30. Finn
Finn
Still Very Much Alive
The midweek yatcha fights go as I expected. I won my bout in the third round. Iain got a proper hammering, but got through a couple of rounds before tapping out.
There’s a sound system set up now, so the walkout music can blast loud. This is no residential zone. The beats make the walls shake. The gathering goes wild.
I didn’t think much of Iain’s walkout anthem—sentimental wailing to my ears—but the lads seemed to appreciate it.
When I mention this to Mickey, he almost crosses himself. “‘Tis The Cranberries, son! You’ve got no Irish soul, I swear it.”
“I’ve got Irish fucking ears. A banshee would be a good replacement.”
Mickey tuts and says I have a heathenish taste in music, which is probably true enough.
After my fight, the MC grabs my hand and lifts it to call the fight. There isn’t a referee in my yatcha club. Not because I don’t think the third man in the cage has a place in the sport, but because it’s a mission trying to find someone impartial round here.
The octagon has a mike that gets lowered down from the roof on a wire now.
He gives me the microphone after I hug it out with my opponent. The last thing I feel like after fighting is to talk. All the adrenaline pumping through my body makes the shift from action to speech hard to do.
But this is how the fellas want to see me. Dripping sweat. Oozing blood. Swole. Utterly unrepentant.
My lower lip is split. Breathe. They’ve got to hear every word.
“It’s a grand gathering here tonight.”
Loud cheers. The Bushmills and Connemara and Guinness are flowing.
It helps to move when I talk. It might make me look like a lion pacing in its cage, but this is where the lights are focused. What I have to say won’t sit in the dark for much longer.
“There better not be a single dockworker or union man sitting by his hearth tonight, because he’ll be sore-hearted when he learns he wasn’t here, because…”
Pause, inhale, shout it loud.
“Tonight, we assemble to bring WAR TO THOSE BASTARDS WHO TOOK OUR MONEY AND OUR LOYALTY AND… GAVE US FECKING NOTHING IN RETURN!”
I’m pacing, roaring, out of control with pent-up rage.
The gathering is on fire. The shouts of approval echo.
I reach through the chain link fencing and take what Mickey is holding out to me. I lift it into the air.
“This is my old man’s sovereign ring. You know why it isn’t on my finger? Because I’ve fought way too fucking hard for it to fit!”
I push the ring halfway down my little finger until it won’t go any further.
“These are the hands of a working man. These are the hands OF A FIGHTING MAN.”
Don’t wear out your voices, fellas. I’m only getting started.
I simmer down and pace myself. “It’s not amongst ourselves we should be arguing, lads. There’s a good reason why our lives are poorer and our neighborhoods are being turned into places we can no longer afford.”
Mickey gives his lad in the crowd a sign. The boy pipes up. “It’s the fecking Maguires pricing us out of existence!”
Murmurs of agreement. I take it and run with it, pointing at the lad.
“It’s a bright boy right there! Yes. The Holy Church might not see what Declan Maguire is doing as a sin, but it’s a sin nonetheless. They think they’re aristocracy and we’re their fucking peasants!”
On cue, Donnell hands me a towel through one of the links in the fence. I grab it and wipe my face before psyching myself up for one last passionate outburst.
“I know why they slaughtered my father and scattered his captains… Because we hold all the power. Those rich feckers couldn’t wipe their own arseholes if it weren’t for us. So… we need to find out who’s doing their bidding—the counselors, the accountants, the bleeding bastard politicians—”
The crowd sways as one man, fists in the air, feet stamping.
I point to the ceiling like a sainted martyr pointing to heaven. It’s my sign for the music to start building up, but not so loud that it drowns out my voice.
“AND WE’RE GOING TO TAKE OUR WAR TO THEIR DOORS!”
The Irish Roar by The High Kings fucking blasts out of the speakers. A cask of Guinness is tapped.
Damien and Johnny whip out two bridge tables and folding chairs. They start taking pledges and donations.
I’ve just turned my supporters into an army.
Ah, Declan Maguire. It’s the wrong man’s woman you stole.
Angry mutters tell their own story.
“Declan’s gotten too big for his boots.”
“He takes too much out of our businesses and wages and gives back too little.”
“Did you hear that Patrick Byrne came out of retirement? Apparently, Maguire thinks he can squeeze more rent out of the tenants on Fourth Avenue.”
That gets my attention, although Feargal already told me.
“Hold fast, fellas.” They look to me for advice, not because I’m a shrewd businessman, but because I have to offer them protection before I can make my move. “I’ll protect you if Maguire sends soldiers to pinch you, but there’s fuck all I can do about the high rents.”
“What are you going to do then?” Damien wants to pass the bakery on to his daughters, but not if it means they’ll inherit the rent and local taxes too.
“I’m going to send Patrick a message. Personally.”
A ripple of expectant satisfaction ripples around the warehouse. They want action, and they’ll get it.
***
Patrick’s too superstitious to set up his office at O’Shea’s pub. He’s using a sandwich shop instead. His shoulders are hunched as he makes his way to his car.
His evil deeds must weigh heavy.
“Take me home.” He sounds weary.
I’m hoping the old man will nod off, but he notices the direction I’m taking him.
He raises his head, ready to correct me, but his mouth shuts with a click when he sees my eyes staring back at him in the rearview mirror. “An t-anam!”
