32. Finn
Finn
Big Plans
Icouldn’t be arsed with all that “seat at the table” bullshit. When a man wants to see me, he drops by the warehouse. If a soldier wants to join my army, he visits the bakery or one of the pubs on Fourth Avenue.
I’m still scratching my head to come up with a way to get the ladies through the door of the Fourth Avenue wine bar. When Kentigern asked his sisters why they don’t use the place, they say “it hasn’t got the right vibe”.
So Feargal put a couple of cocktail waitresses in there so we can at least hook in the men. Typical Catholic neighborhood really; men socializing separate from the women.
I’ve set up an exchange with my old man’s Irish gaff in Dublin. They send their fighters to me and I feed their underground fight circuit with our homegrown lads. Two at a time.
We need more Vale Tudo fighters. I’ve run out of heavyweights to match me.
We’re reaching out to South America, South Africa, and South Korea—fuck it, all those southern countries that like to bet on fighters who are not afraid to flaunt the rules.
The competition between the old country and the East Coast is off the charts, with millions being bet on a single match. And a good many millions won too, but not enough for it not to be worth our while.
I learned that from Feargal. Let a man win once and he’ll give it all back to you the next time.
Restless, I push away the laptop.
Feargal’s been put back in charge running Fourth Avenue. I’m told that Patrick’s been booted over to real estate. The old Byrne kept his trap shut about our midnight conference—which he would be very wise to keep on doing.
I’m holed up in the apartment and mulling things over. Mulling her over.
Saoirse hasn’t reached out. Not a squeak.
She hasn’t left the big house in Sunnyside. Not once.
If I were a less confident man, I would be worried. But she’s got to reach out to me sooner or later. She’ll have figured it out that it was me who done in those poxy skeezebag accomplices of hers.
The buzzer goes, saving me from thinking about her.
It’s Feargal. He’s taking a chance coming here, but he usually brings solid intel.
I buzz him into the apartment. We nod and hug, united by the same desire, which is to knock Declan Maguire off the self-proclaimed perch he put himself on.
“It’s kicking off, Boss.”
“Fuck it, well then, I guess I’ll celebrate with a pot of Barry’s.”
Feargal nods. “Sounds grand.” He looks around the room. “Er… you need me to wash the cups?”
“I’m not good at cleaning. Da used to say I’d come right once I did my first stretch, but that never happened.”
Feargal gets it. He moves around the kitchen and stacks the dishwasher. “True that, Boss. Fucking cells are so small, there’s no choice but to keep it tidy.”
“Spill.” I know he came here with news.
He perches on the counter bar stool as we wait for the tea to brew.
“Your one’s grounded, not allowed to leave her gaff until fecking doom’s day.”
A warm sensation floods my body. There’s a good reason for Saoirse not reaching out to me then.
“Was that her idea?”
He shakes his head. “No. Maguire’s ruling. He’s got the wind up after the two went missing.” Feargal cocks an eyebrow at me. “Disappearing someone is an old O’Shea calling card, remember?”
Maguire’s late to the party, but I suppose he had to find out about me eventually. “How much does he know?”
Feargal lifts a hand. “Whoa. Let me tell you what I overheard first.”
“Sure.” I work at relaxing my muscles and breathing slowly. This situation needs all my focus.
Feargal counts off the questions on his fingers while I pay attention.
“Maguire was shouting loud enough to raise the roof. Finally, he wants answers. Who took Connor O’Shea’s sovereign ring? Who mutilated Eamon’s corpse after he had the heart attack? Who owns the property where the underground fights are being held, and where is it?”
“Okay, it’s that last one that bothers me. Did anyone make suggestions?” All the other questions probably came from one of his cop buddies.
Feargal snorts. “Pah! Declan has surrounded himself with Culchies and yes-men. What do you think? But none of them came close to the mark.”
Culchies. What a Dublin man calls anyone who’s not from Dublin. Or descended from a Dubliner.
It’s a tribal word. Territorial. A warning when an outsider hears it.
“The big fella’s blind.” That’s the assessment Feargal brings me. “He doesn’t want the facts of the matter. And nor is anyone brave enough to tell him… that an O’Shea man is alive and seeking revenge.”
“I’m well pleased that no one’s ratted.” Draining my mug, I watch Feargal dipping cookies in his tea before I grab a packet of unsalted nuts out of the kitchen cabinet for myself. “The only two men who could make the connection between this place and Connor’s properties are dead.”
Feargal nods, pleased. “What about this apartment and the other extensions you added?”
“Off the books. No city planner would dare come sniffing around here. And if they did…”
No need for me to finish that sentence.
“What happened during the meeting will tickle your funny bone, Boss.” Feargal is the best spy I’ve got.
I find the grand gaff that Saoirse and Declan call home amusing, so I listen to what he has to say.
“Rian said that looking for information about you—only he didn’t say you specifically—was like looking for a ghost. Declan got massively pissed after Rian said that. And Saoirse looked… I dunno, the woman’s a dark horse when she sits at the table, but she looked slightly alarmed.”
I need to know more. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I heard them arguing about it later. Declan’s fecking vicious, gripping her wrist and hissing at her.”
“Spit it out, Feargal, for feck’s sake. What was Maguire griping about?”
Feargal shrugs. “He was giving out to her, the poor woman. He said, like, ‘Ghost! Ghost?’ like that.”
Ah, shite. My fighting name. One of his cronies must have a connection up in Boston.
“Cheers, Feargal. I need you to keep an eye on her. You’re a good soldier.”
Feargal offers to wait for the dishwasher to finish its cycle, but I tell him to keep me in the loop and be careful on his way out, to make sure no one sees him leaving.
So, Maguire’s close to seeing the darkness all around him. He’s slow, but I have no doubt he’ll be quick to catch up.
