Death at a Diner

Detective Jack Bream walked down the silent street, the weak yellow lamps lit the sidewalk in front of him. He stared at his polished oxford shoes as they carried him to his destination, Donny’s Diner.

This small little white and browned brick hole in the wall sat on a crumby corner in downtown Dublin, only a few blocks away from Jack’s office. They had the best Chocolate Cake in the city.

More recently, however, it was the scene of the cold-blooded murder of his partner, Viktor Strauss. He seemed deep in thought, occasionally looking up to greet passersby with a smile or nod.

As of late, Jack found himself spending long hours and downing many bottles of Scotch trying to break that case.

He didn’t have much more than a statement from the Ulsters to go on and a few spent shell casings from a murder weapon he had yet to identify but had faith in himself. After all, he and Vik were able to solve cases with less.

Every night after he finished locking up that old red brick, green shuttered, office building that he called Bream & Strauss Detective’s Agency, Jack would walk on down to Donny’s and mull over his partner’s Murder case.

Jack felt like he owed it to Viktor to find out who had killed him, they had been through so much together with the war and everything.

Jack took a swig from the tarnished flask he always kept in the breast pocket, then put it back. A souvenir from the Brits he fought with, God knows it was the only memory he wanted from his winter in Italy.

A green and black Streamliner slid past splashing water onto the Jack’s blue overcoat. The car slowed down a second and caught his detectives eye. Plate: KlM3RD, Make: Pontiac. Jack jotted down these mental notes in his head, almost unwittingly.

He turned and looked at the blacked-out windows with his steely blue eyes, smirking and pulling his blue fedora down a bit in the regions customary, “Good evening” gesture. One hand gripped firmly to the umbrella which kept him from getting soaked at present time.

These thugs have been on him for days. At first Jack thought maybe it was that robbery he had been investigating on the side, but now, he wasn’t so sure. The activity seemed to have picked up since word got around that he had began to look into Vik’s death.

This led to Jack finding out a few things, and he had come into some knowledge that the McMannis Crime Family was most likely involved in gun running and theft out of Belfast. They may have sold the gun used to kill the bag boy Randall and Vik.

Jack figured that they somehow found out that he knew about this, and they were trying to scare him away. Funny thing was, Jack wasn’t sure if this was accurate.

Jack slickly pulled a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and popped it in his mouth, striking a match and lighting it. He waited for them to make a move.

Nothing happened.

He put his hands in his coat with a smile as he continued by.

“McMannis brothers...” Jack said to himself, shaking his head.

He looked up and crossed the dim street, the rain had begun to fall harder around him. The droplets were heavy on the asphalt.

The diner's slick-looking neon sign lit Jack's face up in green, white, and orange hue as he approached the door.

A bell that hung over the doorway tinkled as Jack pushed his way through, snapping his umbrella shut. The Detective leaned it against the wall, removing his green overcoat and hanging it up.

“Patti, you in?” Jack called out in his smooth English accent across the blue and white wrap-around counter,

It separated the booths that aligned ever so neatly across the long window and the kitchen.

The Northern Irish flag hung prominently over the menu board, its red crossed centre pressed against white. A red hand, set within a star on a crown in the middle of everything. Jack’s eyes lingered on it for a while before he scanned the specials.

“Dia dhuit, Jacky boy!” a gruff-sounding Irishmen spoke up from the kitchen, he came around the corner cleaning up his hands on his already filthy-looking apron.

“Alright, boyo? Vik man, Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam. Ní maith liom do thrioblóid. He was a good guy.”

“Pat, you know I can’t speak Irish. Where have you been, mate? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” Jack questioned, pulling his hat from his head and laying it down next to the plastic menu on his table.

“Me Mom, she’s not doing so well. You know Jacky. I don’t know how long she’s got so I took the train north to Belfast for a couple of weeks to see her.”

Jack knew that Patrick’s family lived in Dublin and his mother had already passed away a year prior. Patrick didn’t know he knew though.

This information came to him through a conversation he remembered with the Waitress, Delores O’Reilly, a few weeks back. He made a mental note.

“I think I’ll just go with the chocolate cake and a coffee, don’t forget the scotch.” Jack winked, smiling.

“Yea, no problem Jacky. Anything for my old war buddy.” Patti flipped his notepad closed and shoved it back into his front pocket.

Jack smiled and pulled his own leather-bound book out from his grey pinstripe, double-breasted vest, and began to flip through his notes. He placed his pack of cigarettes next to him and pulled one out, lighting it.

“April 6th I sent Vik down to Donny’s. The bag boy Randall said he was meeting his retainer there.

Had to walk, the road was closed due to flooding. Royal Ulsters were positioned at the ends of the street directing traffic and didn’t see anyone enter.

Bag Boy was killed, Vik attempted to apprehend the suspect and was shot.”

