44. Finn
Finn
Girl’s Gone
Saoirse has been gone a fucking long time.
I put the odds of her coming back at fifty-fifty. If she returns, my dollar gets a dollar. If she runs out on me, the same number applies.
Not a big payout either way.
There’s an intercom at the gate. A voice crackles after I push the button.
“Blessed day. How can we help?”
“I’m here to visit Maeve Byrne.”
“Do you have a pre-approved appointment with that teacher, sir?”
“This isn’t about schooling. I’m an…associate.”
“Can I give Miss Byrne a name and tell her what this is about?”
“Sure,” I slip into my Irish charmer mode. “It’s Johnny Wilde. ‘Tis a friend of her father Patrick I am. I came to give the poor girl an update on her Da’s health.”
I take a shot in the dark and hope that whoever is keeping tabs on Patrick’s health right now has their phone off. What was their name again?
The Dugans.
Who are a couple of opportunistic, lazy-arse layabouts who got lucky with an easy gig. That’s what the spies I have around Saoirse’s old family home tell me anyway.
I fume as I wait. I’ve already accepted that Saoirse has left me. Not left left me—she’s gone off to do her own thing for whatever reason—but it irritates me that she hid her intentions from me so well.
She’ll come back when I say so. I’ve planted all the right seeds in the fertile ground of her imagination, enough for her to connect the dots and come to the right decision.
The door to the convent accommodation facility opens.
The receptionist doesn’t come out. Maeve does.
I’m trying to see a resemblance between the two sisters, but I fail.
Saoirse is a beguiling enchantress, a witch. Old-country through and through. I can imagine her standing in ancient forests conjuring hexes and curses.
Maeve appears modern, practical, and openly critical, not only of me, but men in general.
The weight of her virginity weighs heavy on her. She’s reached her tipping point.
If old Byrne doesn’t marry her off soon, she’ll strip down naked one of these dark and moonlit nights, and go running into the forest to find herself a rutting stag. Or a wolf.
“You’re Finn O’Shea.” Maeve looks me up and down.
I read my fortune in her eyes.
Mad lad, bad news. Saoirse’s demon lover… And a coward?
That’s scorn I’m seeing there.
“What’s got your face looking like a smacked arse?”
She scoffs. “Ah. The infamous O’Shea charm magically only makes an appearance when you want to shine a girl on.”
“Spit it out, you shrew. Why d’you scorn me?”
“You ran away to save your hide and left my sister to face the music alone.”
“I was banished. There’s a difference.” I don’t prolong it. “Where’s your sister?”
Maeve smirks and steps back. “Girl’s gone, Finn O’Shea.”
She turns and shuts the door behind her.
I call the number on my phone. The Reverend Mother herself answers.
“‘Tis Finn O’Shea I am, Reverend Mother. Would you be so kind as to let me into the convent’s boarding house? I’m standing at the gate wracked with worry. Poor Saoirse Byrne came to visit her sister, Maeve, but she’s not come out.”
Nuns. They swallow my concerned-citizen act more often than not.
“Finn O’Shea? No, dear boy. Accept the lady’s decision and move on.” She chuckles. “You might be able to wrap Father O’Malley around your finger because he remembers your Mam fondly, but I’m made of sterner stuff. Go with God.”
The line goes dead.
I’m surprised to feel a little bit dead inside too.
One last try, but it’s not a Brooklyn number I’m calling.
“It’s grand to hear from you, brother.”
Barra Quinn runs fighters up in Boston. From young hopefuls to hardened pros, he flings every last one of them into the octagon for fat purses and the sheer glory of it. Not a promoter—a controller.
“I’m sound, Barra, sound. Listen, I need a favor. You’ve got connections at the Catholic School for Girls, right?”
A shout of laughter from the other end of the line. “Not that sort of connection. Who’s saying I fecked them then?”
“You’d have to be loaded for it to stretch that far.” A bit of banter between warriors is in order.
“We do our best.” Barra gets serious. “Sister Claudine is my Mam’s cousin’s one.”
“Can Sister Claudine get me into the convent sharp like? Not inside. I need to access the parking lot… my girl went in there and didn’t come out.”
I can be honest with Barra without fear of losing face. Like me, he leans heavily towards the Irish side of things, and takes what suits him out of the American side.
“How long have you been locked out trying to get in?” When I don’t answer, he continues. “You’re already too late, Finn. ‘Tis a shame. Get one of the women at your table to reel her back in.”
“Can’t. I got no women at the table.”
I hear Barra suck air through his teeth. “Pfft. Serious? You got to get some ladies in the organization, lad. It’s some fecking amazing insights they have.”
Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I shouldn’t have kept Saoirse down in the basement, but up at the table. That’s how Declan controlled her.
“Cheers. Give me a shout when you come to Brooklyn.”
Barra keeps it brief. “Sure.”
