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"I have Miss Marese Donal to see you," said Klarissa from Reception.

"Fine," I replied. I waited for my visitor to pass along the narrow corridor past six doors to my small office. The sound of her steps, two loud knocks, and in came a buxom woman in her thirties with short black wavy hair. She wore polished black leather heels and a short black skirt. Her suede leather jacket was unzipped.

A nod to me and then she took in the painted iron radiator, the dirty windows, the old fiberglass curtains and the sagging leather sofa. She looked doubtful. Turning to the next wall, she examined the law books, many second-hand and mostly decorative. Her eyes were never still behind wide, bright, metal-rimmed glasses. She closed in on the framed certificates and read them all.

"I asked Mrs. Schweber in 1715 if she knew a lawyer, and she said you," sitting in the client's heavy wooden side chair. Mrs. Schweber had decorator trouble but didn't speak to tradesmen.

"Do you live at the Inlet?"

"I'm an assistant manager," said Donal. She had a loud voice with an Irish lilt.

"What does an Assistant Manager do?"

"I show apartments and deal with the applicant."

"How can I be of help?" I said with the same old smile.

"I have been looking for a girl I used to work with in the Blue Note Jazz Bar, Jersey in the Channel Islands, fourteen miles from France. They belong to the Queen, not Britain, and there is gambling and a lot of corporate lawyers. Tara tended bar. She left Jersey about the time I came to the States from Ireland. Last I heard she returned to Slane. Her name is Tara McGarril. I know she has sisters called Deirdre and Noleen. They were saying in the pub that Tara came here too and that she is the one that has been shot. She was shot dead along with three men in a Corona club."

"Sharon Schweber talked to you about my fee structure; I ask for a retainer and current accounts based on time expended and results obtained."

"I brought $3,000," she said, taking a folded check from her inside pocket. She seemed to be holding something heavy, slowly laying it down. I opened my bottom drawer and brought out a retainer form, and watched her fill it out, using her side of the glass-topped desk. I took the form and her check. It was a bank check made out to Marese Donal from Pavilion Sturman Private Bank, d'Hauteville Chambers, St. Hilier, Jersey and a local address on Fifth. It was drawn on a Manhattan bank, showed a wire transfer reference and a memo "from our customer." Not very helpful.

"I have read the papers, of course. The police don't seem to have very much," I said.

"Damn right, it's been a week and they are not going to waste any more time on it unless somebody comes up with a name." Donal put her knees together, looked down and then at me. "Somebody meaning you."

"A lawyer does all sorts of odd jobs. What I know about crime work , I learned in CIC, Army Counter-Intelligence, and the first thing I learned is to leave police business to them," I said.

"Mrs. Schweber thinks you are good. I got to do something for Tara," said Donal.

"You think that someone came to kill Tara, not that he was after one of the three men."

"I want you to find a name, something to keep the police looking.," she said.

I picked up the check and returned it to her. "This is a retainer. I'll give you accounts as I go. I give my best effort, no promises," I said with my office smile, "endorse this on the back." Her brow wrinkled as she bent over the check. Donal must take in bank checks from tenants every day, yet this transfer troubled her.

"How do I contact you, at the office?" I asked.

"That would be best,"she said, taking out a business card and sliding across the desk.

I smiled my acceptance, she rose and with a grunt of dismissal, turned and left.

I waited a bit to allow her to leave the building and then I walked through the lunch-time crowd to the bank and deposited the check.

According to the papers, the club was ostensibly a motorcycle store in a graffiti-tagged building, but this one had folding chairs, card tables, a pinball machine and a green felt bumper pool table. Apparently, no one was there except four customers. It was about four in the morning in Corona, near the rail line, west of the parks. The manager had stepped out for a cigarette. A single shooter had entered the room and immediately shot Johnny Cassallos, a drug dealer. One bullet was found in the wall and the other in Johnny's head. One customer, Ignacio Bach, tried to hide under a table. There was a couple; to the left was Gonzalo Estrada and Tara McGarril was in the far corner, on the floor, in a fetal position. It appeared that the shooter was a professional and, after Johnny, took his time to do the others right.

Ravenswood Houses is a 31- building 50-year-old middle-income brick project in Long Island City on the East River. Ravenswood has no river views; and very little grass. Maria McGarril lived on the seventh floor. The project had cruciform buildings, the elevators at the apex of the cross. There was a long asphalt-tiled hallway ending at her three- bedroom apartment. Two boys under ten kneeled in the interior apartment hall looking at Maria and me seated on slip-covered furniture in the living room. Light filtered through white curtains and spilled above and below cream-colored lampshades. School photos of three teen-aged girls and the two young boys decorated the far wall.

