With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 07

He thought about Shannon Kelly, a pretty, Irish girl who he loved unrequited. For too many years, he saved a place in his heart for the chance of having a romantic relationship with her. For too many years, he thought of no one else but her. Finally, she faded when she left the neighborhood, married, and had children. Finally, the thoughts of her died with the death of her.

Totally opposite in appearance to Shannon, a tall, Irish redhead with blue eyes and freckles, never would he have imagined his dream girl as a short, Italian brunette with brown eyes and olive-skin. Just thinking of Gabriella sent goose bumps over his body. She was so beautiful and when she called him, my darling and said that she loved him, why that was—

"Michael, me boy."

So beyond words in his realization of happiness that he had finally found his one true love, he was beyond words in describing his beautiful butterfly, Gabriella. He allowed his mind to drift with the vision of her naked.

"Michael, me boy."

She, with her smile and sensuous sexuality made him feel that he could do anything. He thought of her voluptuous body and full breasts. He thought of him with her naked in bed and—

"Michael, me boy."

Suddenly, Flaherty's voice echoed through his head like a car alarm, as it did in the vault when he sat with his back to Shannon-Kelly's, a.k.a. Mrs. Enunzio's, body. His voice replayed the horror that threatened to remain with him for the rest of his life. He raised his glass again hoping to erase the image of it all with the last bit of ale that numbed his mind of the reality of her when—

"Michael, me boy," this time a hand touched his shoulder. "Michael, me boy."

"Flaherty," said Michael choking on his sip, warm ale dripping from his nose and mouth.

"Just came by to thank you for the drink." Flaherty sat in the booth across from him, his eyes focusing on him like laser beams. "It's unlike you to be buying rounds on the house." He looked at Michael's empty glass. "It's unlike you to be having more than two ales."

"I'm celebrating," said Michael thinking that only Detective Flaherty would know that he never bought rounds and that only he would notice that he never consumed more than two ales.

"What's the occasion?"

Flaherty's stare was like that of Casey trying to translate to Michael his desire for him to give him a treat. In the case of Flaherty, the treat was information. Flaherty a cop 24/7, Michael wondered if he thought of anything else other than police work.

"After the robbery scared the Hell out of me, I quit my job at the bank."

"That's drastic, Michael, but understandable considering that Shannon, the woman you once had feelings for was murdered.

"Yeah, drastic but understandable," said Michael raising his empty glass and sipping on nothing. He returned the glass to the table. "I can still see Shannon lying so still. I hear her voice before I fall asleep." He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. "I can still smell the stench of gunpowder." He picked up his glass, yet, again, and set it back down when he realized it was empty.

"Do you want another?" Flaherty turned to look for Tommy, but Michael stopped him.

"No, please, no more."

"You sure?" Flaherty returned his look to Michael.

"Yes, I'm positive, thank you. I'd be unconscious if I had another glass of ale."

"You are smart to know your limit, Michael." He looked at the last of the drunks that remained, still chugging down mugs of ale. "That's something I wish more of them would learn. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen this crowd spending a night in the drunk tank for their own protection."

"I decided to finish school." He waved his hand around. "This is my good-bye."

"I wish you success on the occasion of your continued education, Michael, but before you go—" Flaherty lowered his voice. "This is an important private matter that I need to discuss with you, now."

When Michael went to take another nervous sip from his empty glass, Flaherty gave him a look that told him that he was out of ale and out of time. Michael put the glass down, again, this time pushing it away.

"We know you have the lottery ticket." Flaherty looked around, turned back to Michael, and lowered his voice, again. "You cannot cash it, Michael; it does not belong to you."

"What?" Michael looked at Flaherty through glassy-eyes. Two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars suddenly burst in flames in a huge bonfire. "I don't know what you mean, Sergeant Flaherty."

"It is not your lottery ticket to keep." Flaherty persevered to penetrate the fog of alcohol that blurred Michael's brain. "It is not your prize to claim. The money does not belong to you."

"Who..." Michael gathered his thoughts before speaking. "Whom does it belong to, then?" In a feeble attempt to clear the haze, he nodded his head back. "You?"

