Robert B. Parker’s Revenge Tour

Thirty-Three

Desmond Burke’s position on my father hadn’t changed. He was willing to help me out, but only if my father asked.

And on Phil Randall’s end, nothing had changed where Desmond was concerned.

He continued to tell me that the only thing he wanted from my former father-in-law was a full confession, for all of his sins.

And yet here the three of us were, on what both old men considered neutral ground, the Tavern at the End of the World on Cambridge Street in Charlestown. It was closer to where Desmond lived, by a lot, it was practically in the neighborhood for him, something my father had pointed out more than once on our way there. But both of them liked the place, the second floor of a two-story building, its siding baby blue.

“I still don’t see why I have to come to him,” Phil Randall grumbled as I was looking for a parking spot.

“Because I asked you to,” I said.

“How many times do I tell you I don’t need any favors from the likes of him?” he said.

“And how many times do I have to tell you that the favor is for me?” I said.

I had told both Desmond and my father about Doyle’s possible connection to John Melvin, and how little I liked that connection, as irrelevant to my father’s current situation as it might turn out to be. Just because I considered Melvin an unrepentant psychopath, capable of anything and everything.

“I can handle Doyle,” my father said.

“No,” I said. “You can’t. He’s dangerous as hell and you’re...”

He pounced on my hesitation, giving me no opportunity to finish my thought.

“And I’m old,” he said. “That’s what you were about to say, wasn’t it? I can’t handle this myself because I’m old.”

“No,” I said. “I was about to tell you that you’re good, Dad. But that Joe Doyle is a very bad man.”

I found a spot behind the tavern. Desmond Burke’s black Town Car, of course, was parked at the front door. I could see one of Desmond’s body men behind the wheel. Another that I was sure was his, a kid straight from central casting, was standing guard at the door. He had a ruddy Irish face and even wore the kind of old-fashioned scally cap I’d seen pictures of Desmond wearing when he was a young up-and-comer in the Irish Mob, long before he was all the Irish Mob there was left in Boston.

Desmond was at a corner table on the other side of the bar, his back to the wall. Despite the warm weather we’d been having and were having tonight, he again wore a heavy sweater with a shawl collar. He did not rise to greet us.

“Sunny,” he said.

“Desmond.”

“Yourself,” Desmond said to my father.

“Burke,” my father said back to him.

My father and I sat down. Desmond held up a finger and the bartender came over to the table.

“Midleton neat for me,” Desmond Burke said.

My father and I ordered Samuel Adams Summer Ale. I wasn’t drinking scotch on an empty stomach, and with more driving to do after we left here.

No one spoke until the drinks arrived. There were no Irish toasts tonight. The two old men stared at each other, even as they drank.

“So,” Desmond Burke said.

“Before anybody says another word,” my father said, “I want it understood that I’m only here because of my daughter.”

“Makes two of us,” Desmond said. “Because I’m only here because of your daughter.”

He took his eyes off Phil Randall only long enough to throw a quick nod at me. I nodded back.

“Good that we cleared that up,” I said. “You’re both here because of me. I’m flattered, truly. But we’re also here because of Mr. Joe Doyle himself, a man neither one of you has ever had any use for.”

“The difference, though,” Desmond said, “is that the maroon poses no threat to me.”

He picked up his glass and held it up to what light was coming through the window, and even smiled, before taking another sip.

“Let’s get to it,” Desmond said.

He shifted slightly as a way of focusing all of his old-boss self on my father.

“Ask me what you came here to ask me,” he said.

“No,” my father said.

“Dad,” I said. “You promised me you’d hear Desmond out.”

“I changed my mind,” he said.

“Not the first time a copper ever took a deal off the table,” Desmond Burke said.

“I already told you,” my father said to me. “I’m not asking a favor from the likes of him. I’m not even going to let him pay for my drink.”

“You’ll ask for a favor tonight if you want my help keeping the likes of you safe,” Desmond said.

My father slammed his mug down hard on the table.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

He stood. So did Desmond Burke.

“Both of you sit back down and cut the shit,” I heard from behind me.

I didn’t need to turn to know that the voice belonged to Richie Burke.