20. Finn
Finn
Haunted House
All the information about Saoirse’s daily routine has come in. She rises early and goes for a pampering at the in-house spa.
She dresses, and gets one of the soldiers to drive her to the Byrne Holdings office in Brooklyn, where the rest of her day involves collecting rents and building more properties to rent.
I had to be honest with myself. When I heard that, I thought someone was pulling my leg and having a laugh at my expense.
“What is she now? Twenty-seven years old? So, what the feck is she really doing?” Clubbing, shopping, playing tennis. All of those would be more believable.
Johnny doesn’t blink. “It’s called expanding a property portfolio… I think.”
My Saoirse dealing with construction crews and bank loans? “Feck me. What does she do for fun?”
Mickey says it first so the others don’t have to. “She’s a married woman. Declan looks like he’s pleased with what he gets at home. Do the math, lad.”
I still get a physical reaction when I think of it.
The feeling of something stuck in my throat and writhing in my belly. It tastes like iron filings. Like I’m hungry, but also too full at the same time.
The past crashes over me, tossing me on red waves of regret and fury.
I got so close to having that for myself. I got six years of battering and combat in the octagon instead.
Because I’m savage and low-born and rough.
Because Patrick Byrne thought I wasn’t good enough for his beautiful daughter.
Do I feel sorry for myself? No. I feel sorry for the men who arranged for it to happen.
“I’m going for a run. Might train when I get back.” In gray sweats and a hoodie, I’ll be just another man out jogging.
I need time to think.
I’ve been putting it off since I got back to Brooklyn, but it’s time I paid a visit to the old O’Shea house on Narrow Avenue. I’ll take the long way home, stopping off here and there to check how things are going.
I need everything locked down tight if I’m to sit comfortably while planning my next move.
It’s Sunday, so I keep my head down. The streets are busy with folks out playing happy families. Church followed by grocery shopping; dads taking the kids to the park while the wife cooks lunch.
Sweet.
Shirley and Mickey have invited me to have supper with them later. I need to work up an appetite.
This is going to be a long run.
First up, Fourth Avenue. It’s busier than it was under Eamon. The parking lots aren’t full, but they won’t be until I can get a few cops and lawyers in my back pocket to deal with drunk-driving offenses.
Liall tells me that Declan sent a couple of ‘representatives’ to buy O’Shea Pub. He wants to own the real estate, not just the lease. Thank fuck Connor died without a will. This place will be tied up in red tape for a long while.
Jogging with my hood up and my cap peak pulled down keeps me anonymous. It doesn’t stop me from seeing how many empty depots, pubs, and burger joints have ‘For Lease Byrne Holdings’ signs in the windows or plastered on the brick and mortar.
Someone’s been a busy girl.
I have no fucking idea what zoning this area is. If it’s mixed-use for both residential and commercial properties, it won’t take long for all those wealthy Maguire contacts to come sniffing around.
Why buy and sell property when you can build and rent it out, squeezing the tenant for more rent every year as they struggle to keep their heads above inflation?
One of the men from the octagon meeting hails me.
“Hey, t-anam!”
He’s sitting with three young ladies on a bench outside a busy bar. I stop cold, because I’m not one of those pricks who keeps jogging on the spot like he’s in a hurry to get somewhere.
“What’s the craic, Kentigern?”
He offers me a drink. I ask for a bottle of water. He goes inside to get it, leaving me with the three women.
“Craic? Are you Irish?” One of the young women claims my attention with a wink.
“Born here. Raised there.”
“Ooh,” her friend muscles in on claiming my attention. “So, you’re like, a real Irish American?”
“Sure.” I keep an eye at the door waiting for Kentigern to come back.
“Do you fight?”
It gets a smile out of me. “What do you think?”
Her friend elbows her ribs. “Look at his hands.”
I put my hands in my pockets.
She pouts. “Ah, please can I see your ink?”
“No.” Kentigern comes out with my water. I jerk my head left and lead him off to the side. “Who’re your friends?”
“My three sisters. Did they flirt with you? They’re single. Sound girls. Beth’s studying nursing—”
I cut him off. “I’m taken. Don’t give out to your sisters. I’m sure they’re grand.”
“Do you know when the next meeting is, t-anam? The lads are getting restless waiting to place a bet.”
“Yeah, I’ve looped us into the East Coast yatcha club. Should get a few dozen bouts out of that. And the lads will enjoy placing a bet on someone other than an Irish.”
