12. Finn
Finn
Blood-stained Shadow
Connor is dead. He cast me out six years back. I can’t be sore about it—it was either that or sending me to heaven faster than the Lord had planned.
Pádraig Callahan called with the news: Connor O’Shea finally kicked the bucket, but my old Da didn’t go willingly. A little helping hand pushed him along the way.
The beast of retribution shifts and uncoils in my guts. I’ve kept score and now heads will roll. There’s no one to stop me from unleashing on them now.
I received Pádraig’s message loud and clear. I’ve been a ghost for too long. Time for me to rematerialize.
Declan Maguire had a good many years to make his mark. The man’s like the Holy fucking Trinity of mob bosses now, ruling Queens, Brooklyn, and the Docklands with a mix of power and wealth.
Maguire married Patrick Byrne’s beautiful black-haired daughter—my one and only storí, Saoirse—and seized control of all three territories. The name O’Shea lies like a blood-stained shadow under the boot heel of the Maguire-Byrne alliance now.
The Docklands have faded in the wake of shuttered pubs and empty union buildings. Sure, they could limp along for a few more years like any other crippled yoke, but I plan on restoring them to their former grand glory.
Time to drag my attention back to the present.
I’m watching my Da’s graveside funeral service. I need to see who’s still interested enough to pretend to mourn the loss of the once great Connor O’Shea.
A king can fall fast when there’s no prince to take his place. But I’m Connor’s heir—the prince they all forgot about.
I hang back, hidden by the soaring cedar trees. It’s interesting how seldom a gathering of people bothers to look beyond the crowd they’re in.
It’s the quiet man in the shadows they should be watching out for; I’m the one capable of doing some serious damage. It’s never the blowhard strutting and fronting who turns out to be dangerous.
They keep their faces inward and talk among themselves. Like sheep. Which not only makes them potential victims, but also fucking stupid.
Safety in numbers is an illusion.
I already visited the morgue to take the old man’s sovereign ring. It’s in the pocket of my leather coat—damn thing is too small to fit over my calloused knuckles.
A few choice souls are there to bid Connor farewell at the wake.
Johnny Wilde, my old mate from the warehouse. A good soldier.
Damien Tooley owns the bakery with an apartment on the second floor.
And Eamon O’Shea. The Last of the Publicans. Heh.
As Connor’s brother, he is here to check the coffin has been hammered shut with iron nails, or at least that’s what I’m guessing. I trusted that fat gobshite with my heart’s desire and he went and sold it to the highest bidder.
The last few stragglers surround Connor’s final resting place with their heads bowed and hands clasped. Old men with their best days behind them, and my family’s last remaining allies.
No one else dares proclaim their respect for Connor. No young men want to pledge allegiance to a dead end.
I catch myself sucking my bottom lip through clenched teeth and quickly smother the expression. I made a career out of suppressing my emotions and making sure they never show on my face.
A pause is needed before I can summon a grin. With it firmly plastered in place, I saunter away with my hands in my pockets.
Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
Witnesses tend to remember misery more easily than happiness. Time for me to walk away. I want to be in the pub for the wake.
***
O’Shea pub hasn’t changed. The same bronze horseshoes hang from the walls. Toby jugs line the shelves.
Shamrock shit absolutely everywhere else on the dark brown wainscoting.
Nothing in here was mass-produced. The banquettes upholstered in green leather are still comfortable and welcoming. The varnish on the wooden tables shines.
Back when the name O’Shea sparked fear and wonder in an Irishman’s mind’s eye, no one would dare start a fight or spill a drink once seated at one of the famous dark green booths.
I keep the brim of my trilby pulled low. Leaving one week’s growth of scruff on my jawline is the finishing touch to my disguise.
The last time I was here, I was so young my scruff was soft enough for me to scrape off with a breadknife. That slender-framed man-boy hardened into a beast, honed and sharpened by the underground cage fighting circuit.
My revenge will taste fucking sweet when I grab it.
It’s early enough for me to buy a pint of Guinness and pick a spot. The booths in the corner dais are kept unlit for a reason. It’s where the lads can go when they need to discuss something in private.
I figure that’s where Eamon and his band of merry men will want to sit. I choose the booth in the middle and plant myself there. If they sit at the right or left booth, I’ll be able to hear what they’re saying.
After draining half the Guinness from the glass, I prop up my back against the corner and slump down slowly. Got to act like I’m sleeping, not scuttered.
Not twenty minutes have passed before I hear cars pulling up to the curb and doors slamming. Eamon shoulders his way through the door and barrels up to the counter.
“Lunch and Guinness for me and the boys, Liall. Send Ruby to the booth to take our orders. Get the drinks in now.”
I take a peek under my hat and see Eamon leaning against the counter with his elbows propped on it. He’s scoping out the few men seated at tables. There was a time when there would be standing room only at O’Shea’s pub, this close to the end of a shift.
I pull in my chin and pretend to doze.
“Who’s the lad in the middle booth?”
To Liall, I’m just another weary worker who likes Guinness for supper, same as any other American Irishman.
