Chapter 30
30
brAIDEN
I f any other person called for any other reason, I’d be grateful for the excuse to stop lying to Samantha about Grace.
But the name on my screen—Kieran Ingram—freezes my bollocks. And Ingram won’t tolerate waiting.
I give Samantha one hopeless look as I tap the green icon. “Boss,” I say.
I see the shock on Samantha’s face. She’s good. She covers it quickly. But she’s pure stunned to hear me scraping to another living man.
“Yer doin’ yer best t’ put us all in th’ clinker?” Ingram growls.
I’ve heard him wound up before, and those times have always ended with orders to kill. I’m willing to do the deed if that’s what my boss commands, but from the rage in his voice, it sounds like my name tops the execution list today.
“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” I say.
“My boyo in th’ Feebs says yer a liar.”
“If that’s what you’re hearing, then the FBI has it wrong.”
Samantha sparks at FBI . I wish I could tell her it was nothing, that this is all a joke. But if Kieran Ingram, Captain of the Boston Mob and—more important to me—General of the Grand Irish Union in all the United States, if Ingram is showing his hand about the men he’s bought in Washington, this is no laughing matter.
“The Feebs have it wrong,” he sneers, like a boy in short pants on the playground. His sarcasm catches in his throat, though, and he coughs long and loud, like a man with a three pack a day habit. Which I happen to know Ingram is. When he’s finally caught his breath, he says, “Yer wagin’ a war against every guinea in Philly, ’n’ th’ stinkin’ pigs are just goin’ t’ look th’ other way?”
“I’m fighting one man,” I say. “Antonio Russo.”
“And yer leavin’ a trail a mile wide. Did ya actually put all yer boys in a feckin’ Holiday Inn?”
I picture Donny O’Keefe, pleading for his life. “I’m keeping them safe, Boss.”
“Hidin’ out at a shite motel?”
“Just till I take out Russo.”
“Till ya—” He takes another break to cough like a fiend. He’s been known to treat his lungs with a fifth of Jameson but—bad luck for me—he sounds cold sober right now. He finally catches his breath. “Yer gettin’ too hot, boyo.”
“Russo needs killing.”
“Yer man’s sayin’ th’ same t’ his boss. About ya.”
I want to argue. Instead, I ask, “You talked to Russo’s boss?”
“Luca Scuderi himself. Th’ capo d’ feckin’ capi.” He clears his throat, hawking up all the phlegm in Boston. I’m grateful I can’t see him spit.
I waste a few heartbeats wondering if Russo’s on his own phone right now. If he’s getting leaned on from New York, the way I’m being strong-armed by Ingram.
But it doesn’t matter who Russo has to answer to. At the end of the day, Ingram’s my General in the Grand Irish Union. Philadelphia has to follow orders, the same as any Irish mob family. And if Ingram says the cops are getting too close to the shite going on between Russo and me, then the shite has to end.
“So what are Scuderi’s marching orders?” I ask, because it sure as hell sounds like my general is telling me to cave to the Mafia.
“Mind yer fuckin’ tone,” Ingram says.
I wait him out, because my fucking tone would get me killed if I say what I really want to say.
“We’re havin’ a summit,” Ingram finally growls.
“A summit?” He makes it sound like we’re politicians, with nothing better to do than put on our best suits and shake each other’s hands. “Who’s in on this summit ?”
“You. Russo. Yer lieutenants, one each. Me and Scuderi. The six of us’ll sit at a table ’n’ talk like men ’n’ put an end t’ yer little war.”
“When?”
“Sunday night. Half past seven.”
“That’s too soon.” I want to hit back about the Hare, and I need more time to nail a target.
But that’s not the only reason I need a delay. I can’t be sitting in a fucking summit when my shipment of cocaine hits the Philadelphia port. Sure, I own the harbor master, the union shop steward, and the chief of police. But I’ll be taking in a quarter of a billion dollars in one night—half my average year’s income. I need everything to go as smooth as cream.
Ingram says, “Scuderi called th’ time.”
“Change it.”
“Yer given’ orders t’ me now, boyo?”
I can’t say yes. I can’t fight back against the man I’m obligated to call my boss. And if I tell him about the coke, who knows what he’ll demand, on top of his usual tithe?
“Sorry,” I say. “I just don’t like being managed by the Mafia.”
“Yer sayin’ I’m bein’ managed?”
“I’m saying I don’t like the time.”
“Ya’ll be there, or I’ll find another Captain fer Philly.”
He’s never laid out a threat like that before—plain English, no hedging. I have no choice but to back down. “So if Scuderi chose the time, than you’re choosing the place?
“So yer not as stupid as ya’ve acted th’ past six weeks.”
I ignore the insult. “Where?”
“The Rittenhouse.”
“Here in Philadelphia?”
“Unless ya know another Rittenhouse.”
I’m just surprised two top family bosses will hit the road to come down here. But it makes sense. Russo and I are here. Ingram won’t set foot in New York. And Scuderi must be equally opposed to Boston.
The hotel is just three miles from the port. If things go arseways at the docks, I can be there in a quarter hour. Madden will be my second at the summit, but I can put Patrick on lead for the shipment. As chief enforcer, my Warlord knows how to get things done.
It’s not craic. But it will have to be good enough.
There’s just one question left for me to ask, and I’m not certain I want to hear the answer.
“I need to know,” I say. “Do I have your support, going in?”
He sighs, which is a mistake, because that launches another coughing fit. I almost think it’s not worth it to wait him out. If he says yes and it’s the truth, I’m grand. And if he lies, I still have to take the meeting.
But when Ingram finally catches his breath, he wheezes, “Ye’ve made a fine mess, boyo. But I’d rather wipe yer arse any day than kiss the arse o’ one o’ those guinea thugs.”
I end the call, praying that’s enough to get me through Sunday.