Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Joey
What the fuck did I just watch? I keep asking myself that over and over on a constant loop as I drive home from the office. I kept myself distracted with a couple of calls on my way from the neighborhood to my office. But now that I’m walking in the front door of my apartment, I can’t get it out of my mind. I just keep replaying the sight of those two colossi going at each other. It was like something out of the Roman gladiators.
I don’t know what happened by the end. I didn’t stick around to see. I think they were ready to talk again by the time I turned off that street. But it terrified me to see them going at each other. I don’t know who I worried for more: that Pablo might do something to Cormac and kill him, or that if Cormac killed Pablo, the retribution that would rain down on his family. I want to think it wouldn’t come to that, but I know it very well could if pushed too far. All it takes is one wrong word to go from an acrimonious conversation to a full-on street war.
I don’t know what they were arguing about. I tell myself not to have such an ego that I might believe it’s about me, especially since the reason Cormac was in the neighborhood was to collect more money. At least, I assume that’s what it was about since that was why he was there the day we met. If it was about me, then I definitely don’t want to show my face anywhere Pablo might see it. But it couldn’t possibly be about me. I’m not that important to either of them unless I was just an excuse for them to argue.
Maybe that’s all they wanted. Justification for another battle in whatever war of attrition these families have going on with each other. If that’s the case, I don’t want to be the excuse. I want nothing to do with either of them if I’m going to be put in the middle or used. I don’t need anyone blaming me for shit that goes down between the two of them because I’m their scapegoat.
But there I go again. I have way too high an opinion of myself to think I’m even a blip on either man’s radar while they’re doing business with each protection racket target or their family rivalry.
I make myself dinner and flip on my TV. I’ve got some reality TV shows to get caught up on and a couple of historical dramas that just started their new season. I have every intention of bingeing those over the next three weekends. They keep my mind occupied until my eyes are fighting to stay open. It’s not that late, but I can say watching the WWE match right in front of me today wore me out. However, once I’m in bed, my eyes suddenly find toothpicks to prop them open.
My brain is back on its hamster wheel, memories whirling through my mind. My interactions with Cormac and mine with Pablo. I remember back to that day six years ago when I made the mistake of calling the police. I had no idea it was Pablo’s men beating the shit out of a middle-aged man. I thought he was being mugged because it was after dark.
I’d been running late all day after having to make two trips to the hospital and call Child Protective Services on a family. I didn’t leave as early as I wanted, and it was winter, so the sun set early. All I’d heard were somebody’s screams and the sound of fists hitting their target. I saw a man run out of an alleyway with two guys coming after him with their guns pointing at him. Then a giant—Pablo—stepped out of a shop, his arms crossed, as he watched.
I’d hidden in my car with my headlights off, slouched in my seat as I called the police. To my great misfortune, there was a cruiser only a couple streets over. Not in a Cartel-run neighborhood here on Staten Island, but one in Jackson Heights in Queens. I foolishly gave my name. I won’t ever do that again. If I ever have to call the police on anything to do with men in these neighborhoods who aren’t connected to my clients, I’ll always do it anonymously.
I waited around until the cops came because I was too scared to pull out of my parking spot and have any of them see me. It didn’t take long for the cops to discover what was going on, and a young man dressed in plain clothes arrived and talked to the officers. He obviously knew the men involved—all four of them—and he stuck around to talk to the guys after the uniformed cops left.
Nothing prepared me for the detective to pull his gun on the guy who was being chased. He put the weapon to the man’s forehead, right between his eyebrows. I fully expected to watch the man die. That wouldn’t have been the first time I saw something like that, but I thought those days were long over and far, far in my past. It reminded me way too much of my life in Mexico when I was a kid.
Today brought all of that back to me, even though there weren’t any guns drawn.
It wasn’t until after I got home that night that I discovered what was going on with the man they chased. I made some discreet calls to other social workers I know who’d worked that area before, and none of them reassured me I’d made the right decision calling the cops. That’s when I learned it wasn’t just a Latino neighborhood.
It was where the Colombian Cartel runs everything.
As soon as I found that out, everything went downhill, even though it all made more sense. When I described the young man who arrived, I discovered he was most likely Juan Diaz, the jefe’s nephew.
