Chapter 27
27
FIONA
T here’s a problem with having a rogue witch send you ten million dollars over the course of six weeks: You need to manage ten million dollars.
The first account number I gave Rónnad was for a checking account. I realized my mistake after the first day. I set up an offshore savings account, something invisible to the US authorities. Tax sheltered. Secure.
But getting money from that account into a form I can give to the Corman museum turns out to be a lot trickier.
The Irish mob used to be expert at laundering money. We had cash-based businesses, everything from laundromats to casinos. Legitimate customers handed over their money. We inflated the numbers with our dirty wealth, depositing fresh, clean funds into lawful accounts. Everyone went home happy at the end of the day.
But the world runs on credit cards now. And even gambling— traditionally the Old Colony Crew’s greatest cash cow—now thrives on the Internet.
I spend days trying to come up with a solution. I have some decent ideas for cash-based businesses. Nail salons. Strip clubs. Food trucks, farmers markets, and good old-fashioned barber shops.
But none of them makes ten million bucks in a couple of months.
I finally give up and do what I should have done in the first place. I call Quentin O’Roark.
I have his number in my contacts, same as I have Uncle Aran and Keenan Rivers, all the men who ran my father’s empire. I use a burner, so I know he won’t pick up, but I trust he’ll recognize my voice when I leave a message: “Q. Meet me at three, tomorrow afternoon. Main Reading Room of the Boston Public Library.”
I figure Uncle Aran will be allergic to the place; there is absolutely no chance he’ll show up to force his claim on me. But the next day, as I’m getting ready to leave the apartment, Patrick insists on coming along.
“No one will try anything in a place that public,” I say.
“You aren’t stopping me,” he says. “So why don’t we just skip over the arguing stage?”
I roll my eyes. But I’m secretly glad to know I’ll have him by my side. “Fine,” I say. “Be an overprotective old man.”
“Spoken like the brat you are.”
I stick out my tongue. Patrick says, “Don’t write checks you aren’t willing to cash.”
“What does that even mean? I guess if I was old, like you, I’d know about writing checks. Want some help setting up payment options on your phone?”
“Careful, little girl.”
“Or what? You’ll send me to bed without any supper?”
“I’ll do something with you in bed.”
Before I can think of another smart-ass comment, he scoops me up, folding me over his shoulder. Pounding on his back, I try to kick my way free, but he tosses me on the bed like I’m a rag doll.
An hour later, I remember how to speak. “What the fuck was that?” I ask, resting my cheek on his shoulder.
His laugh rumbles through my body. “Just a little trick from the Old Man’s Manual.”
“Jesus,” I gasp, almost catching my breath. “You could be a menace.”
He steals a quick kiss. “Let’s get to the library, Scáthach. ”
“Are you ever going to tell me what that means?”
“Are you ever going to show me what’s in the cigar box?”
Ignoring him, I cross to the closet, surprised and grateful that I’m steady on my feet. I don’t want anyone paying attention to the conversation Q and I will have so for once, I dress like a nun. If a nun wore blue jeans. And a Boston Red Sox T-shirt. And beat-up old Nikes that look like they’ve been through a washing machine a hundred times.
Patrick and I get to the library half an hour early. He sits next to me in the reading room, both of us on the same side of one long wooden table, facing a green-shaded lamp. He fiddles with the titanium ring on his middle finger. I watch the door, fighting the urge to stand every time a new person walks into the room.
Libraries aren’t the sort of silent temples they used to be ages ago, when Patrick was a kid. One librarian is talking to a patron two tables over, using a normal speaking voice. Two women are looking at some sort of catalog, debating whether or not to make a purchase. A man speaks into his cell phone, checking on the status of a court filing.
I’m confident Q and I can meet safely here. We just have to watch what we say.
Three o’clock comes and goes. 3:15, and I take out my phone, in case I missed Q’s call. 3:30, and I fight the urge to phone him .
At 3:42, Q finally rushes into the room. He collapses into a seat across from us, slipping two fingers into the collar of his dress shirt and pulling like he can’t get enough air. His hair is damp and sweat beads on his upper lip. I catch an acrid whiff rising off him, the gritty stench of a rained-out campfire.
“You were supposed to be here at three,” I say. Once I’m his captain, he’ll obey my commands to the letter.
“I thought I was being followed.” Q half-turns to the door. Patrick leans across the table, as if he’s prepared to use Quentin O’Roark as a human shield. When Q turns back to me, he gives a visible start.
