Chapter 24
24
brAIDEN
I can still see the look on Samantha’s face this morning, her glare as I told her what to wear. If Madden hadn’t been waiting downstairs, she would have paid for that defiance. Ideally, with her back flat on the examining table in Kellher’s surgery, her legs over my shoulders, and my face buried between her thighs.
Christ, she’s distracting.
Fairfax will have her things moved into my room by now. Any other day, I’d leave the Hare by noon. Go home and pick a fight with Samantha over how much room her suits take in my closet. Order her into her collar and distract her from her work, the way she’s keeping me from mine.
But Madden dropped a disaster on my plate this morning. Russo’s shitehawks are muscling in on our southside protection racket. Tommy O’Neill was shot through the head last night, three blocks from the last stop on his route. Whoever got him took his money, then went back and strong-armed the Mitchum brothers for a second payment.
Madden already made good with Farley Mitchum, before he came out to Thornfield. If word gets out we can’t protect our marks, those envelopes’ll get light in a heartbeat.
So Madden and Patrick and me, we spend the day figuring out how to keep our side safe. We’ll run some patrols, take advantage of the new boys who came over from Dublin this summer. It’ll give us a chance to see if any of them have management potential.
And we’ll mov in on some East Falls business in retaliation. There’s one block with three pizza joints; Patrick will hit them up for a little Irish blessing on their livelihood. They’ll squeal to Russo like knackered lambs, but we’ll have made our point.
By the time we set the plan, I’ve got a headache, tiny little hammers pounding behind both my eyes. They only get sharper when I visit Tommy’s widow. Siobhan’s a good girl; she’s wearing her black with a fierce pride.
It’s the next stop, Tommy’s girlfriend, that makes the roots of my teeth ache. Colleen’s wailing loud enough to drown out the sirens from the fire station down the street. Her eyes are as red as her hair, and she already smells like a still. She plants her hands on her hips, telling me I have to pay her rent through the end of the year, telling me I owe her. Madden drags her out to the kitchen and crashes around making her a cuppa. I drop a few hundred-dollar bills on the coffee table and go out to wait in the car.
All of which goes to say, I’ve had a day by the time Eoghan drops me back at Thornfield. I’d like to take a handful of paracetamol, wash them down with a slug of good whiskey. Then head upstairs to order Samantha into her collar and onto her knees.
But Samantha’s waiting for me in the front hallway. She’s wearing a black jumper—no surprise—but she put on a skirt, like I told her. It’s got purple flowers in dark green leaves, all shot through with bits of pink and yellow. Her hair is done up in some complicated twist, and she did something with makeup to make her eyes look huge. Her lips are shiny and slick, and I consider burning the tickets in my pocket.
“I— Is this okay?” she asks, when I’ve been staring too long.
“It’s perfect.”
If I kiss her, we’ll both lose track of time. And like it or not, I do have to put in an appearance tonight—the cost of pretending to be a legitimate businessman in this corrupt town.
It takes all my willpower not to check if she’s following all my rules. If I find out she’s not wearing knickers, we’ll never get downtown.
So I hold the door for her like a proper feckin’ gentleman. I lead the way across the drive to the garage. I take the keys to the Jeep, because it’s closest to the door. And we head back downtown, like I haven’t spent the past eight hours driving through some of Philadelphia’s worst traffic.
“Tough day?” she asks when I swear at the thirty-seventh red light.
I force myself to grin. “Just a little short on sleep.”
She blushes, which almost makes this trip worthwhile. I ask her how her day went, and she tells me about some chaos at the freeport, a construction project that’s overdue and over-budget, with Prince hollering for blood.
I like the sound of her voice, her bright enthusiasm as she tears into the issue. Her job is to solve problems, and she’s good at it. My hammering headache fades to the dull tap of a pickax by the time we pull into a poorly lit side entrance.
“The Convention Center?” she asks. She has a right to sound confused. The marquee signs are dark, although a line of cones points us to our destination. I just smile, knowing my silence must be driving her mad.
There’s a line of luxury cars close to the entrance—BMWs, Audis, a handful of Teslas. I park in the second row; there’s no reason we can’t walk.
An intern greets us just inside the double glass doors. “Good evening,” she says. “And welcome to Donor’s Night. The escalator will take you up to the main floor.”
Samantha is actively looking for clues now. She cranes her neck, trying to read the intern’s clipboard, but I angle us toward the moving staircase before the surprise is lost.