The line disconnects. Like my line to Saoirse when I think about it.
***
I sleep on it, waiting to see if Saoirse comes back. I’m single-minded enough not to toss and turn all night. No GAA or video games, just hit the sack and power down.
Mickey’s waiting for me in the gym when I come out.
“Let’s work those legs today.” He doesn’t bother saying good morning.
“We should set up a few amateur nights, Mick.” I give Kenty the nod as he kneels to wrap knee guards on me. “I need to step out of heavy training for a while.”
My captains shoot looks at each other. Damien says it first.
“Is everything all right?” He angles his head to the door leading downstairs.
“She left me.”
Mickey thinks he knows how to handle the news. “Well, now you’re even. You left her. Now she’s left you.”
Kentigern shakes his head. “Sickener for you, Boss.”
I laugh, I mean, it’s fucking hilarious how panicked they are.
“Listen up, I’m grand, got that? She’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”
“What about the missing person investigation?” Damien wants to know. “She’s a prime suspect.”
Saoirse knows I was banished so the men in her life could take out the remaining men in my family. Sure, I know Eamon figured he’d dodged a bullet by being the one to rat me out, but it was only a matter of time.
“She can carry on being a prime suspect for all I care. Tell Feargal to buy up more Byrne leases on Fourth Avenue. Tell him to use our shell companies in Ireland to do it. I want fucking swathes of rental space under my control.”
We get down to training, with me working the bag and running laps followed by squats, kicks, and jumping rope. It keeps my mind from obsessing over Saoirse.
I don’t hate or feel betrayed. I couldn’t give a toss about what prompted her to do a runner.
Nor do I dream about how to punish her when she comes back. Or if I should hunt her down for revenge.
It’s like what Maeve said. Girl’s gone.
Johnny’s been my wing-man for a long while. He pulls up a stool out of harm’s way of my roundhouse kicks and settles in to share his opinion.
“D’you think she got cash off that sister of hers? I mean, she couldn’t have nipped out without transport. What was she wearing?”
Slamming alternate knees into the hard bag, I’m interested to see where Johnny’s questions take us.
“Denim jeans, like pale blue ones, nearly white but not quite.”
“And her shoes?”
“Trainers, fancy ones, the ones that make her taller.”
Johnny takes the information on board, sucks his teeth a bit before going on.
“And her blouse?”
Casting my mind back, I remember. “Not a blouse, a sweater or long-sleeved tee-shirt, blue.” I stop kicking and take five. “And before you ask, her hair was in a ponytail.”
Johnny shakes his head. “She planned on running with or without the cash. That’s a running away outfit she had on, Boss. Wearing that, she could hitch a ride or walk for miles without anyone clocking her as being out of place.”
That’s why I felt ill at ease when I watched her walking away. A Brooklyn princess like Saoirse never dresses down. There’s always one thing that picks her out as elite.
Her expensive designer perfume.
A piece of jewelry.
The products she uses on her hair to make it look like shining, liquid coal.
I see beneath the elegance she uses to stand out as special. She’s stuck in my mind as the girl in the chapel, whispering her Hail Marys to the flickering candle in the sconce.
Her downcast eyes and delicate folded hands. The slender foal-like legs.
I wanted her to be mine at first sight, which is as close to love at first sight a man like me is ever going to get. Sure, I wanted to charge back to Brooklyn, guns blazing, when I heard about her wedding.
But that was their game plan, not mine, to check if I was really dead.
If you let a wound heal, it forms a scar instead of gushing blood.
I’m battle-scarred, which only makes me stronger. Meaner. Crueler.
Mickey sidles up, not comfortable listening to any conversation that might use an accusing tone toward Saoirse because his wife, Shirley, has already chosen sides.
“My cousin has a connection who can get you CCTV footage of the area surrounding the convent, son.”
“That’s good to know, Mick, thanks. But I’ll keep that connection for a real emergency.”
My captains need to see that I’m in control of this situation.
Johnny offers advice. “Make a list of the pit stops she’s likely to make. She’s bound to be heading for one of them.”
“Thanks, Johnny. That helps.”
He nods. “Yeah, she’s a girl on a mission all right. Can you give us a hint as to what was on her mind?”
I kick the bag sideways for a good many minutes while I scroll through every conversation.
I want her to leave her husband and live with me. Pretty cut and dried the way I see it.
But…
“It’s been about two weeks that she’s been with me. Ah, sure look it.”
Johnny understands. He’s got sisters, so he gets it a hell of a fucking lot sooner than I did.
“A female needs to be alone for that, Boss”
“You’re damn right, mate.”
Because if Saoirse’s lunar cycles have come to an abrupt end, we won’t know who’s the Da. I think any woman deserves some serious me-time when she waits for that particular hammer to fall.
After that, all bets are off because…
I’m coming for you, Saoirse Byrne, and you better have a fucking good explanation ready for me when I find you.