Jack flipped the page so Pat couldn’t read his notes, as his cake and coffee arrived.

“Enjoy Jacky,” Pat said, heading back out to the kitchen

Jack sat and added the mental notes he had recorded over the day so he wouldn’t forget anything.

He sat back and looked at the McMannis note a moment,

“Belfast huh…” Jack mumbled to himself,

He thought on the rest for a while, drinking his coffee and finishing the pastry.

After some time, Jack had come to the conclusion that the McMannis Brothers definitely had something to do with the bag boy and Vik’s murder.

He also figured Pat had some sort of connection with the McMannis Brothers, due to his lie about going to Belfast and the amount of time they had their goons hovering around the Diner. It was like they were keeping tabs on Patrick or something.

Jack still wasn’t sure how they got into the area without the Royal Ulsters seeing them though… This frustrated him. He had a feeling that it was an easy solution, but he was missing something.

The weary Detective quietly stood up and left a two-and-six as payment for the meal. Placing his hat back on his head and sticking the book back in his pocket.

“Patti, I’m gone, mate. Have a good night okay? Chat tomorrow, I’m beat.”

There wasn’t a response. Which Jack thought was strange. He pulled his coat over his shoulders and placed a hand on the old Browning service pistol he kept in a leather shoulder holster.

“Pat? You okay?” Jack called back again as he approached the rear of the diner, drawing his weapon. He heard Pat talking to someone out the back door.

“...Ba mhaith leat mé a mharú dó? Is é mo chara é. Throid muid san Iodáil le chéile.” it went silent for a second, then Jack heard the slam of a door.

“Christ Almighty, hide this, pay this, take that, do this… damn Anglican traitors. I won’t do it.” Pat said to himself, pulling the lock bar across.

Jack put away his weapon and leaned against the door frame to the entrance of the kitchen.

“Patrick, you alright?” Jack questioned. Pat seemed startled,

“Jack, Jesus boyo, give me a heart attack. Yea it’s all good, just bill collectors here for money. You heading out?”

“Yea, Pat. Been a long day. Going to go get some rest and do it all again tomorrow. You know how it is, Money’s on the table for you.”

Jack tilted his hat as he went to leave. Patrick called after him,

“Mate, be careful out there tonight. These streets can be tough sometimes, people don’t like the English here. Have a good one.” He finished.

Jack waved to him, exiting into the rain.

“Wonder what he meant by that,” Jack said to himself,

It was just him and the rain out in the street tonight.

“Hide this… pay that.” he pulled out his case book and scribbled Patti’s mumblings.

The Detective walked, as sheets of windswept rain battered the dreary old buildings of downtown Dublin. A few bars were open that had people chatting and laughing inside. But other than that, the city was mostly dark.

Jack arrived at his old blue Victorian-styled home. Unlatching the gate to the garden

“Who was he talking to, and what had he hidden for them.” Jack thought.

The Detective turned to lock the steel behind him when there was a loud crack. Jack felt the breath leave him as he fell to the wet walkway clutching his breast. He focused enough to see his attacker's silhouette.

Jack reached for his own weapon and took aim, there was another crack. Jack felt pain in his chest, it was hard to breathe. The world went black around him. He fired a shot, and heard footsteps run away down the wet sidewalk.

Jack woke up a little while later. He wasn’t sure how long he had been out and sat up in a panic, realising he had just been shot.

He stood up and rushed up his stairs to the large french doors, fumbling with his keys a second before unlocking them and entering. Jack flicked on all the lights as he ran to the bathroom mirror to see where his injury was.

There wasn’t any red, but it was still wet. Jack calmed himself down, he had for sure been shot at. They clearly weren’t good at it.

He went to his coat and pulled the flask from its pocket needing a drink. He unscrewed the cap and went for a swig, but got nothing. He looked at the silver container and saw a hole in it. He shook it, it tinkled, and he laughed.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The bullet hit the flask...” Jack pulled open his coat and saw a through-and-through hole in its fabric. Both had missed him.

“Bloody Jerry couldn’t do it. Why should the McMannis be able to do it?”

He ran his hand through his wet, black, hair slicking it back, staring in the mirror for a moment. Trying to slow his heartbeat.

Jack locked his doors, then went upstairs to pass out in his wet clothes on his bed. He said a quick prayer to whatever the hell was watching over him, before falling unconscious.

Jack was happy to be alive. He would tell the Ulsters in the morning. The amateur shooter wasn’t likely to come back looking for a dead man.

Jack woke up as the sun blasted through his half-drawn curtains. He cleaned himself up and got dressed in a set of fresh clothes and a dry suit. His hands were still shaking a bit.

“Hid… Hide… did the McMannis brothers hide a gun or maybe a gunman inside Donny’s earlier in the day before the Ulsters set up roadblocks?”

Jack stopped cleaning himself a moment staring deep into his own blue eyes, thinking.