I still don’t know how a jefe’s nephew ever got a job on the NYPD, but corrupter things have happened. I know he died a few years ago after fucking around and finding out with one syndicate. I’ve studiously avoided finding out the details, but it was inevitable that I learned at least a bit of what happened. He’d gone after a Russian bratva member’s wife—the guy who’s equivalent to a jefe . I guess Juan and Pablo grew up next door to this woman, and there were some unrequited feelings. Juan overstepped, and now he’s not around anymore.
That’s as specific as anybody’s ever gotten when they’ve discussed that with me. I don’t need any more details from somebody else to fill in the blanks. I guarantee my imagination, which is active and descriptive, probably didn’t do the situation justice.
I’m getting ready for work when my phone buzzes. I glance down and see it’s a text from my brother, Santiago. This is the last thing I need right now. I gird my loins before opening it. I’m certain I won’t like whatever it is.
Santiago
JoJo where you at? You haven’t been home for Sunday dinner in more than a month. It’s been awfully quiet without you here. We all miss you so much.
To anybody who doesn’t know him, that sounds like a sweet and sincere, brotherly text. It’s anything but. I avoid family dinners whenever I can because it’s my brother and his reprobate friends. Most of our family still lives in Mexico. There are very few of us in the U.S., and no one else in New York. Both of us moved here after college. I came for grad school, and he came for work.
I don’t enjoy his friends’ company. They’re too loud and too gross. They always expect me to cook dinner and clean up. But I refuse, which usually winds up with all of us in an argument and me leaving before the meal even starts. Sometimes Santiago orders in, and that diffuses the situation for a couple of hours.
Without fail, I usually leave fucking pissed off with his friends laughing as I walk out the door. I’m close to my brother in some ways, and in others, Santiago’s a man I don’t recognize from the boy I once knew. But isn’t that the case with so many adults? We grow into the person we are partly by nature but a lot by nurture, whether it’s for better or for worse.
The environment we grow up in and the circumstances surrounding it contribute to who we become as adults. That means he and I don’t always like each other as much as we did as kids. It’s unfortunate since I have no other family here in New York.
There’re some extended relatives on the East Coast, but I don’t know them, never even met them. I just know they exist, but that hardly narrows it down when you don’t know names, and they’re not people whose doors I’ll be knocking on for Christmas.
I debate how to respond to the text. I decide I’ll wait until later.
If Santiago pushes the issue, I’ll say I was busy getting ready, or that I was on the subway and didn’t get reception when his message came in. Chances are he won’t text me again for a few hours. He knows I’ll be formulating a response. Sometimes in the past, he’d text right away and try to badger me into a quick answer. He soon discovered that was the surest way for me to say no. It’s faster to type two letters than three.
Nowadays, he lets me think about it, as he says, for a few hours before he presses. I really don’t want to go, but after seeing that fight on the street yesterday and then nearly being in a shootout three days ago, part of me misses him more than usual. It would be reassuring to see some family. Our dysfunction is our normalcy. When you face danger and unpredictable experiences, even predictably bad is better than nothing.
I don’t have any school visits or home visits today, so I’ll be at my office most of the day. It’ll be quiet and uneventful. Hopefully.
So much for quiet and uneventful, and so much for staying at my office. Today was one of those days that proves why the career expectancy of a social worker is so short. It was one of the hardest I’ve had in the six years I’ve been a social worker. It’s never easy walking into a situation where you know the child or children are likely to be removed from the home. But today was worse than usual. If I shut my eyes for too long, I can see the inside of the abandoned shed. If I leave my eyes open for too long, it’s like I’m there again, except I’m not.
I text three of my girlfriends to see what they’re up to tonight.
Me
Any of you want to go out and grab drinks?
While I wait for their response, I do a little internet research. I don’t know why I’m thinking about Cormac again since what happened yesterday scared me. Today was way worse, and for reasons I can’t explain, thinking about being near him makes me feel safe in a way I didn’t today.
I search his name, but not much comes up except for some court cases where he’s the attorney of record. There are some family photos from various high society events. And there are some articles about family members from a few years back. Two of them are obituaries. One’s for Donovan O’Rourke, and one’s for Declan O’Rourke. The names are vaguely familiar, but I know nothing more about them than I did Cormac when I met him.