I correct him instead. “Nay, Byrne. You couldn’t be more wrong. ‘Tis Connor’s lad, in the flesh.”
He sputters. “But-but-but Connor told me you were taken care of. Swore on his mother’s life.”
“Ah, don’t you love it when words can mean many things. Sure, I was taken care of. And I had a grand time while doing it too.” I’m really enjoying our chat.
I hear him try the door handles, but I activated the safety locks, which, in Patrick’s case, are definitely not for his safety.
That a seventy-odd-year-old Byrne would prefer to jettison himself out onto the tarmac tells me everything I need to know about his guilt.
“Where’s Simeon?”
I don’t give a fuck about Simeon, but I’m bound to answer. “Who’s Simeon now?”
“The driver.”
“Ah, then Simeon’s dead.”
Patrick starts to pant. He’s getting real pent up. I bet he can hear the pipers and drummers calling him home.
“It’s Finn O’Shea you are, for sure… The boy with blood-stained hands. Oh, Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. Come on. Have a heart. We both have folk in the old country. You know the score.”
He carries on bargaining for a good bit. Then, silence as he battles to accept his fate.
He breaks the silence first. “Why aren’t you tying me up?”
Like he’s ever going to get the gall to attack me from behind. All I have to say back is—“Pfft.”
“Where are you taking me?”
This, I can answer. “To your final resting place, Byrne.”
He starts weeping. “Ah, Jaysus, it’s cursed I am. I swear I could see you in my nightmares. My guardian angels told me you were still alive.”
Boo fucking hoo.
“The cemetery happens to be one of my favorite places to conduct business. But there’s a catch.”
Patrick perks up. “Business? All right. What’s the catch?”
I flick off the headlamps, use the moonlight to navigate. I see our spot and pull over.
Two soldiers kitted out the same as me, in black clothing and balaclavas, open Patrick’s side of the door.
He’s got a grip on himself now, and seems ready to face the music. He lets them march him to the gravesite. He knows exactly where we are.
My lads lead him over to the burial site and kick the back of his knees to make him kneel.
I go stand behind him.
“How did it go down?”
He doesn’t beat around the bush. Patrick’s fighting spirit is rearing its head in his bid to stay alive.
“Connor was out of control, ordering anyone who looked at him sideways to be killed. By you.”
Sure, I was my Da’s maniac of a wind-up doll. Connor would sic me on anyone who stood in the way of his expansion.
“I had two daughters and two choices. Either I gave one of the girls to Connor for a second wife. Or I could give her to Declan and hide the other girl away so she couldn’t be used as a pawn in your mad power grab.”
“Connor turned down your offer to remarry one of your daughters?” Da was faithful to my Mam’s memory, never mind the fact that a twenty year old lass would’ve held no appeal for him.
Patrick insists. “There was only ever one daughter on the table. Saoirse. Maeve was too young. I had to hide her away so she couldn’t become an option. We discussed the possibility, I promise, but by then it was too late.”
He shakes his head. “Too late and too quick.”
“What was too late?” I’m Irish American, so I understand Patrick’s need to turn this into a story.
“Eamon told me you met Saoirse at the chapel and your mind was fixed. It was too late for me to offer you Maeve by then.”
I have to admire him for knowing that my mind was fixed on Saoirse, but not my heart. I’d never allow myself that weakness.
“Keep talking.” I give him a nudge with my foot.
“Eamon reached out to me first. Offering information in exchange for peace.”
Because Eamon was still in love with the memory of Patrick’s dead wife. This I know.
“You have to understand, lad. We were all exhausted from the fighting, the constant battle for boundaries. So, I chose Declan, and put my backing behind him. And so did Eamon.”
Another prod with my boot. “Why?”
“Eamon wanted Fourth Ave to stay under his control in exchange for selling you out.”
Patrick dares to turn his head, trying to look at me before going back to his story.
“You’re a kingmaker, Finn O’Shea. A young blood. A warrior. Connor would’ve had no choice but to submit to our demands with you gone.”
He means dead. With me dead.
And I played right into Eamon’s hands by sharing my secrets with him. Saoirse wasn’t my weakness, but my uncle’s friendly smile and willingness to listen was.
Saoirse’s da shifts and turns to face me on his knees.
“The O’Sheas were sitting on billions in dockland real estate. That’s why we had to break you up. That’s what our city connections demanded in exchange for a finger in the pie.”
And there we are. Back to bleeding politics. Fuck it.
“How did you turn my woman against me?” Purely out of interest, not that I’m worried about the source of Saoirse’s hate.
“Rian took out my brother. We blamed you for it, along with the baker’s boy. We didn’t need much more than that with you gone.”
That’s dark. Old Seamus chose to live his life as a citizen, never wanting a part of the gangster life.
Poor old codger. Jesus. No wonder she hates me.
“How did you get hold of the gun with my prints on it?” I’m interested to know.
One word answer from Byrne. “Eamon.”
I’m already walking away when Patrick goes groveling to the gravestone.
Maire Magdalene O’Hara Byrne. Saoirse’s dear departed mam. Patrick’s got the plot next to hers.
It sounds like Byrne has a lot to confess to her.
And it’s fair to say I find his confession very interesting when I hear it.