CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Duck zipped up and flushed the toilet. He turned on the water in the sink, looked in the mirror, and grimaced while he washed his hands.
The black around both eyes had faded to a sickly purplish yellow.
He dabbed his split lip with a washcloth, winced, and threw the cloth in the sink.
He stared at his reflection. Conor Monroe was going to be shitting broken bones for this.
He opened the medicine cabinet, pocketed a straight razor, and then limped downstairs to his dining room.
Taking a seat at the head of the table, he scanned the assembled group.
Johnny Tong, the big Samoan prizefighter, had a knot on his forehead and his face was puffy and bruised.
Derek Ryder, the cauliflower-eared cage fighter, winced with every breath. His ribs were fractured.
Across the table, Barry Cline looked great, but that was to be expected.
Barry was supposed to lead the Sacred Heart robbery.
He drove Johnny and Derek to the church on Duck’s instructions.
It hadn’t been hard to figure out that those boys, Conor, Fitz, and Sully, were up to something.
Sully Bomba’s sister, Mona, told Derek all about it.
How Sully was shooting his mouth off about something big that was going to make them all rich.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Sully and his friends had heard about the bishop’s gold.
And it shouldn’t have been hard to stop them—they were three, half-assed thieves with no rep and no serious friends.
But somehow, someway, those three lost causes cleaned out the safe and put a hurt on Duck’s best muscle, Johnny and Derek.
Sure, Sully was in a coma, but Johnny and Derek were in terrible shape, Artie was in the hospital, and Duck felt like he’d been shoved in a sack and thrown out the back of a truck barreling down the highway.
But Barry? Not a scratch on him. That pissed Duck off as much as those boys cleaning out Sacred Heart’s safe.
Barry, the ex-con with his perfect haircut that sported just a touch of gray at the temple.
Designer, frameless glasses. Clean-shaven.
Crisp, white button-down shirt with a blue tie.
All that and a fresh manicure with clear-coat gloss on his fingernails.
Barry came out of this looking relaxed and satisfied, like he’d just enjoyed a day at the spa.
Duck bit his bottom lip, tasting the dried blood.
Good old Barry. Didn’t even get his hands dirty while Artie got a free trip to the hospital and I got my face beat in by that punk Conor Monroe.
Duck nearly choked on his spite. He took a deep breath and turned his gaze on Derek.
“So,” he said. “Where is this Conor Monroe fella?”
Derek waved at Johnny Tong. “Me and Johnny have been all over town. The kid is nowhere. Tell him, Johnny.”
Johnny straightened. “We got eyes on his apartment, the hospital where Sully’s laid up, and most of the bars in town.” Johnny looked around the table, nodding. “He shows up, we’ll be the first to know.”
“And what about you?” said Duck, focusing his gaze on Barry.
“What?” said Barry, putting his elbows on the table and steepling his hands.
Duck walked over to Barry and stuck his face in front of him. “Are you having trouble seeing?” He circled a finger around his beaten and bruised face. “I blame this on you. And Artie’s in the hospital. You need to make this right.”
“I did everything I could to make it right,” said Barry. “I chased him as soon as Mikey called me. Ran him off the road into that river. He must’ve drowned. What else could’ve happened?”
Duck pounded the table with his fist. “We’ve been up and down that river! There’s no body! No body means he’s still alive! Understand?”
“You need to calm down,” said Barry.
Duck took a breath. “You know what’ll calm me down? Ten thousand of your dollars on the street for anyone that brings me Conor Monroe’s head.”
Barry’s brow wrinkled. “That’s a lot of money.”
“And,” said Duck, raising his voice, “twenty-five for anyone that brings him in alive so I can kill him myself.”
Barry shook his head. “I can’t—”
“Do I need to call a detective about Mickey Monroe’s partner?” said Duck.
Barry set his jaw.
“Who’s Mickey Monroe’s partner?” said Derek.
Duck smiled at Barry.
Barry slid his gaze over to Derek and said, “Mind your own fucking business,” before pursing his lips and nodding at Duck. “I’ll put the money on the street.”
Duck felt a wave of satisfaction. He didn’t like using old jobs as leverage against his men, but in this case, it was warranted.
Barry’s murder of Mickey Monroe’s partner happened over a decade ago, when Barry was just getting into the game.
Duck had ordered it to ruin Mickey’s life.
And ruin is just what Mickey got. The man had built up a reputation as someone who could get things done—someone people had started to respect.
That meant he was competition, or in other words, a man who needed to be put in his place.
And now his son Conor was following the family tradition of being a pain in the royal ass.