***
It’s become an early morning ritual for many of the lads on my team to attend training sessions. Some arrive ready to train with me. Others bring sons to spar with Mickey or Johnny.
Most come to watch my form.
There’s coffee and tea; freshly ground and Barry’s, that’s class. There’s even Guinness if anyone’s coming off a shift.
Damien keeps us well supplied with pan and blaas. Momentum is building. We’re more than a movement—we’re a force.
“‘Tis true the O’Sheas were the backbone of Brooklyn’s working class for a good three generations.”
Kentigern’s father was my Da’s second cousin. Kenty’s here this morning to train with me.
“Union bosses ruled the docks, before all this automated shite came along.” One of the lads says his piece. “If I knew the bastard who wrote the code for those programs, I’d give him a good stabbing.”
Johnny knows my views on progress, so he speaks for me. “You’re looking at it all wrong. We need the next generation to start learning shite like that. Coding. Tech hardware and software.”
I shout over my head-guard. “There’s a fund if any of you want to send your kids to learn stuff like that. And we still need unions for container inspectors and plant hires. Equipment can’t fix itself.”
The man on duty at the door sticks his head in. “Lady coming in. Make yourselves presentable.”
My belly contracts. Saoirse has come looking for me. She’s left Maguire.
I won.
Mickey lands a hard punch on my six-pack. It knocks all the air out of me, but wakes me up. “Pay attention to what’s happening in the octagon, son, not what’s happening out there!”
Stepping back, I lift one hand to request a halt. “I need ten.”
Minutes. Days. Years. I’ll wait forever if Saoirse is waiting for me at the end of it.
I step out of the octagon and hold out my hands for someone to remove the tape.
But it’s not Saoirse who comes in.
“Hey, Morag! What’s the craic?” A few of the men know Morag.
Her sons worked the docks until the unions went tits up and decided to stop fighting the automatization of everything. She was one of the first people I reached out to when I came back to Brooklyn.
She’s one of my insiders into Saoirse’s world.
Morag can’t see inside. It’s too bright outside, too dark in here. Her gaze sweeps over the heads of the men before she calls out to the tallest.
“Oi, Finn! The jig is up. I came over to let you know.”
The tape is still being cut off my hands and wrists. “Come on over here, Morag. That’s just what we’ve been talking about.” I tell one of the men to pour Morag a cup of Barry’s.
She comes over. With five sons, Morag couldn’t give a hoot about stepping into such a masculine domain. “If you’re thinking that Saoirse is leaving Maguire, Finn, you should know it’ll be a long time coming.”
Giving the lad a nod, she thanks him for bringing her tea.
I’m ready to disagree with Morag. “So, what has Maguire found out?”
Declan can’t know about me. I doubt if Saoirse would survive that. This must be about something else she did.
Morag lets the cat out of the bag. “Someone told Declan that Saoirse’s—”
I can’t have my woman’s secrets out in the open for everyone to hear.
“Tell me in the apartment, Mo.” I angle my head and point to the door leading downstairs.
She wrinkles her nose. “Er… my husband would rage if I agreed to be alone with you, Finn.”
Some of the men chuckle, but we understand. An Irish American man’s pride is a real thing.
I grab a sweater and pull it on. “Right. We’ll talk in the corner.”
Mo spills. “Declan’s on high alert. He got news from Boston about a fighter called The Ghost. And then Maureen found your hip flask in Saoirse’s possession.”
I thought my hip flask was lying at the bottom of Patrick’s garden. Oh, Saoirse Byrne, you shouldn’t collect keepsakes.
“Who’s this Maureen bint?”
Morag sighs. “Ah, I’m getting to be a soft touch at my age, Finn. She’s my Joe’s sister’s girl.”
Joe is Morag’s husband. “Is she a good one?”
Morag doesn’t drag it out. “I took her on to help me at the spa—trained her myself—but I found out she was handing out old fashioneds to the soldiers for cash behind my back. And I know she was snooping around Saoirse’s stuff when your flask was found.”
So, not a good one. “Does Maureen know you call me Boss?”
A firm shake of the head. “No, but Maureen seems more than happy to call Declan her boss, if you know what I mean.”
“Is Saoirse in any danger from that hip flask?” She’s my priority, not Joe’s minx of a niece.
“Our girl kept her head and said she found the flask in the cemetery, but it’s not the flask that got Declan so sickened.”
“I’m listening.”
Morag lowers her voice. “Maureen made no secret of her snooping. And she found Saoirse’s secret stash of—”
“Say no more.” I know what that weasel Maureen found. I was at the chapel when Saoirse confessed it.
I’m praying that Declan took her side. “I hope Maguire kicked Maureen’s arse for sneaking around Saoirse’s stuff.”
When Morag doesn’t say anything, I know how serious it is.
“Saoirse’s run out of time, Finn. Patrick’s got a few strings to pull, running the real estate sector, but it won’t be enough to stop Declan from getting rid of your girl… if she doesn’t fall pregnant soon.”
“Have you heard him say it?”
Maguire is an old school traditionalist. He needs his wife to be a good mother more than he wants her to be a good businesswoman.
Morag spits it out. “He’s just as cold and ruthless and ambitious as you are, Finn. The only advantage you hold over Declan is the fact that you’re crazy and he’s not.”
I move to give Morag a hug, but she pulls back. “I love you like a son, Finn, but you smell like a wild wolf.”
“Heh. I’ll shower after training, I promise.”
Morag cups one hand over my cheek. “You carry all our Irish hope in those two hands, boy. Don’t let us down.”
“Tell Feargal to stand by when you see him.”
She gives me the nod, and leaves.
Time for me to come out of the shadows, but only so I can grab Saoirse and drag her back down into the shadows with me.