The obituaries are so full of bullshit. I don’t believe any of it because if these were O’Rourke men, then they were mobsters, too. My digging goes back a little further to a man named Liam O’Rourke who must have been Cormac’s grandfather. Apparently, he died in an airplane crash under suspicious circumstances. The articles suggest it might have resulted from someone from one of the other main syndicate families sabotaging the airplane.
I feel a moment of pity for Cormac and the other people in his family because no matter what role his grandfather played in the mob—and it turns out he was the mob boss—it was still his grandfather. Old photos from social events show Cormac and five other guys and an absolutely gorgeous red-headed woman laughing with the men.
But beyond that, there isn’t a ton of information about them individually. It’s mostly things about mergers and acquisitions or criminal cases where Cormac’s brother Seamus represented defendants invariably linked to the mob somehow.
As I search a little more, I come across the name of a bar owned by a Finn O’Rourke. I tap the back button twice on my phone browser and notice Finn is one of Cormac’s cousins. Just as I put those two things together, my friends respond to the group text. It’s been a shit day, and I really don’t want to go home to a whole lot of nothing.
There’s a ripple of responses that ping one after the other from my three friends all saying yes and a couple asking where. My thumbs hover over my phone screen for a moment before I go ahead and type McGinty’s as my response. I’m an idiot for doing this, but maybe there’s a chance I’ll run into Cormac while I’m there.
Who knows whether he will be, and for all I know, he could have a girlfriend or even have a wife. He said he doesn’t, but mobsters lie for a living. Nonetheless, something draws me to him after such a fucked-up day. Even if we don’t talk, I feel like just seeing him would help me feel reassured. I don’t know if it’s his size and how solid he is or if it’s his personality as well. But just thinking about him makes me feel protected. It’s something I crave right now.
That sounds good.
We haven’t been there in ages.
I’ve celebrated St. Patrick’s Day there a couple of times, but it’s been a long time since then. Plus, the previous times I’ve been there, I didn’t know an O’Rourke owned the bar.
I run home to shower and change. It’s ridiculous, but I take a couple extra minutes to consider what I’m going to wear. I take extra time with my makeup, applying a bit more than usual. I never wear a lot, but this time around I actually put some foundation on and do a little eyeshadow contouring. My hair’s still wet when I leave my place and get into the Uber I ordered.
It doesn’t take long to get from my place in Brooklyn to Queens where the bar is. I thank the woman and slide out. I hang around outside just past the bar’s windows while I wait for my friends to arrive. I’m being too chicken shit to walk in there by myself just in case he actually is there. I don’t want to look like an idiot coming in on my own. Like I’m desperately looking for him. Again, there goes my ego assuming he’d even think I’d be there for him. I only have to wait a couple of minutes before Tracy arrives, and just as we’re hugging, Consuela gets there as well.
We head into the bar where we’ll wait inside for our last friend to show up. I know they run pretty amazing happy hour specials here, so it’s no surprise it’s crowded. We ease our way over to the bar and slide in, sharing a spot that really should only fit one person. All three of us are standing sideways to order.
I glance around to see if there are any tables available or even one or two stools. It’s standing room only for right now. There’s a redheaded guy behind the bar. Immediately, I know he’s an O’Rourke, even if he’s facing away from me. He’s not built like Cormac, and the hair’s too dark, so it isn’t him. When he turns around, I recognize him as Finn, the owner. I have a heart-stopping moment wondering if he knows who I am, and then I remind myself I’m probably barely a blip on Cormac’s radar in the grand scheme of things. I doubt he’s mentioned me to anybody. I need to get over myself, but clearly I want him to think about me as much as I’ve been thinking about him.
When our last friend, Tanya, arrives, I wave her over and step out of her way, so she can order a drink after I grab mine from the woman standing in front of me.
“I’m going to see if I can snag that booth over there. It looks like they’re leaving, and the waitress is going to clear off the table.”
I’m in two minds whether to ask the waitress if Cormac might be here today—I don’t know if he even comes to the bar—or trying to get Finn’s attention to speak to him and pass a message along to Cormac.
