Chapter 30
30
PATRICK
I give up on figuring out the physics of how Fiona’s dress covers the mission-critical parts of her body. It wraps around her neck like she’s wearing a collar. It falls from her hips to the floor. But in between, big triangles are cut out of the sides so anyone who cares can count her ribs. The back is completely bare. The blood-red fabric barely covers her tits.
A leather belt snakes around her hips, challenging every man in the Corman Museum’s courtyard to keep his mind on cold showers, snowstorms, and icebergs floating in a frozen sea. I already made one unscheduled trip to the jacks before we left the Back Bay apartment, and I’m starting to feel the need for another.
“Fiona!”
The woman who sails down the steps is a mass of white hair and heavy makeup and a cloud of perfume that arrives twenty feet before she does. I don’t know if anyone on earth can wear gold and black stripes without looking like a pregnant bumblebee. This woman certainly can’t.
“Marjorie,” Fiona responds, dutifully accepting air kisses on each cheek. “My father would be so touched by the memorial.”
“We were afraid you weren’t coming,” Marjorie chides.
I’m the reason we’re late. I set three alarms, but somewhere between the studs for my tuxedo shirt and the clasp of my cummerbund, I got distracted. We ended up leaving the apartment five minutes after we were supposed to arrive at the museum.
Fiona doesn’t flick a glance toward me. She just settles her hand on the older woman’s arm and says, “You know I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Together, Marjorie and Fiona look toward the head table. Places are set for Fiona and me to sit dead center, like a bride and groom sandwiched between twenty of our closest friends.
A gigantic headshot of Kieran Ingram is suspended between the balconies that frame the museum’s second floor, at least twenty feet tall. Fiona had the good sense to dig out a vintage photo of her da. The giant looming over us still has a full head of thick, dark hair. The only creases on his face are the laugh lines by his eyes. His cheeks have a healthy flush, nothing like the sallow tinge even the morticians couldn’t hide at the end.
An even larger scroll wraps around the bottom edge of the photo’s frame. In Memoriam , it says. Kieran Phelan Ingram .
Smaller images of the photo, frame, and banner are set into floral centerpieces on every table—overflowing Easter lilies and shamrocks. The Gala menu has taken on an Irish flair as well. Waiters walk around with trays of little lamb chops and caviar-topped potatoes. The entrées promise to be chicken in Jameson sauce and baked salmon. Someone managed to bring in the entire East Coast supply of Guinness for the bars on either side of the courtyard, and rumor has it there are vats of Bailey’s for after-dinner drinks .
It’s amazing what ten million dollars can buy, even on short notice.
Marjorie Hindman continues cooing over Fiona, bringing her into a circle of the museum’s greatest supporters. There’s the mayor and the chief of police. The chief fire inspector. The head of the city’s tax division.
Every last one of them knows exactly who Fiona is. And every last one of them is forced to shake her hand. To gesture at the portrait of her father. To thank her for her generous donation to the museum they all support.
“Our girl’s loving every feckin’ minute of it.”
I’ve let my guard down, watching Fiona bask in the glory of her donation. That’s the only reason I didn’t see Aran Dowd approach—and now he’s close enough to rumble in my ear.
I resist the urge to reach for my Glock, which isn’t even here. The shoulder holster doesn’t fit under my tuxedo jacket. Besides, I knew we’d be forced through a metal detector before anyone would be allowed near His Honor, the mayor.
Clenching a fist against the Bell that starts echoing inside my skull, I manage to respond with a level tone. “So the Corman’s open for all sorts now.”
“They could hardly refuse a request from their Platinum Donor’s brother-in-law, could they? Especially when he came armed with his own seven-figure check.”
So Dowd was willing to cough up a million of his own dollars to get through the door. Giving in to one clang of the Bell, I ask, “Which table are you at?” I already know he’s not sitting with us at the front of the room.
He scowls, and I think he’ll tell me to fuck off. Instead he says, “Isn’t it about time for you to leave town, Cujo? I think I hear your Philly master whistling.”
