Chapter 18
18
brAIDEN
F our days later, the last note of the national anthem carries over Fenway Park. Half the men in the Diamond Ring head back inside our luxury suite. The wind is predictably fierce in Boston on this April Saturday, the first home game for the World Series Champion Red Sox.
But when Prince stays outside, I do too. He takes a long pull from his beer as the first pitch crosses the plate for a strike. The cheering crowd is loud enough to shake the old stadium. I wait for the New York batter to strike out before I start my own sort of pitch.
“Another month, another Diamond Ring event,” I say, keeping one eye on the game below.
“Maybe we’ll get through this one without a special clean-up.”
Without my leaving a body on the ground, he means. “Any complications from that?” I ask .
He shakes his head. “Best does good work.”
We both glance inside, where Sawyer Best is deep in conversation with Cole Wolf. Military dark ops and underworld computers. What could possibly go wrong?
The crowd around us cheers another out. I take a sip of whiskey. “About that waiter…” I start.
Prince grunts.
“I assume he wasn’t freeport staff.”
“Never saw the motherfucker before.”
“But he got past freeport security.”
Prince eyes me steadily. “What’s on your mind, Kelly?”
“I’m not sure you can keep my wife safe.”
He gives me a filthy look. “We’ve updated our procedures.”
“So ya’ve decided not t’ let killers past th’ front gate now?” I don’t mean to let my accent off the hook, but it feels good to say exactly what I’m thinking.
Prince snorts. “The jizzstain you killed came in with the caterers. Near as we can tell, he took out one of their guys and got in on his credentials.”
“And what are ya doin’ t’ keep it from happenin’ again?”
“Effective last Monday, the freeport uses no outside staff. We’ve hired all our own waiters, bartenders, busboys, the lot. And every cocksucking one of them clears freeport security before they set foot inside the gates.”
Jesus. I can’t complain he’s ignoring the threat. But I’m not ready to back down completely. “You’ve had almost two weeks. What do you know about the guy who went after Samantha?”
“Best didn’t read you in?”
I shake my head.
Prince says, “I’ll have him send you the files. We’ve got a name—Terrence King. No known address. The shitball was in and out of prison five times after he turned eighteen.”
“He’s with Russo?”
“Who?”
“Antonio Russo. Philly’s Mafia capo. ”
“That motherfucker at your wedding?”
I grit my teeth. If I’d had my way, Russo wouldn’t have been within a hundred miles of St. Columba’s that day. “That’s the one.”
Prince shakes his head. “This guy was local. Dover born and fucking bred.”
That doesn’t make sense. I don’t have enemies in Delaware. No one local to the freeport should be going after Samantha.
Prince’s voice is deceptively mild as he says, “Too bad we can’t talk to the asshole. Get more information from the horse’s fucking mouth.”
“Don’t start,” I warn.
“Don’t drop any more bodies at my freeport.”
We stare out at the baseball game. They’ve started the second inning.
“We’re okay?” I finally ask, after the pitcher throws a monster curveball. Because Prince has a point. I should have waited before I killed the guy.
“Don’t let anything happen to Sam.”
“You know I won’t.”
We shake on it.
After that, I make my rounds, checking in with other members of the Diamond Ring. For most of them, that adds up to a handshake and a couple of questions about how business is going.
But when I get to Connor Boyle, it’s time for a more cautious conversation. I want to know if the Grand Irish Union is pushing for control in New York, same as in Philly.
Boyle rolls his shoulders in a massive shrug. “I won’t speak ill of the General,” he says, which lets me know ill is on his mind. But then he adds, “That daughter of his is a real stunner.”
I take a chance and say, “Thinks she’ll be running Boston before she turns thirty. And the Union a year or two after that.”
“From what I hear, she’s got her heart set on your corner of the world.” Boyle’s eyes are sharp over the rim of his glass. We’re not just acting the maggot anymore. This is a serious discussion.
“Then she’ll learn to live with disappointment.”
“She never has before,” Boyle says. “Her da’s seen to that.”
“First time for everything.”
Boyle nods. But he says, “Watch your back.”
Before I can respond, Arsene Dubois approaches. Like a concierge at one of his international hotels, the Frenchman is making his own rounds, shaking hands and catching up on business. I ask about his new property in Dubai but don’t bother listening to the answer.