We’re greeted by an explosion of color at the top of the stairs. A giant sign, two stories tall, says It’s a Small World . The letters are picked out in flowers—bright blossoms of pink and yellow burning against a field of green.
A woman waits in front of the sign. Millicent Kennedy is tall and thin, with short gray hair and a jaw that could cut glass. She’s wearing an evening gown, and she holds a glass of champagne, but something about her bird-like eyes says she’d rather be hip-deep in muck.
“Mr. Kelly,” she says. “Welcome to Donor’s Night.”
“Braiden,” I remind her, because we’ve met at a dozen fundraisers in the past. “And may I introduce my wife, Samantha.”
“How do you do?” asks Millicent. But she doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she waves us toward the door to her right. “Please,” she says. “Enjoy the Philadelphia Flower Show. We won’t open to the public until this weekend, but all the displays are at peak tonight.”
Samantha waits until we’re out of earshot before she leans close. Her voice is full of wonder as she asks, “A private viewing? Of the most famous flower show in the world?”
And just like that, my headache is gone.
It’s not actually a private viewing—there are forty or fifty people wandering the Convention Center grounds. And it might not be the most famous flower show in the world—I don’t keep track of shite like that.
But I’ve dropped a hundred thou to be one of the key sponsors, because that’s what a legitimate businessman does to help his adopted hometown. It doesn’t hurt to have a tax write-off; I can’t run all my business through the freeport. And it’s always nice to have an excuse to rub elbows with the mayor and the City Council—all seventeen of whom are expected to show tonight.
And all that was before I counted on bringing Samantha.
She looks around like a child caught between Disneyland, Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, and Narnia. Each floral display this year highlights a country. Somewhere in here is The Fair Emerald Isle, sponsored by Kelly Construction, above and beyond my overall gift.
“Braiden,” Samantha breathes. “It’s gorgeous.”
I let her draw me deeper into the show. She says she doesn’t deserve flowers. She claims they make her weak. But I love watching all her hard lines melt as we move from country to country.
Millicent Kennedy knows how to throw a party. Attentive waiters approach with trays of food—appetizers chosen to emphasize the international theme. There’s plenty of champagne flowing too—no glass is left empty for longer than a few seconds.
A photographer darts through the crowd, preserving images of happy donors. I know better than to take offense when Philadelphia’s finest avoid being caught in the same frame as me. But Samantha poses on my arm, the perfect image of a society wife enjoying her husband’s financial support of one of the city’s most cherished traditions.
We travel from India to Peru, from Mongolia to Spain. Samantha points out favorite displays, clutching my arm and laughing. I’d gladly buy her all of them, just to keep her this happy.
As we approach a sunny display representing Micronesia, I see Council Member Doyle across the room. The Hare is located in her district, and I never pass up a chance to remind her how we can best help each other. I make sure Samantha’s glass is full, and then I say, “I’ll catch up with you in a moment. I need to talk to Maureen Doyle.”
Samantha’s been to plenty of freeport business events; she knows how this works. She brushes a kiss against my cheek and wanders off to explore a schooner made out of cinnamon bark.
My conversation with Doyle leads to a quick chat with Mayor Thompson. Chief Morris joins us, his parade uniform impressively somber against the backdrop of flowers. Ignoring his pointed statements about the recent uptick in crime, I make a point of asking about his pet charity, an organization that gets kids off the streets and into gyms to play basketball. I happen to know that twenty-five grand a month gets transferred off their books into a slush fund for the chief’s personal use.
After Morris leaves us, his nose wrinkled as if some nearby flowers are rotting in manure, I find myself talking to the new head of airport operations. She’s thinking of rebuilding two runways, and I assure her Kelly Construction can build a winning bid.
It’s a good night. I wrap up a couple of deals and put out feelers for several more. No one presses too hard on the growing shite with Russo. And the champagne they’re pouring is the good stuff.
So I’m feeling fine when I head down the path into the floral displays. I’m impressed by the Japanese pagoda. The Eiffel Tower barely fits beneath the roof. Dutch tulips line canals filled with real water.
I round a bend and take in three things before I manage a breath.
The Colosseum is impressive, even when—especially when—it’s made of millions of tiny white flowers.
Antonio Russo is an uglier motherfucker than I remember.
And Samantha’s twisted arm will break behind her back if Russo raises it a quarter inch more.