What would I even say?
I have nothing specific or anything important or even any reason to pass a message along to him.
Do I say I’m pissed off about what happened yesterday, and I want to let him know?
Hardly.
Do I want to thank him for shielding me from Pablo?
I’ve already done that.
I have no justifiable reason, so I don’t really have a message. I just want him to think of me. That’s utterly pathetic and utterly ridiculous since Cormac O’Rourke is the last man I should want paying attention to me. I shouldn’t be interested—shouldn’t even be attracted—to a mobster.
Most people would say that makes me clinically insane. It’s like those women who become pen pals with convicts and fall in love with them and get married—you know—through bulletproof glass visitation windows.
All right, maybe that’s a little overblown, but still, most normal people don’t go thinking about how they can get a mobster to ask them out. And that’s really what it is. I not only want him to think of me, but I want him to be attracted to me like I am to him. I hope he wants to spend time with me like I want to spend with him. It’s all fucking confusing and batshit bonkers.
I ease toward that table, excusing myself as I bump into a couple of people, and a man apologizes when he steps on my toes. He turns toward me, and I get a look at him. There’s no way in hell I’m not looking at Cormac’s brother. They’re not twins, but they sure as fuck practically could be. Even if I didn’t know Cormac, this guy looks enough like Finn that he must be an O’Rourke. There’s no doubting it.
I stand there with my mouth open, catching flies, just blinking for a moment before I catch myself. His eyes narrow as though he’s trying to figure me out. I’m certain I look like the village idiot. I just wasn’t prepared to see a mirror image of Cormac right in front of me.
Cormac and Seamus have lighter hair than Finn and the other guys I saw in the photos, and he and Seamus have baby faces. I don’t believe they’re the youngest in their family.
“Excuse me, sorry about that.”
Now I’m apologizing to him when he’s the one who stepped on my toes. I feel flustered, and I’m not even sure why. I just want to get to the table and bury my face in my hands and pretend I’m invisible. Seamus watches me as he continues to assess me, and I think I know when he realizes who I am. At least there’s some element of recognition, but I don’t know why there would be. I’m positive I’ve never met him, and he’s probably never seen me. He wouldn’t have had a reason to. Before, a couple of days ago, Cormac didn’t know who I was, and I only know who Seamus is because of digging around on the internet.
“Shay, what are you up to?”
I peer around him, and—oh, fuck my life—here comes another one of them. This guy looks almost exactly like Finn, but again, just enough of a difference for them to be brothers or cousins but not twins. I recognize this guy as well, and I’m fucked every which way from Sunday because the New York mob boss is approaching me. Finn’s position is equal to Pablo’s—second-in-command—but Dillan O’Rourke is equivalent to Enrique Diaz.
I’ve met three out of the six who’s who of the Irish mob. My gaze darts around the crowded area, wondering if more O’Rourkes will come out of the woodwork. Finn walks over with a tray of drinks I recognize are ones my friends ordered.
I grabbed mine off the bar, but they were still waiting for theirs. The girls are behind him, and he places the tray on the table as he unloads a mixed drink, two bottles of beer, and four glasses of water. My friends thank him and slide into the booth, but I’m still standing there unsure what to do.
A deer caught in the headlights.
I nod and turn toward the table, but I find Finn blocking my way, and now Seamus is to my left, and Dillan is right in front of me. I’m not backed into a corner literally, but I certainly feel like I am figuratively.
Finn examines me, and Dillan’s staring at me. I don’t know if I should say something or if they’re going to say something. If I came here because I hoped to get a message to Cormac, now would be the time to come up with something to fucking say. Nothing’s coming to mind.
It’s just blank.
I want to ask if they know who I am because the way they’re looking at me is creeping me out, but that’s a rather conceited thing to assume. Why would they know who I am from Eve? Once again, that would mean Cormac thought about me enough to tell someone.
I look at Seamus, and I take a leap of faith.
“You must be Cormac’s brother, right?”
Two sets of russet eyebrows and one set of strawberry blond eyebrows shoot up toward their hairlines. All three sets of emerald eyes that are just like Cormac’s narrow at me. I swallow, my throat suddenly parched and scratchy, and say to them the only thing that comes to mind.