“Him? Dunno, Boss. He’s a big ‘un, no doubt. Powerfully built. If we got the underground fighting books up and running again, a man like that could make a killing.”
“Ah, you can’t tell. All men look substantial when they’re wearing one of those shearling jackets.”
Eamon doesn’t see the irony that he’s wearing exactly the same type of jacket, only his doesn’t make him look buff. It makes him look exactly like the fat tub of lard he is in the flesh.
Liall replies politely. “I wasn’t looking at his physique, Eamon, but his hands.”
I had the tatts on my hands covered up with fresh ink six years back. The black-inked knuckles on the right hand say “MORE” and the knuckles on the left hand “PAIN”.
Six men shuffle into the booth. I hear them sucking in their bellies to fit inside the banquette.
“Are you joining us for the wake, lads?”
Johnny and Damien don’t sit.
Johnny’s voice sounds appropriately solemn for a wake where the whiskey hasn’t been brought out yet. “Thanks for the invite, Eamon, but no. Damien’s got to be going to the bakery. I better get back to work.”
Johnny working the nine to five? He always said monkeys would fly out of his arse before he went straight.
I guess the two outliers leave, because Eamon starts discussing them after Ruby delivers the food, Guinness, and whiskey.
“So, which one of you feckers offed my brother then? It definitely wasn’t Johnny or Damien. Those boys looked proper cut up about Connor’s passing.”
Five voices deny doing it. I listen for anyone who sounds too keen to distance themselves from culpability, but they’re all coming across like they simply don’t care.
The king was dead long before his heart stopped beating. Without me, my da’s legacy went in the jacks.
I’m starting to understand how important it was for me to disappear. The worms crawled out of the woodwork when they thought I was dead.
Eamon’s leather jacket squeaks, so he might be shrugging his shoulders. “Then it must have been one of Patrick Byrne’s or Declan Maguire’s men. It was quick, which was a mercy.”
One of the men makes an observation. “Garroting isn’t quick. It takes a good four minutes for the brain to send the message to the heart to beat its last.”
My uncle gives one of those gusty fake sighs that mask his lack of remorse. “I never bothered myself with the science of death. That was always Connor’s side of the business.”
Yeah. The bastard specialized in selling out his nearest and dearest instead. The cunt.
Eamon launches into a booze-fueled rendition of Danny Boy. His baritone rumbles. It makes me want to launch out of my seat and smack the shite out of the top of his head, so help me.
“Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling. From glen to glen, and down the mountain side. The summer’s gone and all the roses falling. You must go. And I… I must abide.”
My hands ball into fists. Connor’s death, it wasn’t natural, and here’s his brother acting like he’s Van fucking Morrison.
The discipline that made me an unbeatable cage fighter is the only thing that keeps me planted in my seat. It’s like I’m stewing in the blood, sweat, and tears of my forefathers as I bite back the wrath.
Steady, steady. They’ll be here a while. I’ve never been to a lunchtime wake and not seen it carry on until the wee hours.
The clock in my head counts the minutes as the men in the next door booth get properly banjaxed. It’s got to be close to half past five in the evening when a punter approaches me.
“Mate?”
I sit up to let him know I’m listening, but keep my face down.
“Hey, mate, do you mind the three of us squeezing in here? We want to order supper.”
The pub has filled up. All the production lines and factories have sounded the end of shift and the workers are heading home.
Men like this are my target audience. They just don’t know it yet.
“Cheers.” The three men push past me when I stand up. They’ve taken a first sip of beer before I reach the exit.
I know what car Eamon will be using. He’ll have a driver waiting for him because Connor insisted that his dear brother always travel safely home.
I’ll need to take a look at the driver before I decide what to do with him. But if he hasn’t got proof of his loyalty to the O’Shea cause writ large on his skin, he’ll be collateral.
Now, all I have to do is wait.
I slip back into the shadows and keep my eyes on the exits. My heartbeat is steady at under sixty beats a minute. My muscles grow slack as I force my vengeance to take a backseat.
All five of Uncle Eamon’s drinking buddies leave first. Those who matched him drink for drink step into cabs. Those who didn’t want to feel delicate in the morning are able to drive.
The parking lot is empty, bar one car.
The staff leave through the service alley as Eamon locks up behind them. The old fool stumbles toward his car, his compass points completely off-kilter from all the whiskey. He has to set his direction straight three times before he makes it.
He’s humming Danny Boy under his breath as he slides heavily into the backseat.
“It’s home you’ll be taking me double-quick. I’ve got a bladder on me the size of Yankee Stadium.”
I hear him through the open window on the driver’s side.
I’m not surprised when the car doesn’t move. Eamon, on the other hand, is.
“Run me home, you poxy—”
My grin widens as Uncle Eamon reaches over the driver’s seat and pokes the man’s shoulder. When that fails to wake him, Eamon gives the man a shake.
He screams louder than a banshee when the driver’s neck gapes open to reveal its inner workings. He carries on screaming as the head falls sideways, only kept on the shoulders by a flap of skin.
I cut his screaming short by opening the door. Eamon recognizes the blood-stained shadow who slips into the seat beside him.
“Nice night for a wake, Uncle.”