"Marese Donal asked me to call. Did Tara tell you about Marese?"

"She said Marese left the Blue Note right after that night, before they pulled in Tara , before the boys told her to go home, " she said.

"What night was that?"

"I don't know, there was some trouble, the police came. She didn't want to talk about it. After a bit we all went to New York," she said.

"Marese wants to know if they came to kill Tara or whether she was just a bystander with her friend Estrada. Who paid for the move to New York?" I asked.

"Tara had money when she came from Jersey. She bought the tickets," she said, "I got my job at St. Vincent's. Noleen married. Tara's kids came along. That was our life. We didn't meet a lot of people from home."

"Tara was a bar tender at High Beams, she wasn't a dancer, " said Maria. She wore well-rounded jeans and rubber-soled shoes made for walking hard floors.

"They say I let her flop in the hallway, but it wasn't really so. She drank too much sometimes, her and that tramp Linda Ronan, and I got to raise Tara's two boys right, not like Brian, with a smooth tongue and an evil heart. Brian went back to Slane and left me with the three girls. Tara was the beautiful one, running around with hoods that went missing when the babies came."

She went over to the wall and put her finger on Tara's graduation photo. Tara had gently curling long hair and blue eyes.

"Her sons didn't need to see her passed out. I couldn't move her. Better in the hall."

"What was she doing before she went to High Beams?" I asked.

"She took that dental assistant course like I said, but Dr. Randolph fired her – she might show up or she might not. I have fourteen years at St. Vincent's."

Maria had done her gray hair in tight curls. She walked back gracefully to take her seat.

"There was a Mass at St. Rita's and then we put her down in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery. Afterwards, we went to her married sister's place on Fish Rod Road." Just the two girls and the kids. I didn't ask that Linda Ronan. Haven't heard from a single man. Father Mulcahy was back at the cemetery for another funeral and heard that after we left, some old guy came by and stopped at Tara's grave."

"Where can I find Father Mulcahy?" I asked.

"St. Rita's in Steinway."

The High Beams Go-Go Lounge was in an industrial area of Flushing Bay, easy to reach from Grand Central Parkway and the Rikers Island Bridge leading to the New York's principal jail. It was a brick building painted black with a loading dock and parking. Glossy black letters high above the door spelled High Beams. A passer by was intended to overlook it entirely. There was a single black Lexus at the loading dock. A van was unloading five young women, blue jeans, pony tails, glasses – the raw material of glamor.

It was late afternoon by the time I found the place. The door was unlocked and opened on what might have been a warehouse with bare walls and a high ceiling. Everything was black. A great many lights spot lit every point of interest, tables, booths, the bar, the runway. In the kitchen an empty pot dropped and the sound reverberated throughout. Some one in there spoke sharply, and the sound was easily heard at the front door.

I explained to the dead faced man leaning against the cashier's counter that I was a lawyer, that I had just come from Tara's mother, and that I wanted to speak to her supervisor.

"You got a card?" he asked.

He looked at my card, even turned it over to check the blank side. He nodded towards a figure standing at the side of the deserted bar, the only other person visible. The bleached blonde was motionless, watching me as I made the long approach. She extended a white-shirted long-sleeve to shake hands with a tight smile. The right hand wore a large class ring.

"Renato up there is saying you are not a customer. Salesmen go to the back office, " she spoke with a familiar lilt.

"Just come from Tara McGarril's mother. I'm a lawyer looking into Tara's death. A week ago Thursday was her last day. What time did she leave here?"

"It was about two in the morning. Her boyfriend Gonzalo Estrada picked her up outside. I didn't actually see him. There was no trouble here. She had had a few drinks. I told all this to the police," she said.

"Estrada was one of the men shot, right? Besides Estrada, did she have any steady customers, might have been attracted to her?"

"Sure, that's her job," she said.

I said, "Anyone strange maybe?"

"This is a gentleman's bar, everyone is welcome, especially single men, or so they say. Nobody that pays and tips is strange."

"Come on, you see what I'm looking for. Anything you noticed?"

"Tara did okay, maybe she drank too much on the job. I come from Trim, She grew up on a farm in Slane nearby. We were chums from the same part of Ireland, CountyMeath. "Arthur, someone I met at a party, had heard I was from Trim. He said he knew this pretty bar tender from Slane, could she come by the club. That's how she got the job."

"Where can I find Arthur?"I asked.

"Can't say I have seen him since. I don't know where you could look.," she said.

"Anybody you recall, hanging around Tara?" I repeated.

"There was one guy. Every week, Thursdays maybe, an old boy came in to talk to her. Wasn't interested in the show, just Tara. He probably dressed up, suit and tie. Tough, from home, white hair, dentures I guess, sat up straight, didn't take any chitchat, " said the blonde supervisor.