“I need your help,” I say, once Q gets over his surprise. “I need a washing machine that works. The ones I’m looking at don’t have enough power.”
Q’s quick nod proves he understands we’re talking about money laundering. But then he asks, “Why aren’t you watering the tree?”
I glance at Patrick, but he only shrugs. So I ask Q, “What the fuck does that mean?”
“The Christmas tree.”
I take a closer look at him. He’s nervous. And he’s out of breath. But he doesn’t look like anyone hit him on the head.
“You don’t know,” Q finally realizes. He takes a small spiral notebook out of his breast pocket, the kind that’s bound across the top with a battered wire. He produces a pen, too, and slips off its well-chewed cap. Flipping past several pages covered in tiny, precise writing, Q finally draws a circle on a blank sheet. Inside, he writes the letters KI .
He looks at me, and I nod. That symbol represents my father.
Below that circle, he draws three more. One gets labeled FI—that must be me. Another gets labeled KI, LLC—a corporation owned by my father. The third is “my” corporation, FI, LLC.
When I nod again, Q goes to town, with more drawing and labeling. These get combination names: KI and FI; KI and KI, LLC; KI and FI, LLC. The corporations share circles. The combined entities share circles.
By the time Q gets to the bottom of the page, there are two dozen labeled blobs, arranged in tiers, like a Christmas tree. He looks up at me and says, “And so on.”
I nod one more time.
“Tend any branch, and water overflows to the rest of the tree. Siphon off however much you need.”
Tend—make small enough deposits that I fly under the radar. Siphon—collect payments for something important, like donating to the Corman Gala.
I ask, “Where can I get details on the branches?”
Q frowns. “Aran has all that.”
My uncle’s name curdles something in my stomach. I press: “But you do too, right?”
He doesn’t want to admit it. But Patrick’s getting restless, putting his hands on the table again, so Q finally says, “Yes.”
I tap the drawing. “My name is on those documents?”
He delays even longer this time, looking across the reading room as if the rows of tables and their green, glowing lamps are the most fascinating things he’s ever seen in his life.
“Quentin?” I ask, testing a tone of command I heard my father use more times than I can remember.
He squirms visibly, shifting on his chair as if the wooden seat has kindled beneath him. “Yes,” he finally says. “Your name is on the documents.”
“I want the details now.”
“I’ll get them to you.”
“No. Now.” I’m getting the hang of this tone. All I have to do is think of every man who ever thought he could tell me what to do because I was shorter than he was, because because I weighed less, because I didn’t have a cock between my thighs. “You aren’t leaving this library until I get them. ”
Q puffs out a tiny gasp of despair. “I don’t have them memorized . I need a computer.”
I glance at the sign by the reading room door. “Like the public access ones? On the second floor?”
Q’s face twists with intense disgust, as if I’ve suggested pegging him on the table between us. I don’t know what sickens him more—handing over the account information to me or doing it in a public place.
Patrick stands. “Ready to stretch your legs?” he asks, as if we’ve been sitting too long at lunch.
“I’m not…” Q’s answer fades away. “I can’t… If the Crew finds out…”
I stand too. I’m not afraid to invade Q’s personal space, but I lower my voice because some threats have to be kept quiet. “By Crew , you seem to mean my uncle. But he’s not in charge of the Crew. I am. And if I don’t get those account numbers in the next five minutes, the Crew will no longer be needing your services.”
Patrick rounds out our cozy little circle. He’s trying to be subtle, reaching beneath his jacket like he’s about to pull a business card from his inside pocket. No one else in the reading room even notices. No one else even suspects there’s a holster hidden there. But Q swallows so hard, I’m afraid he’ll faint.
Patrick gets a hand under his elbow, keeping him on his feet. All three of us move toward the door, up the wide marble steps, and down the hall to the library’s public access computer terminals.
Q’s hands shake like he’s in the throes of heroin withdrawal. Sweat trickles down his temple, tracing his jaw to get lost in his collar. The ashy stink of a burned-out campfire gets even stronger.
But he logs in to the terminal. He navigates to a new-to-me website, something with a Liberty Tree surrounded by a Celtic knot. He enters a username and one of the longest passwords I’ve ever seen .
The screen reveals dozens of blue file folders. Q clicks on one, and the screen refreshes to show ten more. He moves fast, working on muscle memory. It takes him less than a minute to reach his destination.
