Chapter 48
48
PATRICK
F iona and I have a hotel room for the night, close enough to the captains that we can manage any Union problems that arise. I wait until Fiona’s closed the door before I tell her what I’ve been thinking from the moment she called the meeting to order. “You were brilliant.”
Her blush matches the leather roses covering her tits. “I bet you say that to all the Mob princesses you know.”
I close my hands on her hips, bringing her close enough to feel my hard-on. “Every single one.”
Her mouth is hot under mine. Needy. I think about revising my plan, about throwing her on the bed, or maybe taking her into the shower. A couple of hours can’t make that much difference…
But no. Even one hour could mean the difference between freedom and the rest of our lives behind bars. The knife scar across my belly begins to itch. I feel like we’re already too late.
When I pull away, she groans, nearly undermining my resolve. I shake my head, though. “No games today, Scáthach . If Rivers does what we’re counting on him to do, you and I need air-tight alibis.”
“The entire Grand Irish Union is meeting in the Royal Suite. They’ll say whatever we need them to say.”
“Exactly,” I tell her. “Criminals like us don’t make reliable witnesses in court.”
Rivers is a Warlord, same as me. And if I had the assignment he has, I’d come to the Union meeting, just as he did. I’d watch my prey in public, let everyone see me, let everyone know I have an excellent reason to be in the vicinity. That’ll solve any problems that come up in the future, unexpected security cameras or hotel staff with shockingly good recall of guests.
And once my victim left the safety of the meeting, I’d trail him. I wouldn’t wait long to strike. Wouldn’t take a chance that he shared more secrets with the feds. That he somehow found out I was sent to take care of him.
So while Fiona ran the meeting, I made a few discreet queries on my phone. I have some weapons up my sleeve—which will have to remain a metaphor for the next twenty-four hours. We’ll be passing through metal detectors, where we’re going. My bare hands will be the only weapons at our disposal.
I hope I don’t need to kill.
Fiona’s still waiting for more of an explanation about why we can’t play. “In any case,” I say. “The captains would throw us out within the hour.” I glance down at her slim ankles. “How far can you walk in those shoes?”
She looks at me like I’ve asked a question in Swahili. “Several blocks? A mile? How far do you need?”
“That’ll do. Let’s go.”
I gesture for her to go in front of me on our way to the elevator. I take her hand as we cross the lobby, lacing her fingers between mine.
This is the first time I’ve touched her this way. The first time we’ve broadcast to the world that we’re a couple. I’m doing it for show—I want every security camera in the lobby to catch us. But I have to admit, it’s a pleasure telling the world she belongs to me.
Outside, I call an Uber, because I want a record of our trip. It’s early, still, getting to Fenway. The gates won’t open until ninety minutes before today’s baseball game, but there are plenty of bars around the stadium. I tell our driver to let us out a couple of blocks from the actual ballpark. The nearest bar is conveniently next door to a bank. If the ATM cameras don’t pick us up, the security one over the door will do.
The crowd’s already lively by the time we shoulder our way up to the polished wood bar. I hoist Fiona onto the single stool that’s open in the middle of the row. Stepping close to steal a kiss, I capture our hands between us. My tongue brushes the line of her lips as I slip my fidget ring onto her finger. It’s too big, of course. But I fold her thumb over the metal band, showing her how to hold it in place.
She’s still looking down in surprise when I shout, “Barkeep!” I layer on my Irish brogue like icing on a cake. “My girl’s agreed to be my bride! Drinks for everyone are on me!”
A woman dressed head-to-toe in Red Sox gear squeals like a dog’s squeeze toy, grabbing at Fiona’s hand like there’s a prize for the first to congratulate her. Fiona’s quick. “It’s a family heirloom,” she says, about the titanium band. “It means so much more to me than a diamond ever could.”
The team behind the bar serves up glass after glass of pale American beer, along with some generous shots of rail drinks. For a thousand bucks or so, I’ve guaranteed no one in this place will forget us. We’re good for a couple of hours.
“We met in this very bar on Opening Day last year,” I tell the crowd. “I couldn’t propose anywhere else.” If anyone thinks we’re dressed oddly for a ball game—my black suit, Fiona’s killer leather outfit—they’re too happy for us lovebirds to say anything about it.
The place starts to empty out an hour before first pitch. I help Fiona down from her bar-stool throne, and we both accept a final round of congratulations, substantially more drunken ones than before. As we join the line of fans waiting to get into the stadium, Fiona says, “Engaged, huh?”
“Sorry I didn’t have a diamond available.” I hold out my hand. “I’ll take it back now.”
She folds her fingers into a sweet little fist. “I don’t think so,” she says. “What if we run into any of our new best friends?”
She’s right, of course. It just makes sense for her to keep my ring. But I make her move it from her finger to her thumb, so it doesn’t go missing.
Holding her hand again, I do my best to protect her from the jostling crowd, but Fiona doesn’t seem the least bit concerned by rowdy baseball fans. She’s in her element here. In her city. In her home.
Our tickets are on my phone, which is scanned at the gate. “When did you get those?” Fiona asks after we’ve passed through the turnstile.
