Irish Whiskey Read online

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  COPS ARREST FBI AGENTS

  RADIO NEWS

  NOON TV NEWS

  4:30 TELEVISION (LIVE)

  10:00 TV NEWS

  16

  17

  18

  EDITORIAL FREEDOM OF THE PRESS UNDER ASSAULT

  EDITORIAL WHAT IS DUE DILIGENCE?

  RADIO EDITORIAL

  19

  20

  21

  22

  COYNE INDICTED

  FIVE O’CLOCK NEWS

  COYNE LAWYER PROMISES “BIG SURPRISE”

  TV COMMENTARY

  23

  24

  25

  26

  MARIE’S STORY

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  EDITORIAL

  33

  COLUMN NOTE

  34

  BOOKS BY ANDREW M. GREELEY FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES

  Praise for Andrew M. Greeley

  NOTE

  Notes

  Copyright Page

  For Gail and Terry Goggin in honor of their silver

  wedding anniversary: from now on it gets even better!

  1

  “THERE’S SOMETHING wrong with that grave,” Nuala Anne McGrail informed me. She was pointing an accusing right hand at a large monument with the Sacred Heart and the Blessed Mother presiding over a grave on which the family name “Sullivan” was carved.

  I had just helped her off the ground after she had made a sign of the cross to indicate that our period of devotion was over. That she accepted my help was typical of her present mood; normally she would have disdained my assistance and bounded up on her own. Nuala was the bounding kind of young woman.

  “Wrong?” I asked, dreading another manifestation of my affianced’s notorious psychic intuitions.

  “Who was this man James Sullivan who died in 1927?” she demanded.

  It was a bleak Sunday in mid-September. Mother Nature had forgotten there ever was such a thing as summer and was settling in for an early and brief autumn, which she would follow with her favorite season in Chicago—endless winter. The lawns of Mount Carmel cemetery were already covered with a carpet of leaves. A chill northeast wind was shaking the trees and adding to the carpet. The dank smell of rain was in the air. A perfect day for a visit to a cemetery—and a perfect day for the dark mood into which the beauteous Nuala seemed to have sunk.

  “He was a bootlegger, Nuala. And a very successful one at that. The Italians called him Sweet Rolls Sullivan because he owned a bakery right across from the Cathedral. Where the parking lot is now.”

  “Whatever in the world was a bootlegger, Dermot Michael?”

  Looking like a teenager, she was dressed in the standard utility uniform of young women—jeans, white Nike running shoes, and a dark blue sweatshirt, the last named in this instance representing one of my alma maters, Marquette University (from which at the end of my four years of college I did not depart with a degree). She wore no makeup and her long black hair was tied back in a brisk ponytail. None of these utilitarian measures affected in the least her radiant good looks.

  “A bootlegger,” I explained, “was a man who smuggled whiskey.”

  “To escape the tariffs?” She frowned at the offending gravestone.

  My beloved was the kind of beautiful woman at whom everyone turned to look, even in a cemetery. She was tall and her body was that of a lithe woman athlete. Her pale skin and glowing blue eyes hinted at an ancient Celtic goddess as did the twinkling of bells over the bogs in her voice. The first time I saw her, I thought of such womanly Celtic deities and came to learn that on occasion she could be at least as imperious as Brigid or Sionna or Bionna or one of those gorgeous and fearsome women. Naturally I promptly fell in love with her.

  It turned out that, although she had dismissed me the year before in O’Neill’s pub down the street from Trinity College as a friggin’ rich Yank, she had also fallen in love with me.

  By the way, if you want to pronounce her name correctly, it sounds like “Noola” with the double “o” stretched out and sounding like you had a bit of Dublin fog in your throat.

  “No, it was Prohibition time.”

  Her frown deepened.

  “Well, then, whatever was Prohibition?”

  Ah, the innocence of the young.

  “There was a time, back in the nineteen twenties, when the Protestants in this country passed a constitutional amendment prohibiting the possession or sale of alcoholic beverages.”

  “You’re having me on, Dermot,” she insisted, huddling close, her arm around my waist. “There never was such a thing as prohibition in this country.”

  When the Irish say “never” like that they are not so much denying the existence of the reality in question as they are expressing astonishment that such a reality could ever be.

  Naturally, I put my arm around her and held her tightly. In a couple of weeks this woman would be mine—and I would be hers—and I looked forward with passionate eagerness to that union.

  In all its manifestations.

  She was shivering as though it were December instead of mid-September. It wasn’t that cold.

  “It’s true,” I said. “Obviously it didn’t work. It was a foolish law, which almost everyone violated. The saloons were closed, but speakeasies as we called them opened everywhere. Jazz music came to Chicago to entertain the flappers and their dates while they drank bootlegged booze. The bootleggers made tons of money and of course risked their lives in wars with one another.”

