CHAPTER 11 - SEAN
I rapped on the door to the modest condo at 1145 Navajo Circle in Sedona, since the yellow paper taped over the doorbell button read “done work.” I was hoping Stinger’s dad, Sean Maguire, was home and willing to speak with me. He was home, because the door opened four inches and he looked out at me and barked, “Yeh?”
I could see the large bulk with a huge, gray, curly-flanked face that continued over the top of his pink head, eyeballing me through the crack. “Hello. Are you Mr. Sean Maguire?” I asked.
“Yeh, I’m him. If you’re selling something, just go away right now.” A sharp Irish accent was prominent in his speech.
“No, sir, I’m not here to sell anything. My name’s Bruce DelReno, I work with the Willowtree police, and I would only like to speak with you for a minute.”
“I talked to the shades, don’t remember you. And you ain’t no peeler, or you’d a flashed a badge.”
I started to say something, that is, make up something when his big left arm pushed through the door, stopping short of my face and he shushed me. At the same time he retrieved a cell phone from a pocket and pressed some buttons with his right thumb. Into the phone he said, “Name’s Maguire. Wanna talk with Chief Holton.”
The guy was calling Pete to check on me. Not good for me. This conversation is over, I thought.
“Yeh. Sean Maguire. I got a wanker here. Hold on.” He looked at me, “What’s ya name, again?”
“Bruce DelReno,” I answered slowly.
Maguire held up an index finger, turned, moving into the house, the door closing behind him. I assume it meant wait a minute, because he returned in about a minute, opening the door fully, “The shades, er, cops say you should leave. I don’t have to talk to you.”
I’d surely catch a heated reprimand from Pete, but as long as I had Maguire, I pressed on. “That’s right, Sean, you do not have to talk to me, but I can help the police find out what happened to Taryn. They’ll find out who did it in time, I can help them do it sooner. The cops aren’t here now, I am.”
“You ain’t one of them, watcha-call-its? Profilers? Are you a psycho doc?”
“No. No, I’m just a- a consultant. The important thing is I want to get this case over with quickly, too. I’m the one who found Taryn’s body. Sean, I found your son. I want to find his killer as soon as possible.”
A strange look came over his face, I couldn’t decide if he needed consoling or if I should run. Was he mad at Stinger’s killer, or mad at me?
“Come on in,” he said shoving the door open, “have a beer.”
I followed him into a dusty, cluttered living room, and stood watching him go to a once white refrigerator and return with two Lite beers in cans. He motioned to a worn sofa covered with a homemade woolen afghan thrown over it, and said, “Sit,” placing one can on the end table near it. He stood looking at me, popping the top of his beer.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your son, Mr. Maguire. What a horrible thing. I was looking forward to his demonstration and maybe playing a round of golf with him."
He sat. He stared at me, taking big sips from his beer.
“Did Taryn visit you? I mean did you see him before last Saturday?”
He didn’t answer right away, but eventually stood up, squeezing the can so beer spurted from it. It dropped from his hand to the floor as he grabbed at what hair he still had and shouted, “I haven’t seen my boy for over ten years.” He was beginning to tremble, repeating slowly, “Over ten years.”
I rose and stepped toward him. “I’m sorry--”
“I’m okay. Sit down. Drink your beer.”
We both sat uncomfortably. I got up again, picked up his beer can and asked if I could get him another. After a nod, I went to the kitchen and dropped the crushed can into the sink, then picked one of many more from the package store that was his fridge.
“Over ten years not seeing my boy, he comes to my door and I send him away. They kill him that night. Then I see him last Sunday laid out in a box at the morgue. And Wednesday I see him in another box. I’ve seen Taryn twice in ten years. Inside boxes.” He took a swig, and continued, “He was on TV playing golf. I never watched him on TV. I seen Tiger and the others, but turn it off if he was on. I never saw him play as a professional. Never. I was a dumb, stubborn, bolloxed Irishman. Still am. He had a beautiful swing in high school, hell, even before that. A bit unconventional, but beautiful. It’s what let him hit that low liner so well, you know, what’s called a stinger. I’m the one started calling him Stinger. I’m the one that deserted him, him and his ma. I let him down, a sloshed da that just quit on his cub for no good reason.”
I let him continue in his reflective mood hoping to get a picture of Taryn’s life before becoming a pro. He apparently now regretted losing the close relationship they once had. I said nothing, simply listened as he seemed to be releasing pent up thoughts that were hurting inside him. I was the audience he subconsciously needed, trying to look receptive and appreciative of his rambling. I enjoyed listening even more because of the Irish dialect.
He sipped, eyes rolling up, thinking of what next to say.
“I did it all arseways. Took off and went back to Ireland. He got sponsors to get him going, didn’t need me no more. Funny, I worked in a copper mine with my da in Ireland, and came to America when I was about Taryn’s age when he started on tour. Got a job at the Copper Queen Mine and worked there ‘til it shut down in ‘74. I got work at the golf course in Clarkdale. It got shut down in ‘91, but I had everything then. I met Mona, we got married and had our little gingernut, Taryn. He took to golf right away, eight years old he was hitting old balls into Peck’s Lake, then go in looking for them. Mona started with her health condition, I started with the bottle. My bucko had a sick ma and a bolloxed da,
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