If Boyle’s warning me, the situation with Fiona is worse than I thought. How many bosses are watching from the sidelines? How many men are placing bets the Fishtown Boys will fall?
When the game reaches the seventh inning stretch, I duck out of the suite. Aiofe’s birthday is next Wednesday. I have no idea what an eleven-year-old girl wants, but I’ve seen plenty of lasses in pink Red Sox shirts here at the game. I’ll bring one home, and at least she’ll know I thought of her.
I’m halfway to the store when I hear my name, slicing through the crowd: “Kelly!”
I recognize the voice before I turn. Kieran Ingram is surrounded by half a dozen of his most powerful lieutenants, as if they’ve all been conjured by my conversation with Boyle.
The deadliest man in Boston is wearing blue jeans and a weathered navy sweatshirt sporting the team’s stylized B. His thinning hair is covered by a cap marked with the same faded logo. It looks like he dug the outfit out of someone’s cellar.
He’s dropped at least two stone since I saw him last. The loose flesh of his neck droops over his collar like a turkey’s wattle. His eyes are bloodshot.
“Boss,” I say warily.
“Ya don’t call your General before ya come t’ town?”
“I’m here on private business.”
He doesn’t like my answer. He doesn’t like me . And just like that, the predator rises in him, an old fox snapping at a rabbit’s neck just because it can. Eyes narrowed, he says, “Then speakin’ o’ business, boyo?—”
I want to tell him I’m not his boyo, but he’s still my boss so I keep my mouth shut.
“—yer tithes’ve come in light.”
I won’t stand here in public, talking about my finances. Passing sports fans don’t need to hear a word about the cocaine Russo stole. But my General’s waiting, so I have to say something. “You get a share of everything I see. Same as ever.”
“Chicago turned in more last month than ya sent th’ past year.”
I make a mental note to send Mickey Reardon my congratulations. But I tell Ingram, “I’ve been fair with you. Point me toward any man who says otherwise.”
“Time t’ prove ya mean t’ stay in the Union, boyo.” He eyes me like he’s measuring me for a coffin. And then he hits me with a direct order: “Ya’ll marry Fiona by Easter.”
“I will, yeah.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and any Irishman in the world would know from my tone they mean the absolute opposite of what I’ve just said.
Ingram’s so surprised I’ve talked back that he starts to choke. His chest sounds like it’s full of tire irons wrapped in wet blankets, and his face turns redder than the B on his chest. Other sports fans cut us a wide margin. No one wants what he has, if it’s catching.
Still coughing like a shattered engine, he fumbles for a handkerchief and holds it to his lips. I don’t see what he spits into the white cotton, but it can’t be good. My stomach turns as he shoves the wad back in his jeans pocket.
When he can finally breathe again, he drills a finger into the center of my chest. He’s angry now—at my giving him lip, but also because I’ve seen how weak his body is. “By Easter, boyo.”
I want to break his feckin’ wrist, but there’d be holy hell to pay if I did that to my boss. Besides, I’ve been told since I was a wee lad I could never marry for love. Weddings build empires. That’s why I skulked around County Cork in the first place, tying the knot with Birte where no one could stop me.
All my life, I’ve been groomed to take a wife like Fiona Ingram. If Da were still alive, he’d be toasting Ingram’s command with the Jameson 21. Hell, if Da were still alive, he’d angle for the girl himself.
But Da is gone, and Ingram’s repeating his order: “By Easter. Or I’ll put a man I can trust in charge of the Fishtown Boys.”
He doesn’t get to choose who runs the Boys. But with the weight of the Union behind him, he might be able to push me out.
I remind him, “That’s three weeks away.”
“Then ya better take out yer checkbook, boyo. I hear ya have some complications t’ work out before ya take yer vows.”
Money would take care of Birte. I can buy an annulment in Ireland—rebuild a few churches, pad a few pockets from priest all the way up to bishop. It would cost a fortune on such short order, but I could do it.
But Samantha’s another matter. I’m not setting her aside, for Fiona or anyone else. To buy time, though, I say, “It’ll take a while to run things up the chain in Philadelphia.”