  “The Untouchables were real people then? I thought it was just a film.”

  Naturally, being Irish, she pronounced that last word as “fillum.”

  “Organized crime as we now have it in this country was the result of Prohibition.”

  “This poor man was born in 1898,” she said, cuddling even closer to me. “He lived only twenty-nine years.”

  “The Italians were the most ruthless of all the bootleggers. They killed off everyone else. Killer Sullivan down there killed some of them, but they got him eventually.”

  I knew these things only because my parents had told me about them when we passed the Sullivan grave site on our infrequent visits to the family plot at Mount Carmel.

  “His wife isn’t buried here?” she asked.

  The gravestone told of one Marie Kavanaugh who had been born in 1908, but it gave no date of death.

  “She’s still alive, I guess. She’d be in her late eighties now. They’d been married only a year and a half. I think she had a kid. I don’t know whether the kid survives.”

  “Almost seventy years of widowhood … Dermot Michael, don’t you ever do that to me.”

  “I’m not a bootlegger,” I said, resting my hand a
gainst her breast.

  She sighed contentedly.

  “Who killed the poor man?”

  “Capone.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Nuala Anne, when you hear the name of Chicago of whom do you think?”

  “Michael Jordan,” she said promptly, going through the required motion of a jump shot. “Who else?”

  I didn’t say, “whom else?” I had learned a few things about women while courting this one. Probably not enough.

  “Well, before that, everyone said ‘Al Capone’ and made like they were firing an automatic weapon. He was the king of the bootleggers, the most successful because he was the most brutal. A violent and vicious Sicilian.1”

  “Was he the one the Untouchables sent to prison because he didn’t pay his taxes?”

  “He was.”

  “Whatever happened to him?”

  “He had contracted syphilis before he went to prison. He died in his middle forties. His brain was so diseased at the end that he would sit in front of a tennis net and lob balls into it.”

  She shivered again.

  “What horrible men!”

  “The drug gangs make them look like saints.”

  “Tis true,” she said with her monumental West of Ireland sigh.

  Since our engagement I had begun to wonder whether I had won myself a changeling. Normally an exuberant, not to say mercurial, and a contentious woman, Nuala had become quiet, serious and docile.

  “Tis a sacrament, now isn’t it, Dermot Michael? And we should be serious about it.”

  So that was why we had spent Friday and Saturday and much of Sunday at a retreat house in one of the western suburbs, praying, reflecting, and talking about our marriage.

  Nuala’s relationship to the Deity was unusual. She “half” didn’t believe in Him and professed to think that it was highly unlikely that any deity would care about someone as useless as she was. On the other hand she went to Mass almost every day, in case her agnosticism was wrong. Since our engagement, she had begun to tilt in the direction of belief. The signal of this tilt was her reference to God with the womanly pronoun.

  “Well, hasn’t She acted like a good mother to me, Dermot Michael, and Herself sending a gorgeous fella like you to take care of me and love me and maybe fock me once a month or so?”

  “It’s likely to be more frequent than that, Nuala Anne.”

  “That will be as may be,” she said with a giggle and a pat on my arm.

  I must say a word here about Nuala’s use of obscenity and scatology. Like all the other Irish, who are superbly skilled at such usage, she meant no harm by it. It was merely one more exercise in Irish poetry and playfulness. And their own language having no such four-letter words! She never used any of the Anglo-Saxon words in the presence of my parents or, heaven save us all, in the presence of her parents or the little bishop. My brother George the Priest was a borderline case. In this story I’ll use the verb “to frig” as a substitute for the most favorite of the Irish four-letter words. Much of the time Nuala herself would use the participle “friggin’” as part of her struggle to clean up her language so that she would sound like a “friggin’ proper Yank.” The reader can choose which times the word is my surrogate and which times it is hers. On some occasions, however, I will revert to the Anglo-Saxon vernacular when it is necessary to convey the full sense of the conversation.

  “I knew, Dermot,” she had told me in the chapel at the retreat house, “the first moment you sat down across from me in O’Neill’s pub that you were the nicest, sweetest, most tender young fella I would ever meet, and yourself a big handsome hunk besides. I said to meself that there’s one like me own da and you’d better not let him get away. There were a couple of times when I thought you might get away, but you never did. She wouldn’t let you.”

  Nuala was a conniver and schemer from day one. But that was all right. So was Ma, as we called my grandmother.

  I knew that I was supposed to reply to her well-rehearsed candor, but I had no time for preparation. So I had to wing it. Well, there’s no point in even pretending to be a writer if you can’t wing it.