“While Reardon was presenting his feckin’ resumé. I had plenty of time to plan this entire evening.”
She laughs. We follow the signs to our seats, moving deeper and deeper into the stadium until Fiona finally asks, “Where, exactly, are we going?”
At just that moment, we emerge from a darkened hallway into a stunning summer evening. The grass shines like a field of emeralds around the bases. The famous Green Monster forms the left-field wall.
Our seats are three rows up, directly behind home plate.
“Let me guess,” Fiona says. “The first night we met in that bar, I told you my lifelong dream was to watch the Sox from seats like this?”
“Pretty much,” I say. “The first two rows were taken. I could only get these because Kansas City isn’t a major rival for the Sox. And I was willing to pay six times the ticket price.”
She stares at me. “Six times?” She gestures toward the stands behind us. “I’m not a big baseball fan. I would have been fine up there.”
I shake my head. “No cameras up there.”
“No…” Once again, she’s fast to catch on. “We’ll be on TV for every batter.”
I spare an appreciative glance for those red leather flowers across her chest. “And I don’t think anyone will miss us. At least not any straight man who can see.”
She throws back her shoulders, and the bustier has to fight to do its job. For just a moment, I weigh the merits of taking her up on her sly little offer, but ballpark security would certainly throw us out.
We need to cement our alibi. Plus, if tonight goes the way I plan, we’ll have days and days for Fiona to deliver on promises like that.
The game is a sloppy one—plenty of hits, defensive errors on both sides, and both starting pitchers are knocked out by the fourth inning. Any true baseball fan would be exasperated by the poor play spread out over almost four hours. I’m just happy they end the ninth tied at seven apiece. Extra innings give us another hour of rock-solid alibi before the Red Sox finally win.
That eighth run means the bars are full after the game. We head to the one closest to the park; I don’t want to stay unseen for too long.
It’s easy enough to get everyone’s attention. Fiona’s magic always works well on drunk and stupid men. She gets them working on limericks—baseball-themed ones at first, and then the usual filth.
My job is to stay close enough that no one gets too handsy. I make sure Fiona eats as well, something that passes for nachos, along with a broad array of deep-fried snacks, and that’s on top of the ballpark food she polished off during the game.
We close the place down at two in the morning. Fiona leans into me, nestling her head under my chin. “We can go home now? ”
“Not yet.”
She’s gorgeous when she pouts. “I’m tired.”
“That’s a shame. Because we still have several hours to kill.”
She slips her fingers into my belt loops. “I’ll make it worth your time.” When I shake my head, her lips curl, and she whispers, “Daddy.”
I know she feels my cock’s answer, but my brain overrules my body. Our Uber pulls up to the curb as I take her hands from my waist. I kiss her knuckles before I hand her into the car.
The all-night diner on South Street has been there since I was a kid. Da sat me at the counter once, in the middle of the night. While he begged his bookie for a break, I dipped French fries in a chocolate malt.
Fiona and I are too tired to sit on stools at the counter. I put us in a booth, close to the register. When the night-faded waitress comes to take our order, I pretend not to be able to decide. “What do you think?” I ask Fiona. “Waffles or pancakes?”
“Or French toast,” she says. “I never get French toast.”
“Maybe an omelet?”
“Spinach and feta,” Fiona says. “No! Ham and cheddar!”
I turn to the waitress. “I guess we’ll get it all.”
She chomps on her gum. “All?”
“Waffles, pancakes, French toast, one spinach and feta omelet, and one ham and cheddar omelet.”
Chomp. Chomp. “You got money? We only take cash.”
I take out my wallet and show her a stash of twenties.
She finally nods. “You want bacon with that?”
Fiona wants bacon. And Fiona wants country ham. And Fiona wants sausage, both kinds, the patties and the links.
My plan was to order enough that both the cook and the waitress would remember us days later, maybe even weeks, if that’s how long it takes for the cops to ask us to prove our whereabouts. Fiona accepts the challenge like she’s going for a gold medal in eating.
We both drink enough coffee to fill a tanker truck .
By six, the morning crowd starts to arrive. Fiona makes her usual scene, leaning over the counter to call a farewell to the cook. I ask for a cash register receipt, which earns me even more of a stink-eye than I get for the tower of plates stacked on our table. But I end up with a piece of paper saying we left the diner at 7:12.
One more Uber. We pay surge pricing because it’s morning rush hour, but I don’t give a damn. Fiona falls asleep with her head in my lap, poor little bit. I rest a hand on her shoulder, replaying how she slayed, running the Union meeting.
Traffic is worse as we near the hotel. Gridlock jams the intersections. Drivers lean on their horns, and my phone gives me a message that I’m paying Uber even more because my ride has taken longer than expected.
The driver keeps saying he doesn’t know why this is taking so long, that traffic is never this bad, especially not in August. We creep forward, one block, another, another.
I shake Fiona awake as the car finally turns onto Boylston, one block from the hotel. She sits up slowly, with the dazed look of someone who should have had at least six more hours of sleep. “What—?” she starts to ask.
But she stops. And she stares. We both do.
A dozen police cars surround the brick front of the hotel, blue and white lights flashing like strobes at a fashion show.