Chapter 38
38
PATRICK
T he first week without meds, I feel like Superman.
I put together a new workout routine—crunches and pushups by the hundreds, squat thrusts, mountain climbers, all followed by miles-long runs.
I take the pen and notepad from the drawer in the hotel desk, and I start a list of every place I want to see in the world. There’s plenty of Ireland I’ve never been to—my family’s all from County Sligo—but there are other places too. The Eiffel Tower. The Taj Mahal. The Great Wall of China. I write everything down.
I start one of those language apps on my phone. I’ve got enough Spanish to work a drug deal with the Colombians, and that carries over to Italian when I’m dealing with old-school mafia eejits. But I’ve thought for a long time about picking up some Russian. The alphabet’s a pain in the arse, but I force my way through, one word at a time.
Sure, I sleep like shite, but waking every hour gives me a chance to check my perimeter. I can keep an eye on the hotel hallway. Make sure no one’s getting into the Chevy.
Each morning, I think about reporting to Kelly. But in twenty-five years, I’ve never gone on holiday. I’ve never had three consecutive mornings I can do what I want. Three days stretches to four stretches to five, and then it starts to feel like I’ve been lying to my boss.
I haven’t. He hasn’t needed me. I still get Fishtown texts on my phone, so I can see Kelly’s running the Boys out of his new house. He’s watching the build-out on his new bar, the one where he’ll keep a back office. The clan’s going just fine without me.
Eight days after I get to Philly, I finally track down Rory O’Hare. I trained the man to be my second. I’ve watched over him for the last ten years, so I know I’ll find him at Mimi’s on a Monday night. He’ll have a go at one of the girls. Treat her to a drink after. And at midnight, he’ll be walking home, sticking to the shadows on Second Street.
I step out from the doorway of a boarded-up bank, taking a stand in the middle of the pavement. O’Hare drops into a fighter’s crouch, his fingers near the Beretta he keeps in an ankle holster.
“Forget it, boyo,” I say. “You’ll never draw in time.”
“Jaysus,” he says, standing to his full height and offering me a handshake. “Moran! What are you doing here?”
“Checking up on your sorry arse. You’re keeping Himself safe?”
O’Hare gives me a rundown on all he’s done for the Boys. They’ve been warring with the mafia for months. Things have gone to hell since February, when a summit put things to rest for a short while.
That’s the meeting Fiona ran when her da was too sick to manage.
Fiona… The squirrels treat me to a split-second slideshow—he r body moving under mine, her face flushing as I call her beautiful, her voice calling my name as she comes?—
I snap my attention back to O’Hare. “Who do you have driving for Himself?”
He’s deployed his men well. He’s keeping track of all his boss’s household—Kelly, and his wife, and the girl they’re raising as their own. O’Hare’s put some thought into his men’s needs too. He’s increasing responsibility for the best of the junior enforcers. He’s doubling up where a yoke’s not quite up to speed.
He’s good at this job. The best.
“So when’ll you be back from Boston for real?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ve still got that Mini in the garage. The one you told me to nick.”
That’s Fiona’s car, the one she left at Madden’s. The Bell clangs, urging me to act, not think. “Sell it,” I tell O’Hare. “Send the money to the Corman Museum up in Boston. Make a donation in Fiona Ingram’s name.”
“Then Ingram’s girl is doing all right?”
“She’s fine,” I lie. Or maybe I’m telling the truth. I don’t know. Fiona’s not my business anymore.
She might be mine, if I’d held my fucking tongue. If I hadn’t lashed out, aiming for her most vulnerable bits. If I’d given her half a chance to get past my killing Kevin Joyce.
Fuck Kevin Joyce. And while I’m at it, fuck Aran Dowd too. He’s the one who sent out Joyce. He’s the one who meant to drag Fiona back to the dún.
He meant to kill me, too.
The brain squirrels perk right up at that. They’re grateful for a new tree to run, a new excuse to gather nuts, to start to bury them left, right, and center.
And standing here in the dark of a Philly street, talking to an enforcer who’s working at the top of his game, I realize that Aran Dowd just might be the reason I’ve tracked down O’Hare tonight.
Dowd’s doing more than trying to take Fiona. More than trying to kill me. Dowd’s met with a federal agent, with Mike Barbieri. He’s betrayed the Crew. And now he needs to die.
But I still need more proof. I need help from the type of man who can dig deep into computer records. Who can scan phones. Who can screen video.
I ask O’Hare about one of the Fishtown Boys: “Is Fitzgerald still living on Cabot Street?”
“Declan?” O’Hare looks surprised by my change of focus. “He’s there, yeah. Licking his wounds.”
“Wounds?”
O’Hare shrugs. “Boss brought in someone else to set up the new house, a guy named Wolf. One of those billionaires from that tax place, down in Delaware.”
Declan Fitzgerald’s served the Fishtown Boys for a decade. I’d question Kelly’s own loyalty before I’d throw darts at Fitzgerald. So if Kelly brought in this Wolf guy, he’s good. Maybe good enough to work the miracle I need.
O’Hare’s waiting for me to say something. To do something. He acts like I’m still his boss.
“Go on, then,” I say. “Keep up the good work.” I offer him my hand. But just before he takes it, I add, “No need to tell Himself I was checking up on you. You’ve earned that much.”
O’Hare’s hand is firm on mine. I chose well when I put him in charge of the Fishtown Boys enforcers. I stare at his back until he turns a corner, knowing I’ve worked myself out of a job.