What a feckin’ tool. If Dowd could hear Kelly calling, that would mean he’s a dog too. The Bell starts an in-skull symphony, but I can’t exactly rip off his bollocks and shove them down his throat. Not here, amid Boston’s wealthiest art- lovers. So I settle for raising my glass like I’m toasting his brilliant wit. “Shove it up your fucking hole,” I say evenly, before I sip the Jameson.
His face turns the color of Fiona’s dress, and I realize I’ve made a costly mistake. I should’ve challenged the gobshite to a game or two of poker before we had it out, if that’s the best he can do at hiding his emotions.
Fiona’s laugh rings out across the marble floor. A circle has gathered around her, mostly men, with a couple of curious women flashing their own feather-bright colors to get close to her. I’ve seen Fiona like this before, drunk on the attention of the crowd, flushed with the power she holds. She’s gorgeous when she’s on .
Dowd says, “She’s meant for a finer man than you, Cujo.”
“So she reminds me every morning,” I answer. “After I bring her breakfast in bed.”
Fiona’s playing her admirers. “We Irish have a tradition,” she cries. “Telling limericks to mark a grand event. Here’s one my da would love.”
Christ. I’ve heard Fiona’s limericks before. She may be misjudging this crowd.
As if he’s reading my mind, Dowd says, “She’s young. She makes mistakes. But I’ll bring her in line in no time.”
Doing my best to ignore the feckin’ Bell, I fight to sound like I’m talking about the weather. “Touch her like you did the other day, and I’ll break every bone in your fucking hand.”
Fiona holds her glass aloft. “There once was a lad from Nantucket,” she begins.
Everyone around her laughs. Some think she’s funny. Others are politely appalled.
Dowd says, “I’ll touch her however I choose. That’s what a man does to his wife.”
“You haven’t been paying attention,” I say. “Fiona’s not the marrying type.”
As if to prove my point, Fiona says from the front of the room, “Wait. That’s not right. Let’s try again. In Southie there lived a young buck?—”
This time, the laughter is a little more nervous. Marjorie sails forward, like the Queen Mary coming in to dock. “Fiona, dear,” she says. “Why don’t you tell us a little more about your father’s love of art?”
Fiona says, “There are so many stories I could tell!” She gestures toward the photo of her da and drops her voice, reeling in the crowd. From the shocked expression on Marjorie’s face, whatever Fiona says isn’t fit for polite company, but that’s never stopped my girl a day in her life.
Dowd spits, “You’re choosing the wrong side, Cujo. You’ll pay for that, the instant she’s back in the dún , where she belongs.”
“So we agree on one thing,” I say. “Fiona does belong in the dún . She’s the next captain of the Old Colony Crew.” I’ve never thought she has a chance at leading Boston’s mob. But if the alternative is letting Aran Dowd get the upper hand, I’ll throw in my lot with Fiona.
Dowd laughs, loud enough that a few art lovers look around. When he claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, the Bell tells me to twist him into an armlock, to break some feckin’ bones. I resist until he sneers, “There’s not a man in the Crew who’ll follow that minge’s lead.”
That does require a clear response. I grab Dowd by the elbow as I shrug out from under his hand. My fingers tighten on his ulnar nerve, the one they call the funny bone. His lips turn gray as I squeeze. “Mind your fucking mouth,” I tell him. “She’s your dead captain’s daughter. You’ll give her the respect she deserves.”
“I’ll give her something she deserves,” he says through gritted teeth. “My ring on her finger and my cock up her ass.”
I think about my ring, the Fishtown one, connecting with the point of his beard-covered chin. He’s spent too many years as Kieran Ingram’s second-in-command. Too much time in meetings, figuring out strategy . He’s soft, and I could knock him on his arse without half trying.
But the Bell hammers away, reminding me there’s an even better way to take him down a peg. Still keeping a casual tone, I ask, “When’s the last time you had Mike Barbieri’s cock up your ass?”