Duck exhaled with a low growl. Somehow, that kid had cleaned out a safe with four-hundred-thousand dollars of gold, beat up Derek and Johnny, and then put a cherry on top by coming into The Red Fox and painting the bathroom red with his and Artie’s blood.
Gossip moved fast, and this story would move faster than most. That meant Conor needed to be put down before anyone got the bright idea that Brannigan was open for business for any hard ass with an attitude.
Duck nodded at Barry. “Get your money on the street, put the word out that I want Conor Monroe, and let’s wrap this up. I have to go check on Artie at the hospital.”
“What do you want us to do with him?” said Johnny, turning to look at a man sitting on the floor in the foyer. Bound with duct tape, the man sat motionless with his back against the wall and his chin on his chest.
Duck walked over to the man and squatted.
“You don’t look so good,” he said, pulling duct tape off the man’s mouth. He turned Fitz’s bloody face one way, then the other.
Fitz spat blood on the floor, stared at Duck, and smiled. “Neither do you.”
Duck looked at Barry. “You sure he doesn’t know where the gold is or where Conor is hiding?”
Barry shook his head. “He would’ve told us by now.”
Duck turned to Fitz. He leaned in close. “Before I let you go, there’s something you should know.”
“That you need a breath mint?” said Fitz.
Duck patted Fitz’s cheek. “That’s funny. Your dad used to be funny, back when he was Mickey Monroe’s partner.”
“Fuck you,” said Fitz.
“Here’s the thing,” said Duck. “You know how everyone thinks Mickey accidentally shot your dad during a blackout drunk?”
Fitz struggled against the duct tape.
Duck whispered, “Mickey didn’t kill your father.
I had Barry kill him. I told Barry to meet up with Mickey at the Fox.
They had a couple drinks—Mickey’s with a little something extra, of course, because his head got too big.
He thought he could work around me and Artie.
So, I taught him a lesson. My boys dragged him to some club that he and your daddy were going to knock over that night.
Things didn’t go well for your dad. And Mickey?
Well, let’s just say he woke up with the gun that killed your daddy, wondering why the hell he'd shot his partner.”
Fitz’s eyes hardened. He clenched his jaw.
Duck pulled the straight razor from his pocket. “You feel better now that you know the truth, right? Good. Now let’s get that tape off so you can go home to your trailer, with the rest of the hillbilly trash.”
Fitz’s nostrils flared. His eyes were black pinpoints, holding Duck’s gaze.
Setting his jaw, he leaned forward to give Duck a better angle for cutting his hands free.
Duck slipped the straight razor under Fitz’s neck and cut his throat.
He stood, turning to the men at the table.
“You’re cleaning this up,” he said, wiping the razor on his pants.
Derek, Johnny, and Barry watched Fitz’s mouth work for air like a fish out of water, blood spilling over his chest.
Duck closed the straight razor and turned toward them. “I want one thing. Conor Monroe. And if you can’t find him, I’ll find someone who will. Now get busy.” He stepped over Fitz and walked toward the front door.
Derek straightened. “Can we get a contractor?”
Duck stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He turned. “Like who?”
“I know a guy that finds people, among other things. I can give him a call. I guarantee he’ll find Conor. He’ll kill him, bring him back here—whatever you want.”
“Who is he?” asked Duck. “Some knucklehead friend of yours?”
Derek laughed, then grabbed his side. He took a slow breath and shook his head. “He doesn’t have friends. His name is Joe Cracker Jones. He hurts people and likes doing it.”
“He sounds like a problem,” said Duck.
“More like he gets rid of problems. Nothing stops him. He’s a pit bull.”
Duck touched his split lip. He walked over to the table, took out his cell phone, and laid it on the table in front of Derek.
“Call him,” he said. Then he looked back at Fitz slumped over in a pool of blood. “And when you’re done, get rid of Fitz.”
* * *
Joe Cracker Jones swiveled on his bar stool.
“I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He pocketed his cell and drained his beer.
“One more,” he said to the bartender, who stared at him from the far end of the bar with the rest of the patrons.
The bartender filled a mug, and then walked over, putting the beer on a coaster.
“Shouldn’t you leave before he wakes up?” said the bartender.
Cracker glanced at the long-haired biker lying face-down on the floor. The man was a giant. “Have I caused you a lick of trouble since I been here?” said Cracker.
The bartender looked back at the patrons who were watching, turned back to Cracker, and then shook his head.
“That’s right,” said Cracker. He drained half his mug, belched, and then nodded at the biker. “He was rude, standing in front of the tv. I asked him to move. He didn’t. So that’s what he gets.” He pointed at a plate with a hamburger and fries sitting on the bar. “Slide his food on down here.”
The bartender handed him the plate.
Cracker watched the ball game, drank his beer, and ate the biker’s fries.