He finished with a quick shave, then walked to the nearby Royal Ulster Constabulary Precinct to speak directly with the Inspector-General about the events of the night.

They were old war buddies and he was someone he trusted with the secret that he was still alive.

“Jack, you ain’t thinking about heading back to the office today? Right? They are going to have someone watching it. At least let me post Ulsters outside first.”

The Inspector-General said as Jack headed out the door. Detective Bream looked back over his shoulder, smirking.

“Robert. You know me, you think I would be that stupid? I’m not going to have Constables sitting outside the office. The McMannis brothers will stay as far away from anything Jack Bream as possible, they think they’ve killed me and don’t need the heat.”

He chuckled pulling a cigarette from its still soggy pack and lit it.

“They are smart, but I’m smarter, Robby.”

Jack slipped through the oak door and shut it behind him,

heading out into the bustling streets of Dublin, and down to the office.

He arrived without issue, and no one seemed to notice him slipping into the back entrance. He was greeted at the top of the stairs by his young assistant and fledgling Detective, Mary Kelly.

Her long orange hair looked frazzled and her eyes red, like she had been crying or something.

“Jack! Jesus Christ alive, you’re alright!” she ran at him wrapping him in a shaking hug, almost knocking him back down the stairway.

“Whoa Mary, yea, yes, I’m alright. A little shaken up.” He pushed her to arm's length, resting his hands on her shoulders.

“You been crying over me?” he laughed, “I thought you hated my guts.”

Mary punched him hard in the chest.

“Shut it, Tommy. Patrick was a shivering mess in the diner this morning. Crying and singing old war songs. He had been drinking all night, no doubt. Couldn’t get a coffee. He was saying something about how the McMannis finally did it and you were flying with the birds now.”

“Well, whatever he was on about didn’t happen. I’m fine and I’m here, so don’t worry. Anything of interest happen this morning?”

Jack uncomfortably tried to shift the conversation from him being shot.

“Well, a young delivery boy dropped a package off. Asking for Detective Bream. He said that he had a very important package for you. What is it that happened to you last night? You look shook.”

Jack went to unlock the office door, ignoring her.

Mary pushed her way past him rolling her eyes, knowing he wasn’t going to answer anyway.

“Sure thing Mary, who’s it from?” Jack questioned as he followed her through, shaking his head.

“I don’t know Jack, the kid said a man in green paid him to bring it. You sure we should be opening it?”

Jack laughed.

“I mean, that describes half of Ireland doesn’t it,” he said, pulling the neatly wrapped brown paper off of the small package, revealing a wooden, iron latched box.

On the side, there was an etching of the British 231st Infantry Brigade Groups’ White Cross against a Red background insignia.

“Mary, you mind going to tell the Constables that I’ve received a package… I expect we will be needing them at Donny’s shortly.”

He stared at the box as Mary nodded, quickly grabbing her coat and heading out the door.

Jack shut it behind her and sat down at his green oak desk. He opened the drawer, pulling out a bottle of scotch with a small crystal tumbler.

He poured a nip, then lit a cigarette. He wondered if it could be a bomb, a stop-gap to make sure he was dead. But figured that would be too over the top for a McMannis hit, so curiosity got the better of him.

The Detective opened the latch.

Inside, there were a few items: a Sauer 38H, it smelled of gunpowder. Meaning it recently had been fired. There were unfired 9mm Kurz bullets in a magazine, along with two empty shells.

Finally, he saw an A12 Vaer Watch. Jack knew that it was a British Army issue and there was a green bandanna alongside it.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jack spoke out loud in awe, pulling a notepad from his front desk and scribbling things down.

Jack quickly opened the note, already knowing what it was going to say.

“The items used in Detective Vik Strauss’ killing, and yours last night... I know who did it. I will testify but need protection and a new life. Matt Wilder.”

Jack put the note aside, pulling out a cigar box from one of the drawers on his desk. It contained the two shells with the unknown fingerprints on them from Vik and Randall’s killings.

They matched the ones in the wooden box, but he already knew that too. Jack also suspected that it was Patrick that aided in the hit on Vik.

What he had collected over the last few days pointed to Patrick hiding the shooter in the Diner prior to the meeting between Vik and the Bagboy. Most likely not knowing that he was going to kill them.

Then, before he knew it, Patrick probably found himself neck deep in a Capital Murder wrap with no way out. The McMannis’ having set him up exquisitely for the next part of the plan.

Jack was sure they had pressed him that night when he heard him arguing with the man behind the Diner. A debt collector he called him. Which meant he had a loan he wasn’t able to pay and was forced to do a favor for the McMannis’instead.

The favor, or he guessed a blackmail threat, was Patrick killing Jack. He figured that he was most likely getting too close to uncovering something. Funny thing was, Jack wasn’t sure what that something was yet. He could always count on Eric McMannis doing something brash out of fear.

