pig.
Matches, bottle caps, pocket knives, Saint Christopher medals, coins, and the ace of spades. I’d seen them all grasped in sweaty palms, tucked in pockets and continually patted down to make sure they were safe. There were rituals too—prayers, curses, songs, finger tapping, the sign of the cross, all those charms and amulets each GI was certain he couldn’t do without when the lead started flying. They knew that without it, they’d be dead. With it, their chances might be slightly better than average, but nothing was guaranteed. Finally, after enough time up on the line, they realized luck had nothing to do with it. Skill and alertness—those things could give you an edge, at least until exhaustion set in, but luck was meaningless. Sooner or later, unless they pulled you off the line, you were going to get it.
I stirred my cold coffee and stared at the dark liquid swirling like a whirlpool.
“Lieutenant Boyle?”
I jumped, startled. I looked up and saw a man in a dark green uniform staring at me. He had a square jaw and a thin-lipped mouth set beneath dark eyes. Crow’s-feet showed at their corners, and I judged him to be in his midforties. The uniform had a high collar with the Irish harp on each collar tab. His black leather belt and holster were gleaming, the butt of his revolver high and forward, ready for action.
“You must be Hugh Carrick,” I said, rising from my seat. I didn’t offer my hand.
“District Inspector Carrick, if it’s all the same to you,” he said as he sat down across from me. He gestured with his hand for me to be seated, as if I had just walked into his office.
“It is,” I said. “Do district inspectors in Ulster have to wear Class As all the time?”
“Pardon me?”
“The fancy dress uniform. Back in the States detectives dress in suits except for special occasions.”
“I just came from a funeral in Dromara. A constable, murdered by the so-called Irish Republican Army. Shot four times in the back, twenty yards from his home. His wife and two wee girls reached him first.”
As he spoke, his tone didn’t vary. No emotion crept into his voice, and his eyes stayed focused on me as he sat there, hands folded in his lap.
“I’m sorry, Inspector—”
“District Inspector.”
“I am sorry, District Inspector. I’m a policeman myself, or was. In Boston, before the war. The death of a brother officer is a serious matter.”
“Serious? To a Catholic from Boston? I understand the IRA murder squads enjoy a great deal of support from the Irish settled in Boston.”
“How do you know I’m Catholic? Maybe I’m an atheist.”
“Do not joke with me, Lieutenant Boyle. Your name tells me what I need to know, and your city tells me the rest. It’s in the blood with you from across the border, whether you’ve gone to America or come north with a pistol to shoot a good man in the back.” His words spilled out with the Irish accent I was used to, but with a harder, clipped edge. The only part of him that moved was his lips.
“Perhaps we should talk another time, District Inspector. I’m sure passions are running high after the funeral.”
“Passions, Lieutenant Boyle? We have no time for passions. We have murderers to apprehend. We have a war to fight. Perhaps you allow yourself to wallow in passions but personally I find them distracting.”
“Passion is what usually leads to murder, DI Carrick.”
“But not what solves them, in my experience. Now I am told that I must cooperate with you, and I am sure you have been instructed to cooperate with me.”
“I have been. I’ve only been here one full day. I don’t have much information yet.” I tried to keep my response neutral, to match his tone and his approach to me. It was an interrogation technique my dad had taught me. When a suspect was giving you a hard time, watch how he sits and how he speaks. Copy his stance and tone, and give it back to him. Sometimes it can defuse a touchy situation.
“Very
Matches, bottle caps, pocket knives, Saint Christopher medals, coins, and the ace of spades. I’d seen them all grasped in sweaty palms, tucked in pockets and continually patted down to make sure they were safe. There were rituals too—prayers, curses, songs, finger tapping, the sign of the cross, all those charms and amulets each GI was certain he couldn’t do without when the lead started flying. They knew that without it, they’d be dead. With it, their chances might be slightly better than average, but nothing was guaranteed. Finally, after enough time up on the line, they realized luck had nothing to do with it. Skill and alertness—those things could give you an edge, at least until exhaustion set in, but luck was meaningless. Sooner or later, unless they pulled you off the line, you were going to get it.
I stirred my cold coffee and stared at the dark liquid swirling like a whirlpool.
“Lieutenant Boyle?”
I jumped, startled. I looked up and saw a man in a dark green uniform staring at me. He had a square jaw and a thin-lipped mouth set beneath dark eyes. Crow’s-feet showed at their corners, and I judged him to be in his midforties. The uniform had a high collar with the Irish harp on each collar tab. His black leather belt and holster were gleaming, the butt of his revolver high and forward, ready for action.
“You must be Hugh Carrick,” I said, rising from my seat. I didn’t offer my hand.
“District Inspector Carrick, if it’s all the same to you,” he said as he sat down across from me. He gestured with his hand for me to be seated, as if I had just walked into his office.
“It is,” I said. “Do district inspectors in Ulster have to wear Class As all the time?”
“Pardon me?”
“The fancy dress uniform. Back in the States detectives dress in suits except for special occasions.”
“I just came from a funeral in Dromara. A constable, murdered by the so-called Irish Republican Army. Shot four times in the back, twenty yards from his home. His wife and two wee girls reached him first.”
As he spoke, his tone didn’t vary. No emotion crept into his voice, and his eyes stayed focused on me as he sat there, hands folded in his lap.
“I’m sorry, Inspector—”
“District Inspector.”
“I am sorry, District Inspector. I’m a policeman myself, or was. In Boston, before the war. The death of a brother officer is a serious matter.”
“Serious? To a Catholic from Boston? I understand the IRA murder squads enjoy a great deal of support from the Irish settled in Boston.”
“How do you know I’m Catholic? Maybe I’m an atheist.”
“Do not joke with me, Lieutenant Boyle. Your name tells me what I need to know, and your city tells me the rest. It’s in the blood with you from across the border, whether you’ve gone to America or come north with a pistol to shoot a good man in the back.” His words spilled out with the Irish accent I was used to, but with a harder, clipped edge. The only part of him that moved was his lips.
“Perhaps we should talk another time, District Inspector. I’m sure passions are running high after the funeral.”
“Passions, Lieutenant Boyle? We have no time for passions. We have murderers to apprehend. We have a war to fight. Perhaps you allow yourself to wallow in passions but personally I find them distracting.”
“Passion is what usually leads to murder, DI Carrick.”
“But not what solves them, in my experience. Now I am told that I must cooperate with you, and I am sure you have been instructed to cooperate with me.”
“I have been. I’ve only been here one full day. I don’t have much information yet.” I tried to keep my response neutral, to match his tone and his approach to me. It was an interrogation technique my dad had taught me. When a suspect was giving you a hard time, watch how he sits and how he speaks. Copy his stance and tone, and give it back to him. Sometimes it can defuse a touchy situation.
“Very
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