"Was he in Thursday a week ago?"

"No, probably not."

"Did you tell the police that?"

"Tell them what, that she had a steady customer? If she didn't pull'em in, we would get somebody else," she said.

"Did she ever talk about a jazz bar on Jersey in the Channel Islands?" I asked.

"The Blue Note, sure. The music is good and it's near the beach, good place to work. She got to know some people. A friend got knifed on the street outside. I don't know what that was all about. She went home and then the whole family came to the States."

"Did she mention anybody else that worked at the Blue Note?"

"No, as I say, there was some trouble. None of my business," she said, "I'll help for Tara, but the boss don't like no lawyers."

There was now a big Cadillac four-door parked next to the Lexus at the black-painted loading dock outside. As the door to the club closed behind me, both front doors to the Caddie opened. The driver wore a blue blazer and cuff links on his white shirt. The other man wore a black sweat-shirt and carried a long-necked beer bottle. The driver's black door read "Buqueras Imports" in gray letters.

"Did you say you were working for Maria McGarril?" said the driver.

"I have been asked to look into the death of Tara, her daughter, "I said, "what is your interest?"

"Maria don't have no money for any lawyer, they say. There are money people that might hire you. Who are you working for?" The black sweat-shirt moved around to my side. I moved away.

"Now look, folks, I'm just trying to figure out what happened the night when Tara was shot. I guess meeting you means it had something to do with Tara and not Johnny Cassallos, am I right? I said

"Never heard of Tara, I know Johnny, he was a a dealer. Who is your client?" His chin went down, his eyes went up. Sweat-shirt moved closer.

"That would be telling," I said," and probably wouldn't mean anything to you." I said.

The beer bottle swung in a small powerful arc and thwacked my hip. There was a sharp pain, my knee gave way, and I fell on my shoulder, my back and then my head.

"Pay attention," said sweat-shirt.

"Your client is a cut-out, I believe you, " said the driver, "I got to give you a message: we mean what we say. Give us the papers."

Everything hurt. The Caddie started up. I rolled over, got up, and saw it leaving the parking lot. I sat behind my wheel, found Marese Donal's card and called her.

"I'm sitting in the parking lot of High Beams, the club where Tara was a bartender. I have just been hit with a beer bottle by people who want to send a message. The message is this: we mean what we say. Give us the papers.

“ My head aches, my shoulder aches, I'm a mess,” I exclaimed.

"What people?" she asked.

"A messenger and a bottle carrier.. They didn't know Tara. Their car said 'Buqueras Imports'. He asked for the name of my client. I didn't say but he decided you were a cut-out and gave me that message."

"That rock-faced shit," exclaimed Donal. "I knew there was something. Damn his shitty-ass, tiger-ass, hick-ass. I want to know what happened to my friend Tara McGerril, she was a real person not a marker in some game. I don't know anything about any papers.. I don't want any part in these big games, just get a name, something for the police to go on and let them handle it." "She said more softly, "filthy bootlicker, he is not going to crap on me.”

She asked, "How did they find you?"

A man named Renato in the club got my card, probably made a call," I said. “When can you come to my office? I need to talk to you. I need to know what is going on, or at least enough to know I am clear of any problems with the cops or the ethics committee.”

“I'm working. I'll let you know,” she said.

“Well, we know that Tara is an issue, probably the cause of the shooting. Someone had her killed to send a message, something about some papers. That costs money. It involves risk. Murder of a girl on the fringe still is murder. There must be a story. What is it?”

“Get a local lead, get a name, let the police handle it.” She was still angry at somebody.

“Bring a bank check for $5,000. Don't come without it. ” I saw my face in the rearview mirror. I looked scared.

"You have passed your message. You mean nothing to them." Donal almost whined “Don't let them have me. This is all fifteen years ago."

Fish Rod Road was between Middle Village and Ridgewood. Assorted small factories, houses and shacks lined the pot-holed road. In all directions, thirteen green cemeteries spread their quiet. There was a wire grid fence around the front yard of Noleen McGarril's place . Attached to the wire grid fence was a white wooden sign reading:

Noleen McGerril, Potter

smoke-fired ceramics

A yelping hound and three bikes were in the dusty yard. I parked in the gravel drive way and buzzed at the kitchen door.

Noleen tells us her version of the knifing that led Tara to flee St.Auban High Street, the old narrow way perpendicular to St Auban Beach, and the Blue Note, after the departure of Marese Donal. Something to do with a Dublin criminal gangs (not IRA), people who were now getting out of jail after fifteen years and a bank account at Pavilion Sturman Private Bank.

As follows