“Well, there’s nothing for it then. Patti, I’m sorry you got wrapped up in this.” Jack said to himself, unlocking the cupboard behind his desk.

Inside sat an old Winchester 1912 pump shotgun and a Lee Enfield Rifle. Both were secured behind a cage with cases of bullets and shells sitting above.

Jack unlocked the cage, and ran his hand across the polished Winchester, arming himself with it. He grabbed a handful of shells and shoved them into his coat pocket.

Jack locked everything back up, leaning against his desk. He puffed on his cigarette while not wanting to go and do what had to be done.

He thought back to the times that Pat had saved him in those God Forsaken hills of Italy. Is this how he would repay him… Sending him to prison. He was a good man at heart, no matter how twisted up he was inside.

“Damnit Patrick, All of us who went through that damned war were twisted up inside… You fool.” Jack grumbled to himself, loading shells into the shotgun.

He guessed some of them dealt with it better and he knew he had to do what was right. It was the only thing that kept him going now.

He picked up the Vaer and stared at it a moment. It still kept time well. He flipped it over, the back read: Corporal Patrick O'Flaherty.

The Detective let the watch slip from his hand as he turned and headed out of the office. Cocking the weapon.

“I feel like a piece of cake,” he said to himself, heading down the stairs and out to the Diner on the corner.

After a slower-than-usual walk, he arrived. There were already two constables with Mary, waiting outside for him. Jack handed her the two notebooks he kept. She looked at the bullet hole with wide eyes.

“Alright, let’s go get my friend,” Jack said, pushing his way into the Diner.

“Patti, you in mate?” Jack called in a friendly tone.

There was the sound of dishes clattering in the back as he entered the kitchen. Patrick O’Flaherty was standing in the corner, wide-eyed, three sheets to the wind and fumbling with his apron.

“You are supposed to be dead, Jacky. I heard you had been shot.” Pat spoke backing up towards the door in fear.

He had a bloody wrapping around his wrist. Probably the gunshot Jack fired the night prior.

“Pat, you helped kill that kid Randall and Vik. Then you tried to kill me when I got too close.”

The colour seemed to leave Patrick’s face, he covered the injury on his arm.

“You were never too good with those handguns, mate. Your grip was never strong enough, threw your shots off. Good thing, I would have been dead with the second.” Jack responded, aggressively moving towards Patrick with his weapon raised.

“Why would you do something so bloody stupid!” Jack yelled, kicking a prep table out of the way.

“You took a loan from Mobsters, didn’t you!? What did you think was going to happen, Pat!? You could have asked me…”

Jack moved closer, Pat went to speak but Jack waved him off. Pointing with his finger in anger.

“Don’t deny it, I can’t hear your lies anymore. We were friends, Pat… I know you did it. I have that Luftwaffe heirloom I helped you bring back, its bullets, and your watch. Mate…” Jack shook his head in disappointment,

“Did you know they put your name on the back of that Vaer? If you go and look, you’ll see it. It’s over. I’m here to finish this madness and get justice for Randall and Vik.”

Pat fell to his knees, shame painted him a bright and sweaty red. Jack moved closer.

“I can’t believe you tried to kill me, Patrick. Me. After all, we have been through. You could have come to me, I could have helped you.”

Jack pushed the dishes off of the counter next to him, they clattered to the floor and exploded into shards. Sliding every which way across the white and black checkered floor.

He lifted the weapon one-handed and placed the barrel of the shotgun against Patrick's head, disdain on his face.

"Jacky, common. We’re friends, Eric McMannis forced me to, I’m in so much debt... I didn’t know they were going to kill Vik or the kid. Please don’t kill me. I got in too deep Jack.” The Detective chuckled, lowering his weapon slightly.

“Pat, I’m not going to kill you. The Patrick I knew is dead and I'm not like you. You’ve made all of our jobs easier though”

Jack held the barrel in line with Pat’s head for a minute, fingering the trigger guard. The whimpering Irishman closed his eyes, lowering it in prayer.

After letting Patrick stew in his shame and silence a while longer, Detective Bream let the weapon’s barrel fall. He kicked a piece of plate aside.

“Right, make sure he writes and signs that verbal confession when you get him to the precinct.”

He sat the weapon down against the wall, leaning into the prep station, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and tapping it a few times.

“He’s confessed now, and I have a witness that will testify to what he says. Get rid of this one, and pick up Eric McMannis while you’re out, would you please? They will become good buddies in Portlaoise.” Jack smiled,

The two Constables that were waiting outside the kitchen door came in and arrested Patrick. Dragging him away, while he sobbed.

Jack picked up his weapon again and walked out to sit at the diner’s counter. Mary was outside reciting the notes he had taken to a constable.

He decided to grab the last piece of cake from the rack.

“Best in the city.”

He smiled.