"I wish I were that lucky. I wish St. Patrick would favor me with a pot of gold." Flaherty leaned back. "If it was my ticket, I'd retire early from the force and never investigate anything other than the darkness of my tan and the body of a lovely who lay next to me on a white sandy beach while sipping dark rum."

"If not you, who, then does the ticket belong?" Michael stiffened his posture trying to recapture his sobriety.

"Shh," Flaherty looked around the room. "For God's sake, lower your voice, man. We don't want to be sharing our private conversation with the rats that patronize this bar."

"Tell me," Michael banged his fist on the table, "who the damn ticket belongs to, then," he said in a strained whisper. "And tell me why Shannon just happened to have it in her possession on that God awful day."

"The ticket," Flaherty looked around him and leaned in closer, "belongs to mutual friends of ours across the ocean." He gave Michael an apologetic look. "Just as was poor Shannon," he signed himself, "I'm just a messenger." He leaned back, again, watching Michael digest the information and leaned forward, again. "I told them that you were one of us, a son of South Boston and as Irish as your hair is orange," he said in a controlled whisper.

The bloodied banner of the IRA flashed across his brain. He remembered Shannon lying on the bank vault floor with a bullet in her head with the blood pooled around her. He remembered what the bank robber had said, "No one gets hurt here; no one gets hurt." He thought about what she said to the bank robber, "Your father killed my babies." He thought about what the bank robber said to her in return, "You had my father and my mother murdered." Their exchange of dialogue made some sense to him, now. He wished she had remained quiet. He wished she had obeyed the bank robber. He wished Earth Bank had never bought Neighborhood Bank and he wished that Neighborhood Bank had never transferred him.

Flaherty kept talking, but Michael only picked up bits and pieces of what he said.

"Shannon Kelly-O'Day...the death of her husband and children...Mrs. Enunzio...lottery tickets...buying guns...during the bank robbery...a strange twist of fate...common thugs from Charlestown...the tortured and executed the bank robbers...still, they could not find the lottery ticket...until now."

"I don't understand. What makes you think that I have the lottery ticket?"

"Michael, how do you think we get the winning lottery tickets in the first place? We have people at the lottery headquarters waiting for someone to step forward with the ticket and when you called, your name and phone number appeared on the caller ID."

"So, what are you saying to me?"

"I'm saying that the ticket does not belong to you and that you must give it back. I've been authorized to tell you that because of all the trouble this has caused you that, once you return the ticket, we will give you a finder's fee of 10%."

"They, whoever they are, will give me 10% of my winning lottery ticket."

"Michael, both you and I know that is not your lottery ticket. Listen, they have enlisted me to get the ticket back and, as a friend, I'm trying to save your life. If you refuse to return the ticket, then I am talking to a dead man."

Flaherty leaned away from Michael and stopped talking, suddenly.

"Thank you for the drinks, Michael," said Mr. Foley, suddenly appearing at Michael's table with a tall, professional looking gentleman. The alcohol worked its magic and it took Michael a moment to register Mr. Foley's presence. "Thank you for the drinks," he repeated.

"My pleasure, Mr. Foley, my pleasure," said Michael slurring his words. He stood to shake Mr. Foley's hand. Michael looked at the other man standing beside Mr. Foley and looked back at Mr. Foley, and then looked back at the man before acknowledging his presence with a smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Michael. This is my son, Donald. He is with the FBI," said Mr. Foley beaming with a smile. "He is on vacation to spend time with his old father. He's a good son," said Mr. Foley looking up at his son and smiling and then looking back at Michael. "Donald, this is Michael O'Leary. Saint Michael, we refer to him behind his back. Almost a priest, he was. The kindest man you'll ever meet and an icon in the neighborhood. Everybody who knows Michael O'Leary loves him."

Michael realized that the alcohol also weaved its way to Mr. Foley's brain and loosened his tongue and flowering his words with a touch of brogue.

"Everything your father says is true except that even the people who do not know me love me." Michael shook hands and laughed with Donald. "This is one of Boston's finest. May I introduce Detective Sergeant Kevin Flaherty. Kevin Flaherty, Donald Foley."

Flaherty stood, shook hands with Mr. Foley and with his son, Donald.

"How do you do? How do you do?"

"Won't you join us?" Asked Michael looking at Flaherty and watching for his reaction.