One click, and it’s all there in a single file. Bank names and locations. Accounts set up as long strings of numbers and letters.
“Send it to me,” I order. Q has worked for my family long enough that he doesn’t have to ask an address. I take out my phone and watch the screen until a red badge tells me the file has arrived.
He licks his lips. “Okay? I can log out now?”
I’m about to set him free, but Patrick steps forward. “Go back two screens.”
Q only hesitates a moment before he hits the right buttons.
“One more,” Patrick says. Then: “There. What’s that?”
Q looks like he wants to melt into the floor. “A list of assets.”
Patrick flicks a quick glance at me, and I pick up the ball without any hesitation. “Assets?” I ask.
“Physical holdings,” Q says, cringing like a beaten dog. “Belonging to your father.”
“What sort of physical holdings ?”
Q licks his lips. He looks past Patrick and me, to the door, and then he glances at Patrick’s hidden holster. Correctly concluding that escape is not an option, he says, “Artwork.” Before I can turn his statement into another question, he taps an address at the top of the screen. “In this warehouse.”
“This one? There are others?”
He shrinks three sizes, trying to disappear into his chair. But Patrick isn’t giving him any extra space, and I start to crowd the screen too. Finally, Q says, “Another storage unit has maps dating back to the Revolutionary War. And there’s one with rare books, Irish authors. Some jewelry too.” He clears his throat. “A lot of jewelry.”
I should have expected to find something like this. My father was captain of the Old Colony Crew for decades. General of the Grand Irish Union, too. He’s accumulated a lifetime of wealth, far more than the cash value of the dún .
“Send me the list,” I tell Q. “Along with where it’s all held.”
Q hesitates until Patrick leans into his chair. “Send it,” Patrick says.
Q finally complies. After I confirm receipt on my phone, he starts to log out again. But Patrick says, “Wait.” He points to a file named Philadelphia. Of course it caught his attention. He’s lived in Philly for decades. “What’s that?”
Q’s face pales to the color of the keyboard beneath his hands. Instead of answering Patrick, he looks at me. “That’s not for your father.”
The evasive answer just makes Patrick loom larger. “What is it?” he asks, in a voice designed to make Q dissolve into a dusty puddle.
“Nothing important. Just a side project. For Aran.”
Now I want to know what Q is hiding, because I’ll take any ammunition I can use against my asshole uncle. “What sort of project?”
The look of pure desperation on Q’s face tells me I can’t afford to back off now. He finally says, “It’s nothing. Just a little asset diversification.”
“Asset—”
“An international investment.”
“Open it,” Patrick says.
A whine escapes Q’s lips. His eyes plead with me. But I only repeat what Patrick said: “Open it.”
Q’s finger falls on a single key, like a head dropping from a guillotine. The computer screen flashes.
It takes me a moment to parse what I see. It’s a spreadsheet—words and numbers scrolling across the screen in columns.
Euros going to Germany.
Shipments arriving in Philadelphia.
The name Herzog is repeated on the document. And Crash . Transactions began six years ago, and they picked up significantly over the past twenty-four months—until they stopped dead, back in April.
“Send that one too,” Patrick says.
All the fight has gone out of Q. He sends the file without arguing.
The information means nothing to me. But it’s obviously important to Patrick. Maybe it’s a way to make my uncle pay for what he did to me in his office at the dún. I nod once my phone says the file has arrived.
“Okay,” Patrick says, pushing his knee into Q’s chair. “You can go.”
Q scarcely takes time to log out of whatever dark system he’s been in. The instant the library’s logo displays on the computer screen, he sprints for the door. He doesn’t look back, even when a librarian calls out, “Excuse me, sir! No running in the library!”
Patrick waits until everyone else in the room has returned to their own captivating computers. Then he says, “Should we grab dinner on the way home? It’ll be a long night, going through all this.”
There’s a lot I love about those words. A long night , with Patrick by my side. Home , the apartment we’re sharing. And dinner . I worked up an appetite before we ever got to the library.
“A burger?” I ask. “With extra fries?”
Patrick laughs, exactly the way I knew he would. As we reach the stairs, he says, “We should make that lobster. With caviar. And a damn good bottle of wine.”
I think about the files we’ll be going through. Artwork. Maps. Rare books. Jewelry. And that’s before we get to any of the German stuff.
I’m rich.
Very, very rich.
So rich that I’ll never need Rónnad’s money again.