  “Nuala, my love, there was no chance of my ever getting away once I looked into those deep blue eyes of yours and saw twenty centuries of Irish wonder and surprise and heard your voice, in which there lurked the sound of clear bells ringing through the mists and over bogs …”

  “Aren’t you the grand poet.” She laughed softly. “Though I think you hesitated until I took off me jacket so I could sing and you could ogle me boobs.”

  “I was about to say that my highly romantic reaction was confirmed when I saw that you had the figure as well as the face of an Irish goddess.”

  “That lot were no better than they had to be.” She sniffed.

  “And then you sang with that wonderful, sweet, pure voice and I was hooked.”

  “And yourself looking at me lasciviously all the while, but reverently, too.”

  “And would you ever remember the song that you sang that night?”

  “Och, Dermot Michael, don’t you know that I’ll never forget it?”

  And so in that tiny baroque chapel she sang our theme song:

  In Dublin’s fair city,

  Where the girls are so pretty

  I first set my eyes

  On sweet Molly Malone.

  She wheeled her wheelbarrow

  Through streets broad and narrow,

  Crying, “Cockles and mussels

  Alive, alive, oh!”

  Alive, alive oh!

  Alive, alive oh!

  Crying, “Cockles and mussels

  Alive, alive, oh!”

  She was a fishmonger,

  But sure ’twas no wonder,

  For so was her father and mother before

  And they both wheeled their barrow

  Through streets broad and narrow

  Crying, “Cockles and mussels

  Alive, alive, oh!”

  Alive, alive, oh!

  Alive, alive oh!

  Crying, “Cockles and mussels

  Alive, alive oh!”

  She died of a fever

  And no one could relieve her,

  And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone,

  But her ghost wheels her barrow

  Through streets broad and narrow,

  Crying, “Cockles and mussels

  Alive, alive, oh!”

  Alive, alive, oh!

  Alive, alive, oh!

  Crying, “Cockles and mussels

  Alive, alive, oh!”

  Tears poured down both our faces as she finished, tears for poor Molly who, God rest her, would be known as long as any Irish were alive in the world, and tears of happiness for our own great grace of being drawn together by Molly’s song.

  “Sure, didn’t your Ma, and meself not even knowing about her yet, whisper in my ear that I should sing that song, and the night thick with fog at that.”

  There were times, and I presumed there always would be, when I was not sure where Nuala drew the line in her fantasies between metaphor and literal reality. I suspected she wasn’t sure either and didn’t care. Well, I had wanted mystery and wonder and surprise, had I not?

  And that was why, when she had learned that Mount Carmel was only fifteen minutes away from the retreat house, she begged me to take her to the grave of my grandparents. When she was translating Ma’s diary, she thought she established some kind of communication with that remarkable firebrand from her own hometown in the Irish-speaking district of the Connemara Peninsula. She took it as a given truth that Ma was looking after both of us.

  I was not prepared to argue that Ma would not reach back from the grave—or down from heaven—to meddle in the love affairs of her favorite grandson.

  So we had driven over to Mount Carmel—an old cemetery in which there were no more lots available—and knelt on the moist leaves to pray. My prayers were mostly happy. I was dizzily in love with Nuala and had not the slightest doubt
that our marriage would be happy, though, to put it mildly, never dull.

  Nuala’s prayers, under the roof of trees which had lost much of their green but had yet to acquire their funereal robes of red and gold, were intense and serious. She had grave doubts about our union.

  “Do you want to postpone it, Nuala?” I said to her. “I don’t want to force you into something you’re not ready for yet.”

  After all, had not she been the one who was so confident that I would give her a ring on the Labor Day weekend that she had told the little bishop at the Cathedral (with whom she was as thick as thieves) to pencil in the second Saturday in October for our wedding?

  Typical of the male reluctant to make a permanent commitment, I would have waited until spring with little protest.

  “Och, no, Dermot, that wouldn’t be fair.”

  I didn’t ask what she meant by that. Like I say, I had learned a few things if not about women, at least about this woman.

  “Are you having doubts about me?” I asked.

  “Ah, go long with you now.” She lightly tapped my arm, a sign of mild and affectionate reproof. “Aren’t you the grandest man in all the world? And won’t you be a brilliant husband? No woman in her right mind would let you get away.”

  Small chance of that happening.

  “Then why are you so worried?”

  “Not to say worried, exactly.” She sighed. “Just not sure of meself, if you take me meaning.”

  “Hmm.”

  That had become one of my favorite expressions in coping with my wondrous if often perplexing bride-to-be. It was a cue to her to explain what she meant without challenging her words. The secret for a man trying to understand a woman is to listen to what she means, not what she says.

  Got it?

  “I don’t think I’ll be a very good wife.”

  I almost argued with her, which would have been a mistake. Instead I said, “Worried about being a good wife, is it now?”