Flaherty looked hard at Michael and then looked away.

"No, thank you, no. Donald has an early flight tomorrow. He's due back in Washington. I just wanted to thank you for the drinks." Foley held out his hand, again. "Thank you for the drinks."

"My pleasure, Mr. Foley, my pleasure."

"I heard about the bank robbery, Michael, on the news. Are you okay?"

Donald's attention perked.

"I'm fine, but it scared me enough to quit the banking business. I'm returning to school to finish my degree. That's what this celebration is about."

"Education will set you free," said Foley. He reached out his hand to Flaherty. "Nice meeting you detective." Then shook hands and Flaherty sat back down, but Michael followed Foley.

"Mr. Foley."

"I'll bring the car around, Dad," said Donald to his father leaving the pub.

Michael walked up to Mr. Foley, but stayed within hearing distance of Flaherty.

"Do you remember my promise to you?" Michael put a hand on his arm. He turned his head to look back at Flaherty and then looked Mr. Foley in the eye.

"Promise? I don't recall you promising me anything, Michael."

"Do you remember I said that if I ever came across a winning lottery ticket that it was yours?"

"Oh, that, of course, I remember, but I was only kidding," he said looking back at Michael.

"Well, I wasn't kidding." He looked back at Flaherty.

"Don't do it, Michael," said Flaherty, "Don't do it."

"You must cash the ticket soon or it will expire." Michael handed the envelope to Mr. Foley.

"Buy why?" Foley removed the ticket from the envelope, checked the date, and returned it to the envelope, "Why would you give me your winning lottery ticket?"

"Because it is not my ticket to keep, Mr. Foley." The owner died but would find peace in my decision to give it to you." He looked him in the eye. "Before you take the ticket, however, you must agree to my conditions."

"Conditions?" Mr. Foley looked at Michael in such a way that Michael knew Mr. Foley was sober enough to understand. "What are your conditions?"

"You must promise to share the money with Mrs. Sullivan so that she can buy her mink, diamond ring, and a Cadillac for her husband and Mr. Shea so that he can buy a new car. You must promise to pay for Mrs. O'Reilly's operation or funeral expenses, if it is too late, as well as, pay for Mrs. Duffy's daughters' college educations."

"But, Michael, I don't know about all of this." He looked down at the envelope and back up at Michael.

"I assure you that there is more than enough money for you to keep your promise, as well as leave you a handsome sum to last you and your son the rest of your days."

"I promise." Mr. Foley shook Michael's hand and walked out the door.

"You mustn't tell your son, however, Mr. Foley," said Michael stopping him at the exit. "He would be obligated to forfeit the ticket to the state. It is best that he believes you purchased the ticket months ago and forgot about it, if he was to ask you."

"Yes, of course, I understand, Michael." Mr. Foley pocketed the envelope with the ticket. He left the pub and got into his son's waiting car.

Michael returned to the table and Flaherty stood before he could sit down.

"That was stupid, very stupid. These people will not allow you to give away their money."

"Just as it is not my money to give," Michael sat in the booth, "It is not their money to keep. Besides, it is Mr. Foley's money, now. He will remove the curse put on it by the poor soul who the Irish Republican Army murdered to possess the ticket in the first place."

"Why, Michael? Why?"

"The biggest change that I could make within this twisted society with that money was to give it away and to deny the IRA to purchase more death and destruction." He looked up at the ceiling and signed himself. "Shannon would understand."

"I have nothing more to say to you, except, good-bye."

"Good-bye, Flaherty." Michael watched him walk through the few drunks who still lingered at the bar and disappear out the front door.

Chapter 35 Lottery Loser

It was more than three months since he had given Ralphie his life savings, quit his job, given away the lottery ticket to Mr. Foley, and had any contact with Gabriella. Everyday he waited for a sniper's bullet to part his hair. Everyday he waited for a knock at his door or a car to pull up beside him as he walked Casey. Everyday he figured was his last and was the day that the IRA would take their revenge. Everyday he thought about Gabriella, but he could not begin a relationship with her until he put his life in order.

