Page 69 of Irish Brute
I follow his gaze to the bloodstain on my cuff. I must have been nicked by shrapnel when I set to on Russo’s car. I flex my fingers, realizing they ache from how tightly I gripped the bat. My arms are sore too, and my shoulders.
But it was worth it, to leave behind that blood-red heap of junk in the Convention Center garage.
“Nothing serious.”
Madden takes me at my word. “Slainte,” he says, saluting me with his drink. I match him with my own. As the first sip of Jameson hits the back of my throat, I swallow a fatigue that has little to do with lack of sleep.
“All right,” I say, pacing out eight measured steps to the far wall. I remember when I had time to read the books on the shelves in here. When I wasn’t constantly plotting a bloody open war. “My biggest concern is the shipment coming in on Sunday. We’ve got a quarter of a billion worth of cocaine hitting the dock. If Russo gets wind of it…”
“How would he do that?”
“Our entire distribution chain knows we’re expecting a big delivery. The goods themselves will be logged into the freeport as assorted towels and linens. But if Russo picks up anyone in revenge for the car—from the drivers off the docks to the Fishtown corner boys—he’ll soon know something’s up.”
I’d like to think every man in my organization is as solid as a brass kettle. But Russo won’t be playing fair. Good men break under torture. And bad ones sell out for a lot less than Russo will have on the table.
“So what are you thinking?” Madden asks.
“What if we take everyone off the streets until Sunday?”
“Put them all up at the Ritz?”
I give him the dirty look he deserves, but I’m not ready to abandon my idea. “Somewhere out of town should be fine. Buy out a Holiday Inn, somewhere south of the city.”
“For two nights? That’ll cost a fortune.”
“We’ve got two hundred and fifty mill on the line.”
Madden narrows his eyes. It’s the same expression I used to see on Da’s face, and I know he’s seen it on mine. “Won’t we just be setting up a more attractive target? All our boys in one place?”
“Even Russo won’t take out an entire hotel.” Saying the words, I know they aren’t true. I offer an amendment. “Not on forty-eight hours notice.”
“It’ll cut into other work,” Madden warns. “Taking that many men from their jobs.”
“Two hundred and fifty million dollars,” I remind him.
I watch him work through the challenges—identifying a hotel, threatening or paying off the manager to empty out the place, gathering up our men, keeping them all under wraps…
“It won’t be easy,” he finally says.
“I wouldn’t have your arse here at midnight, if I thought it would be easy.”
“I’d better get to work then,” he finally says.
“Sorry you won’t be heading back to your lady love. Anyone I know?”
He smirks. “One of the contortionists from that circus that came to town last month. She and her twin sister put on an act that’d put steel in the Pope’s own rod. And her gash is tighter than old Nick’s arsehole.”
Madden wouldn’t know what to do with a contortionist if she wrapped herself around his prick. But I let him get away with the lie. “You kiss her with that mouth of yours?”
“I kiss her gash. Her arsehole too, when she’s sitting on my face.”
I shake my head and clap a hand on his shoulder. The motion jars my entire arm. I’ll be feeling that Lambo for a few days.
“Thanks for coming out here,” I say. “You’re a good man and a better brother.”
He puts his hand on top of mine. “We’ll keep things safe from that guinea fucker.”
I wait until his lights disappear down the drive before I close and lock the front door. I know the stairs in this house so well, I don’t bother turning on a light. I pause for a moment in front of Aiofe’s door, but I don’t hear a sound.