He stiffens beneath my hand. For a moment, I think he’ll take a swing, which would be grand, because then I could knock his teeth down his feckin’ throat. But he just spits out, “Mind your tongue, Cujo. Lies like that get a man killed.”
Maybe that’s his way of telling me he’s innocent, that my incorrect assumption could put his life at risk. But I’m pretty sure the gobshite’s making a threat, and my life is the one on the line.
Before I can force him to take a stand—his life or mine—Fiona calls out: “To my father!” She offers her glass in a toast. At least a dozen men are eager to drink at her command. Something twinges beneath the pleats of my white shirt, and I fight the urge to tear through the crowd, tossing the eejits aside like paper dolls.
“Fiona!” Dowd calls, yanking his arm from my grasp to shoulder his way through the gala guests.
She turns a look on him that would wither an ordinary man’s wedding tackle. But Dowd’s a stupid cunt, and he wades in like he has a stand beside Fiona. The hand he lays on her arm looks like a farmer’s, claiming a racehorse that’s refused to enter the blocks. I bite off an oath and push my own way forward.
Before I can get there, Dowd delivers a kiss. He stops short of shoving his tongue down Fiona’s throat, but his fingers move from her elbow to her hip. He uses his height to force her back a step, then slides an arm around her waist to keep her steady.
She stumbles, as if she’s lost her balance on those needle-sharp heels. It’s all an act, though. Fiona’s as steady as they come, and Dowd can’t keep from bellowing when she pins his foot with her stiletto. At the same time, she paints a look of pure shock across her face. “Please!” she exclaims. “Uncle Aran!”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. From the cheap seats, the dry shite looks like the lech he is, trying to manhandle a sweet, vulnerable young thing.
All right.
Maybe not sweet.
Not vulnerable, either.
But young, and not happy with the attention of the old man grimacing and shifting from foot to foot in front of her.
Fiona’s got a flock of new suitors ready to defend her honor, and they do it with more finesse than I would do. One invites Fiona over to a display case, showing off the museum’s latest purchase, a bowl that looks like it was painted by kindergarteners set loose in a mud pit. Two more deliberately put their pickleball-honed bodies between Dowd and his prey, squaring their shoulders like they have the first idea how to throw a punch. The smartest of them looks across the room toward the head caterer, catching the guy’s attention and sparking an order issued through an earpiece.
By the time I get to Fiona’s side, she’s regained her composure. She sends one fan running to fetch her a fresh drink. She squeezes the arm of another, clearly admiring his bravery. With the steely determination of a queen, she ignores the muted commotion as two security guards escort Dowd from the hall.
“There you are!” Fiona says to me, looping her arm through mine. “Patrick, dear. I want you to meet my new friends!”
Her voice is half an octave too high. Her eyes are dilated, like she somehow found the time to sneak a joint. She’s trembling just a little; I probably couldn’t feel it if I wasn’t fighting my own impulse to crush her against my side and get her the hell out of this madhouse.
But I shake hands like I wasn’t raised by feckin’ wolves. And I admire the pottery bowl like it isn’t painted to look like shite. And I escort Fiona to the head table when the waiters glide through the crowd, playing their little xylophones like they’ve only learned the first three notes of a song.
I shouldn’t look at the phone in my pocket. It’s the public one, the number I’ve held for decades. It buzzes with texts every hour of the day and night.
But when a dozen messages come through while I’m spooning up my cold potato soup, I excuse myself between courses. Fiona’s eyebrows peak, a question if everything’s all right. I brush a kiss against her cheek. “All’s well, Scáthach .”
She sticks her tongue out at me, like she isn’t being watched by three hundred cultured eejits.
I head to the jacks, into a stall where I can check my phone in peace.
Dowd
Down, Cujo.
She’s mine.
There’s a video, a string of videos, close-ups of some cock railing a dripping pussy.
Dowd
But you can watch me fuck her once I’m captain of the Crew.