“I kept him from getting a bullet through the head.”
What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with me?
“I mean, well, I was there the other day when there were some issues in Port Richmond.”
All three guys grin as they look me up and down. I noticed they’re all wearing wedding rings, so it’s not like they’re checking me out. It’s more like they’re assessing me.
“So, you’re the linebacker who kept my jolly green giant of a brother alive.”
Seamus laughs as his gaze darts to the bar. I follow his line of sight, but I see no one but the woman bartender from earlier.
“Well, I—I suppose so. I played rugby when I was in college.”
All of them grin like fucking hyenas. I don’t know what I just said that’s so funny to them, but it was something. Seamus takes pity on me.
“We never would’ve guessed rugby would be your thing. There aren’t too many Americans who play it, but rugby is our family tradition. We like to play as much as we like to watch. It’s the one sport we all have in common.”
I wonder if they don’t hear my accent as strongly as I assume it is. I didn’t grow up speaking English even though I learned it as a child. My Spanish accent isn’t like you get from most Spanish speakers in New York. It’s a small world after all, I suppose. I sound so lame to my own ears when I speak.
“Maybe if you get a chance, say hi to Cormac for me.”
All three gazes turn speculative as they continue to watch me. Do they think I came here to find him or to pass a message along to him? Have they figured out my real motives? I shoot them a smile and turn toward the table, not wanting to be rude and dismissing them, but I can’t think of anything else any of us would have to say.
“Shay, I thought you were?—”
I hear Cormac before I can see him, but he’s so much taller than most of the people in here that he must have easily spotted me. He cuts himself off as he comes to stand beside his brother.
“Jocelyn.” He caught himself before he called me Joey, and it disappoints me.
“Hey, Cormac, how are you doing?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Doing well. My friends and I came in for happy hour. I didn’t know all you guys would be here.”
“Yeah, this is Finn’s bar. Have you never been here before?”
“I have, but it’s been a while, and I don’t think any of you were here the times I was. Or maybe you were, and I just didn’t notice.”
Cormac’s eyes twinkle as he looks at his brother and cousins, then me. He cocks one eyebrow as if to say, you really didn’t notice. Four giants with red hair and green eyes. I can practically hear his thoughts, and it makes me feel like a simpleton even more than I did before.
“I come here for the darts and pool. I haven’t always paid attention to who else is here.”
That’s not entirely true. I’m always aware of who’s around me, but something flashes in Cormac’s eyes, and he doesn’t like that response. His brother shifts, so Cormac can stand closer to me. His brother and the three other guys say hi and introduce themselves to my friends. I keep one eye on them, and none of them seem to recognize the O’Rourke last name. They wouldn’t have much reason to float in those circles.
“I think you’re extremely situationally aware, Joey. That’s how you saved me. But if you’re telling the truth that you come in bars that get crowded and don’t notice who’s around you, that’s a problem. It means you’re not safe.”
“I keep an eye on what’s going on around me, but it doesn’t mean I remember everybody I’ve seen at every bar I’ve been to.”
Do I sound testy? I don’t mean to. He leans over to whisper in my ear.
“Well, if I’d seen you here, I definitely would have remembered you while we rolled around together.”
It’s my turn to have my eyebrows shoot straight up. The innuendo is definitely there. He seems more relaxed than he has the last two times I’ve spoken to him. We’re in a controlled location—or rather—one controlled by the O’Rourkes as opposed to the Diazes or some other syndicate family.
He’s not in one of his three-piece suits like he was the last two times and like he has been in most of the photos I found online. In those images, if he wasn’t in a regular suit, he was in a tux.
Instead, he’s in a midnight blue shirt with tan slacks. He has the sleeves rolled up to just above his elbows, the throat open to the second button. He looks sexier than sin on a stick. The way his shirt pulls across his biceps and his chest leaves me wanting to drool.
Seamus, Finn, and Dillan are dressed similarly, but they do nothing for me. Even Seamus, who looks so much like Cormac, is ridiculously attractive. I couldn’t care less. My attention is strictly on Cormac now. Riveted, you might say.