Chapter 12
12
PATRICK
I ’m not a total feckin’ coward. I wait until Fiona’s out of the shower before I leave the apartment. I look her in the eye and tell her I’ll be back by mid-afternoon. I ask if she needs me to pick up anything while I’m out.
I can be a civilized human being.
But the keychain she gives me burns like a bar of uranium in my pocket. The brain squirrels want it to mean something. They want to chew on it. Bury it so they can enjoy it later.
Lying on that couch last night, replaying that disaster of a wake, I couldn’t stop thinking of the girl behind the bedroom door. I wanted to soothe her. To protect her.
The Bell was clanging, calling me into the boxing ring, telling me to start a round. Don’t think. Just act.
Just go be her Daddy.
But how fucked up is that, when the reason she needs comfort is because her real father’s dead? How can I think about calling her my little girl when she’s in the middle of mourning ?
I swear to God, I think she said it. So soft, I felt it, instead of heard it.
Daddy.
But that’s not enough. That’s not right. The scrambled signals in my brain aren’t an excuse to take advantage of her.
So we spent last night sleeping in that bed, instead of fucking. And this morning, instead of figuring out a dozen ways to make her scream the one word my twisted brain wants to hear, I’m out of the apartment.
I should go for a run. A long one. Get ten miles in, enough to tire out my body and get the brain squirrels back in their cage.
But I’ve never been good at doing what I ought. I’m back behind the wheel of the Land Rover before common sense—and my morning meds—can kick in.
I take the long way around Southie, staying close to the water. Emotions are sure to be high at the dún , with folks hung over from the wake and the Crew gearing up to put Kieran Ingram in the ground. No reason for a chance encounter to turn sour.
A smart man would skip going to Yankee Roast altogether.
I’m not a smart man. Or maybe I’m just stewing in nostalgia. Twenty-five years is a long time to be away from the streets where I was born, where I joined the mob, where I thought I’d live forever.
I end up parking three blocks over from the bakery. This part of town is busier than the last time I was here. I hurry past a handful of little bistros, a yarn store, and a shop selling chocolates that cost nearly as much as my Glock.
Yankee Roast looks like it’s enjoyed the high tide. The outside has a coat of fresh paint; the door is a brighter blue than I remember. There are tables on the sidewalk now, and decals on the door announce delivery through three different services.
A bell rings as I walk in. I’m slapped in the face with the smell of cinnamon and coffee, with fresh-baked bread and melted chocolate.
Kimi Mulroney is working behind the counter. An apron covers her faded plaid shirt, and her sleeves are rolled up as she wipes down a counter with a clean white rag. She’s thinner than I remember; her face is drawn in a way that’s more than tired. Her head is wrapped in a brightly colored scarf, and I’m willing to bet she’s lost her hair.
“Motherfucker,” she says, in a tone that’s equal parts greeting and a warning to get the hell out.
“Kimi,” I reply.
“It’s Kimberly now.”
I nod, but I don’t repeat her name. “Looks like business has picked up.”
“After twenty-five years? Yeah. Things have turned around.”
Of course she knows how long it’s been. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave me the number of weeks. The specific number of days.
I look at the cases of baked goods. Athawn’s Apple Fritters still hold place of pride on a top shelf. Jenn’s Jam Tarts gleam with their cherry and apricot fillings. Patrick’s Peanut Butter Cookies are notably missing. I’ll go out on a limb and assume it’s not for fear of allergies.
“Can I get a cup of coffee?” I ask. “Pour one for yourself too.”
She wrinkles her nose, and it’s the exact same expression I saw twenty-eight years ago, when her sister brought me home to meet their parents. She waves a hand toward her scarf. “Everything tastes like I’m chewing on tin foil.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. I mean it.
She selects an over-size mug from the shelf above the sink and turns her back to me as she pours. “Another six weeks of chemo,” she says. “The doctors are cautiously optimistic. ”
“Joe’s helping out around here?”
“Joe left fourteen years ago. Thought he’d be happier fucking double-D implants and collagen lips that could suck a baseball through a straw.”
Before I can figure out another way to say I’m sorry, she hands me my coffee. I salute her with the mug and take a good slug.
It takes every ounce of my willpower not to spit all over her counter. “What the fuck?” I say, after I manage to swallow. “Did you dump in a cup of salt?”
“Whoops,” she deadpans. “Meant to add sugar.”
I put the mug on the counter.
Kimi— Kimberly —stares at me flatly. “What’s your plan, Patrick? I’d ask what brings you to town, but I’ve already heard you’re fucking Ingram’s daughter.”
I’ve always been impressed with the Southie grapevine. Gossip moves from one end of the enclave to the other faster than birds can fly. And now that everyone and her sister has a cellphone permanently attached at the fingertips, information travels that much faster.
I start to deny that I’m fucking Fiona. Whatever happened in that hotel room was just between the two of us, and it won’t be repeated, because I’m leaving town after the funeral.
But even if I clear my record with Kimi, she’s not likely to defend me to the rest of South Boston.
So I settle for saying, “I head back to Philadelphia on Sunday.”
She snorts in disgust. “Running away as usual.”
“I didn’t run, Kimi. I left. Because there was nothing to keep me here.”
“You had friends, asshole. Family.”
“Jenn had friends. Jenn had family.”
“We loved you!”
She sounds like she means it, which is news to me. So I remind her: “You loved Jenn.”
“Until you killed her.” There we go. That’s the Kimi I know so well. Hits the target in less than one feckin’ minute .
“Jenn died, Kimi. No one killed her. She drove too fast and she hit a patch of black ice and the Escort flipped three times.”