“Ya don’t need a chain, boyo. Ya bought yerself a dirty priest before ya took yer dago skirt.”
My fingers curl into fists, but I can’t take a run at my General. Besides, once I get past the slur, I have to admit he’s right. It’s child’s play to annul my marriage to Samantha. I made sure of that when I ducked the bigamist noose.
I shoot in the dark, same as I did when Ingram told me Fiona was coming to stay a while. “What will your daughter say about this?”
“Fiona’ll do as she’s told. Before I sent her t’ ya, I gave her a month in Dublin. Let her sow her wild oats, same as any son. Now ya’ll marry Fiona by Easter or ya’ll regret it from six feet under.”
I can’t let that threat go unanswered. But I can’t start a fight in the middle of a baseball stadium either, same as I can’t take a swing at a wheezing old codger.
Choosing the best of my shite options, I retreat toward Prince’s suite.
“Hey, boyo!” One of Ingram’s thugs slaps the back of my head. “Don’t turn yer back on yer boss.”
I swing before I think out the consequences. It’s a sucker move, because it’s six against one. Ingram’s men aren’t armed; the metal detectors outside the stadium have seen to that. But one grabs my hand in a professional wrist lock, and another gets his arm around my throat. Someone shoots a fist into my kidney, sharp enough that I see actual stars. Another fist lands by my right eye, a blow that vibrates down my spine.
“Hey! Why don’t you try a fair fight?” The shout is backed up by someone wading in next to me. The hold around my neck breaks, and I turn to find Gage Rider grinning like a Viking raider. The former hockey player is landing short, sharp jabs to the ear of the guy who still has me pinned by the wrist. Rider takes a break for long enough to throw an elbow at another one of Ingram’s men, and the crunch of nose cartilage is audible over my rasping breath.
I finally manage to kick the knee of the guy who has my arm, breaking free. Rider and I instinctively line up back-to-back, holding our fists at chest level.
But before either of us can get in another blow, a pair of security guards runs up. They’re gripping weapons that can do a lot more harm than Tasers, and one squawks into a radio pinned to his shoulder.
Ingram calls his men off with a single bark that brings on another coughing fit. As his crew gathers round, Radio Cop asks for any available EMT to come to the luxury suite lobby.
“You okay?” I ask Rider, who’s working his fist like it hurts .
“Never better.” He grins like a Labrador retriever set free on a beach.
“How—”
Did you know I needed help is the rest of that question. But Rider interrupts. “Boyle said you might need a hand.”
Connor Boyle must have taken his own stroll from the suite. But rather than fight his General directly, he sent the next best thing—a man who built a professional career fighting on ice.
Before I can thank Rider, Trap Prince pushes his way through the crowd of gawking baseball fans. “Jesus fucking Christ! You cocksuckers can’t be left on your own for one motherfucking minute!”
Parents cover their kids’ ears, and smart folks scurry back to their seats. The rent-a-cops send Gage and me to one corner, and Ingram’s men to an alcove across the way.
Prince talks to Radio Cop, and then to someone more senior in uniform, and then to a man with a size-twenty neck in a cheap suit and a name tag that says he’s the Director of Security. I don’t know if money changes hands or if cooler heads prevail, but we’re finally told no charges will be filed.
All of us have to leave the park, but the security guys send Ingram’s men out first. That’s a wise choice, because the General of the Grand Irish Union is the color of a wet baseball, barely able to stand without assistance. He refuses treatment, though. The ballpark EMT strongly suggests he see his own doctor for attention to that cough.
By the time the Boston group has left, the baseball game is over. Prince collects the rest of the Diamond Ring, and we all make our way to our waiting limousines and our rooms at the Mandarin Oriental.
Connor Boyle avoids me at the after-party, and I can’t really blame him. He risked enough for one day. Rider and I do our best to keep our distance from Prince. Best shakes his head on the sidelines, like he’s grateful he didn’t have to call in a clean-up crew .
I’m the first man to call it a night. A hot shower doesn’t make a dent in the ache of a bruised kidney. But it isn’t the pain that keeps me awake.
I have three short weeks till Easter—twenty-one days to take a stand for Samantha and the Fishtown Boys. And Fiona Ingram’s still living in my feckin’ house.