When not worrying about when the IRA would murder him, he worried about how he was to pay his credit card bill. Without a job, without a source of income, and without having any collateral, except for his retirement investments, investments that he would never touch under any circumstances, and investments that he would incur taxes due, he could not even apply for a loan. Always careful with money, a saver instead of a spender, securely investing in stocks and bonds for his retirement throughout all of his working career, his securities and his 401K were all that he had left. Cashing in a portion of his investment portfolio was not an option, especially now, with the current depressed state of the stock market. He would take a huge loss. Cashing in his retirement fund not only meant taking the paper loss but, also, paying the capital gains tax and suffering the penalties of early withdrawal. Moreover, he knew that once he cashed in his investments, he would never replenish the amount of money he withdrew.

He thought of asking Mr. Foley for enough money to pay his obligations, his credit card, his rent, and his immediate expenses. He knew that Mr. Foley would happily help him to get back on his feet, until he found another job, but he felt uncomfortable accepting any of the lottery money. He felt that the blood spilt over the ticket by the Irish Republican Army with the assumed murder of its original owner, the murder of Shannon Kelly, and the murders of the two bank robbers, had cursed the money and that no good would ever come from him possessing any of it. He believed that Mr. Foley, not knowing about Shannon Kelly or about the connection that existed between her and the bank robbers, Detective Flaherty, and the Irish Republican Army, was exempt from the curse and that he could happily spend it without repercussions.

He knew that Mr. Foley, good for his word, would honor the conditions and keep his promise. The fact that Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, and Mr. Shea now had a windfall of money made him happy with his decision to give the ticket away. Although he worried about it, he was mostly unconcerned about the IRA retaliating against him. He felt that they were cowards who hid themselves within their secret organization stepping forward to declare their love for their country and for their religion by murdering innocent women and children. He felt the same way about them as he felt about Osama bin Laden, and it did not matter if they were Middle Eastern or European, they were all evil terrorists. Still, he knew that one day, they would take their revenge on him. Yet, he had to go on with his life and could not allow them to paralyze his existence with fear and foreboding. He did not care about the IRA except he felt that he had to stand against them when they wrapped their murderous deeds in the Irish flag to justify their evil doings.

Michael was not political. He refrained from taking sides. He did not like to stand against one or the other. It was not that he was a wimp and afraid to take a position, it was not that he was indecisive and did not have an opinion; it was that he could understand the argument of both sides. He believed that holy wars were an abomination without winners, with only losers, death, and destruction. He would rather stand on the bridge of enlightenment between each camp than to stand upon one shore of hatred with brother against brother.

He would rather fill his mind with positive thoughts than with negative thoughts. He would rather think of the happiness that the ill-gotten winning lottery ticket has given to Mr. Foley, Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, and Mr. Shea, than to spend his day looking over his shoulder for the bullet of some Irish Republican Army thug, which, one day, would surely come. He would rather savor the good of humanity than to dwell upon the bad. He preferred the light instead of the dark and he carried that sensed proportion with him throughout his life.

The thought of his current obligations crept into his mind. He had to address that and the only choice available to him, now, was to ask Mr. Foley for a loan. He did not want to have anything to do with that cursed lottery money, but what else was he to do. He could not return all of those items that he had purchased, and just as he could not ask Little Ralphie for his $35,000 back, he could not ask for his job back at the North End branch of Earth Bank.

Chapter 36 Gabriella To The Rescue

In honor of his dog, he bought Casey personalized accessories. In the extravagance of spending money on himself, he bought a hand-made, Irish wool, knit sweater, a 14k gold Claddagh ring, and custom-made golf clubs with all of the accessories, balls, golf club covers, and a custom-made leather golf bag. In a show of friendship to his best friend, he bought Little Ralphie a 14k gold Claddagh ring and gave him $35,000, nearly his entire life savings. His dream of wanting a new car, he ordered a Mini Cooper S, which, thankfully, the production of it had been delayed. In love with Gabriella, he charged a deposit on a 2-karat diamond, platinum and 18k gold engagement ring. In the desire to treat his pub buddies to a night of drinks on the house, he bought the expected three rounds of drinks. In the excitement of helping Mr. Foley, Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, and Mr. Shea, and in the heat of anger of rebuffing Flaherty and the Ira, he gave away the winning lottery ticket with its yearly net payout of two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Foley.