One of the sisters overhears. “Yacht club? Why do you want to gamble on yachts?”
I’m reminded how lucky I am not having sisters. “Yatcha. South Korean bare-knuckle fighting with Vale-Tudo rules.”
She opens her mouth to make another comment, but I see it coming a mile off.
“And it’s not gambling. We’re not Floridian pensioners, for fecks sake. We stake bets.”
I back away, salute Kentigern for the water, turn and jog on.
I feel triangular sweat stains building up on the front and back of the hoodie. The bottle of water is emptied and dunked in a trash can before I reach Narrow Avenue. I can smell the docklands from here, but it’s still primo real estate.
My old home is shuttered up, utterly abandoned. It’s less than six weeks since my old man died and the house already looks haunted.
Lace curtains hide the darkness inside. Grass tufts squeeze between the cracks. Flyers tumble over the concrete, flapping in the breeze.
The site next door, where one of the O’Shea captains once lived, has been bulldozed, razed to the ground.
I bend forward, hands on my knees, to catch my breath. Feels like I can’t breathe. Panting and gasping for air feels unnatural to someone with my degree of fitness.
I white-knuckle through it.
The sound of gulls mewing rings in my ears. I pull off my hoodie and remove the cap. The brushed cotton peels away from my damp skin and leaves me feeling lighter and unburdened.
A couple of middle-aged male civilians drive past one after the other. They make no bones about giving me the evil eye.
You don’t belong here. This area was sold to us as a nice neighborhood. You look cheap.
Low life.
Scum.
They make it so easy for me to read their thoughts.
I can’t be mistaken for a construction worker; I’m wearing a white undershirt under the hoodie, but not jeans. But my sleeves instantly identify me as someone associated with gangs.
Any gentrified suburb is going to read me as bad news.
Fuck them. I’ll fuck up their precious neighborhood so badly they’ll beg me to buy their homes for cents on the dollar in the end.
I recognize the same teal and white sign I saw on Fourth Avenue. It’s set on poles by the construction site fencing.
I go in for a closer look and see it’s got floor plans and a mocked-up graphic image on it. It shows an elegantly dressed couple sitting in a spacious living room watching the telly with popcorn and wine.
Shite, if that’s someone’s idea of a good time and they’re willing to drop two million dollars for it, then more strength to them.
I struggle with some of the words, but I get the gist of what it says.
“Byrne Properties - On Show Every Saturday and Sunday Between eleven a.m. and three p.m. - Exclusive Mandate - Nestled in the Highly Desirable and Vibrant Docklands Hub, Close to Nightlife and Shops - Studios, One and Two Bedroom Condos.”
Today is Sunday. I don’t wear a watch, but I figure it’s not yet three p.m.
“Byrne Properties might own the condos, but I’m going to control the nightlife and shops their homeowners patronize.” Realizing that brings a small degree of comfort.
My breathing eases.
There’s still time for me to go in there and threaten the realtor. Who the fuck do they think they are? Turning the house next door to mine into a bleeding showcase means they have zero self-regard.
All I have to do is lean in close and drill them with my killer stare.
I start to walk around the construction area and go looking for the showroom office when a red triangle with white lettering on the lower left corner of the Byrne Properties sign catches my attention.
ALL UNITS SOLD
Too late.
This can’t be Saoirse. She would never go scorched earth on my old man’s gaff.
Sure, it’s been six years and a fair volume of water’s gone under the bridge, but…
A sleek, black luxury vehicle turns the corner. The side windows are tinted, but I recognize the man behind the wheel.
I relax, and give a wave. Sound man.
I wait for him to pull over and greet me, but the car glides past.
The rear window lowers. The passenger and I lock eyes.
Saoirse.
The way she’s looking at me—
I’d expect surprise, shock, even joy.
I’m not expecting to see hate.
Pure hatred contorts her features in a mask. She clocks me with such a look of scorn and loathing that I check behind me to see if the devil is standing there.
Her openly hostile glare puts me on the back foot like a left hook punch. It’s a physical jolt as my adrenaline pumps.
Six years I’ve been thinking about this moment and now that it’s here, it tastes like ashes in my mouth.
The dancing girl from the graveyard is gone and in her place is a perfectly groomed, high class woman who knows her worth.
You think I can’t afford you, Saoirse?
I think I’m going to have to change your mind.