Jenn worried about crashing the Ford. She’d read articles about seatbelts harming unborn babies. She left hers off so she didn’t hurt Athawn. That’s why they both died—my wife, and our son who was never born.
Kimi’s face twists with an expression of pure hate. “Why was she driving too fast, Patrick?”
I don’t know. No one does. But a fair guess would be she was terrified of me, after she found out what I did.
When I got home that day, I told her my father had ratted out the Crew, turning witness for the feds instead of facing up to a heroin beef. The clan found out, and its Warlord—Keenan Rivers—punished Tommy Moran on the killing floor in the dún’s basement.
That’s all I thought Jenn needed to know.
But Aran Dowd had already told her the rest.
He called before I ever got back to the apartment. Maybe he was getting revenge for all the shite Da did. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe he did it just for laughs.
Jenn asked if the rest was true, if I’d really done all the things Dowd said. I told the truth then, all of it. And Jenn just shook her head. She took her keys. She walked out the door of our crappy apartment, and she drove the Escort into a fucking tree.
Kimi repeats her question: “Why was she driving too fast, Patrick?”
After twenty-five years, I thought I could be here. I thought I could remember my wife with the sister who’d loved her. I could mourn my unborn son with the woman who would have been his aunt.
I shove back from the counter. “This was a mistake.”
“You’re damn right, it’s a mistake. You’re the same fucking savage you ever were.”
The bell jangles on the door behind me. Kimi looks past me, and a smile splits her face, like the sun breaking through a bank of thunderheads. “Hannah!” Kimi says. “I didn’t think you were coming in today!”
“I’ve got an hour before rehearsal, so I thought I’d stop by and grab some lunch.” My niece moves behind the counter with the ease of someone very familiar with the space. “Go on,” she says to her mother. “Sit down. Take a glass of water. You know you aren’t drinking enough.”
Impossibly, Kimi obeys the force of nature she brought into this world. She fills a glass with tap water and takes a stool at the counter.
Hannah turns to me with a bright smile. “And what can I get you today?”
She doesn’t recognize me. I left before her first birthday.
Kimi watches me warily.
“Thanks,” I say to Hannah. “I was just leaving.”
As I walk back to the Land Rover, I try to figure out how I could have left them both some money. It wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would. But I’d feel a little better.
And there’s my answer. The women in that bakery don’t need my money. The only thing they need is for me to stay out of their lives forever.
This time, I cut through the heart of Southie, because I don’t give two shites who sees me. I pass the old after-hours joints. I drive by Ingram’s tame bookie. There’s the strip club, and the whorehouse.
I’m a dinosaur, crashing through the jungle, oblivious to the meteor hurtling through the stars. I can’t tell if any of the old businesses are left. Probably not, in this age of online betting, of Internet porn.
I’m out of Southie, nearly back to the tourist-friendly parts of the city, when I realize I never got my cup of coffee. The second I start thinking about it, the wiring frays inside my skull. Deprived of caffeine, the brain squirrels gnaw away.
There’s a Dunkin’ in the next block. Who am I kidding? This is Boston. There’s a Dunkin’ on every block. I can get mine back at the apartment, before I climb four flights of stairs.
That promise doesn’t still the squirrels. In fact, they shift into hyperdrive when we drive past the next orange-and-pink store. This one has a parking space open at the curb—two in front of a huge black Escalade.
An Escalade with a familiar license plate. One I watched being tracked by cops, just last night. I’m good that way, remembering strings of letters and numbers. Playing with the symbols usually makes the squirrels back off a while.
That Cadillac was at the dún’s side yard last night, but it’s out of Southie now. Which is as good a reason as any for me to stop for coffee now.
Waiting in line, I monitor the crowd. The habit is as deeply ingrained as spinning my fidget ring. I’m a Warlord. I keep tabs on everyone around me.
It’s the usual mix of students and tourists and—this close to Back Bay—folks taking a break from crouching over their home computers.
Two men sit in the far-left booth, barely visible in profile. They’re dressed in casual clothes. Middle-aged. Nothing remarkable. I wouldn’t notice them at all if the Escalade wasn’t parked out front. And if the man with his back to me didn’t have a full white beard.
What the hell is Aran Dowd doing in a Dunkin’ outside his Southie territory? And why the fuck does the guy sitting across from him look so goddamn familiar?
From the expression on Dowd’s face, he hasn’t clocked me yet. He’s leaning forward, pointing his finger at Other Guy. Dowd’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s dangerously close to knocking over his cup of coffee.
The Bell rings inside my head. I should walk back to the booth. Let Dowd know I haven’t left town. Find out who he’s lecturing.
But I grit my teeth to tamp down the impulse. Dowd’s presence here is fucking bizarre. I don’t want him to know I’ve seen him.
I slip out of line. I head back to the door, moving slow and steady, like I’ve already got my coffee and a donut. It’s not until I’m back in the Land Rover that I hear Kimi’s voice, echoing loud in the brain squirrels’ scrambled nest: What’s your plan?
I don’t have one.
I want to find out what Dowd is doing in a donut shop.
I want to remember who the guy is, sitting across from him.
I want to get back to Philadelphia, to my captain, to the clan that adopted me a quarter of a century ago.
But most of all, I want to drive back to the Beacon Street apartment, order Fiona to call me Daddy, and fuck her until neither of us can move.
She’s younger than my niece. Younger than my son would be, if I’d ever had a son.
She’s vital and she’s smart and she’s strong—the opposite of me in every way. Is that why I itch for her? Am I too old, too tired to keep doing the job I’ve done since before she was born?
What’s your plan?
It’s time to feckin’ get one.