinched, Uncle John.” Patrick snaked past his uncle and stood panting in the grand front hall. “I was just the driver. The boys said it would be a quick in and out. That diamond merchant on Mass Ave. When they cut the wires on the alarm, the thing started blaring. Must be some new design. The cops were there before they could even smash the cases. The precinct’s a block away. Eejits!”
Patrick was pacing and running his fingers through his hair, bits of snow and sleet dripping onto the Aubusson rug.
“Did the cops make you?”
“I think so. And those boys will roll on me in a second to make it easier on themselves.”
John made no move to welcome his nephew into his home. He stood calmly in the front hall and waited for Patrick to face him.
“You’re going away for this one, lad. So here’s what you’re going to do. Get into the car and drive straight to the precinct. Ask for Detective Murray. Tell him you’re here to turn yourself in, and you have all the information he needs to put the others away for a good long time. Then you spill the beans. Every robbery, every scam, every loan, you tell ‘em. I’ll have my lawyer meet you there. Go now.”
Patrick suddenly looked like the young boy John remembered sitting in his office all those years ago. “I don’t want to go up the river again, Uncle John.”
“You should have thought of that before you decided to rob a jewelry store. Go on now. The quicker you get there, the shorter your sentence. The cops’ll give the deal to the first one that cracks. I’ll make sure that’s you.”
“You’ll look out for me?” Patrick asked.
“I always have, and I always will.”
Patrick nodded, resolute, and headed back to the car. John waited until the taillights vanished from view, then he turned and headed back to his office. The only change in the room during his nephew’s untimely interruption was the expanding pool of blood on the painter’s tarp which covered the carpet. The corpse’s rheumy eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. The two men who had accompanied the dead man stood silently at attention.
John resumed his seat behind his desk and returned the trusty Derringer to the drawer it had occupied for thirty years.
“Now. As I was saying. The shipment is paid in full. The cargo is on the dock waiting for pickup. My man’s name is Frank. Tell him I sent you for the shipment of watches from Hong Kong. Watches from Hong Kong, got it?” He repeated. Both men nodded. “I want to make myself clear. I’m retiring. My son Eoghan is taking over, and he has plans to move the business in a different direction. Our business is concluded. You have the contact information for the new shipper. He’s trustworthy, but do your own due diligence. Take Uri here and go. I trust you know how to make sure he isn’t found.”
One of the men smirked. Together the two men bent to roll the body in the tarp when John’s words halted them. “The last time I retired, it took three ‘Uri’s’ to convince my colleagues of my intentions. I hope this time it will only require one.”
The two men nodded with deference. The one who smirked extended his hand. “Schasty. It means good luck in my country.” John took the man’s hand and nodded his thanks. The two Ukrainians, with the body of their colleague hefted between them, made their way out the back, tossed the body in the truck of their Delta 88, and disappeared.
Once John could no longer hear the sedan on the gravel, he picked up his phone.
“Sorry to wake you, Bruce. My nephew needs you down at police headquarters. Got collared robbing a jewelry store. He’s with Murray. He’ll fill you in.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.” The Reardon attorney was terse, but he got the job done. John liked both qualities in the man.
Tomorrow was his granddaughter Imogen’s twentieth birthday. Eoghan and his wife, Peggy, were throwing her an intimate party at her favorite little Italian restaurant off Harvard Square. Then she and her fob of a boyfriend, Win, were heading to the festivities for the young people. Eoghan had mentioned that Win Brewer had asked for his permission to propose, so an engagement was in the offing. Well, he supposed there were worse prospective grooms. Win Brewer’s family had been in Boston since the Mayflower dropped anchor in Plymouth. The Brewers had been millionaires when the Reardons were picking pockets around Faneuil Hall.
John chuckled, imagining Bridget and Eoghan’s wife, Peggy, planning the wedding of the only Reardon daughter in three generations. He wasn’t going to let his nephew’s problems put a damper on this magical time in his life. He’d help Patrick as best he could. He didn’t know why he bailed the boy, well, man now, out of trouble again and again. There was no payoff for his effort. Nevertheless, Patrick was family and John would take care of him.