Page 77 of Irish Brute

“And yer leavin’ a trail a mile wide. Did ya actually put all yer boys in a feckin’ Holiday Inn?”

I picture Donny O’Keefe, pleading for his life. “I’m keeping them safe, Boss.”

“Hidin’ out at a shite motel?”

“Just till I take out Russo.”

“Till ya—” He takes another break to cough like a fiend. He’s been known to treat his lungs with a fifth of Jameson but—bad luck for me—he sounds cold sober right now. He finally catches his breath. “Yer gettin’ too hot, boyo.”

“Russo needs killing.”

“Yer man’s sayin’ th’ same t’ his boss. About ya.”

I want to argue. Instead, I ask, “You talked to Russo’s boss?”

“Luca Scuderi himself. Th’ capo d’ feckin’ capi.” He clears his throat, hawking up all the phlegm in Boston. I’m grateful I can’t see him spit.

I waste a few heartbeats wondering if Russo’s on his own phone right now. If he’s getting leaned on from New York, the way I’m being strong-armed by Ingram.

But it doesn’t matter who Russo has to answer to. At the end of the day, Ingram’s my General in the Grand Irish Union. Philadelphia has to follow orders, the same as any Irish mob family. And if Ingram says the cops are getting too close to the shite going on between Russo and me, then the shite has to end.

“So what are Scuderi’s marching orders?” I ask, because it sure as hell sounds like my general is telling me to cave to the Mafia.

“Mind yer fuckin’ tone,” Ingram says.

I wait him out, because my fucking tone would get me killed if I say what I really want to say.

“We’re havin’ a summit,” Ingram finally growls.

“A summit?” He makes it sound like we’re politicians, with nothing better to do than put on our best suits and shake each other’s hands. “Who’s in on thissummit?”

“You. Russo. Yer lieutenants, one each. Me and Scuderi. The six of us’ll sit at a table ’n’ talk like men ’n’ put an end t’ yer little war.”

“When?”

“Sunday night. Half past seven.”

“That’s too soon.” I want to hit back about the Hare, and I need more time to nail a target.

But that’s not the only reason I need a delay. I can’t be sitting in a fuckingsummitwhen my shipment of cocaine hits the Philadelphia port. Sure, I own the harbor master, the union shop steward, and the chief of police. But I’ll be taking in a quarter of a billion dollars in one night—half my average year’s income. I need everything to go as smooth as cream.

Ingram says, “Scuderi called th’ time.”

“Change it.”

“Yer given’ orders t’ me now, boyo?”

I can’t say yes. I can’t fight back against the man I’m obligated to call my boss. And if I tell him about the coke, who knows what he’ll demand, on top of his usual tithe?

“Sorry,” I say. “I just don’t like being managed by the Mafia.”

“Yer sayin’ I’m bein’ managed?”

“I’m saying I don’t like the time.”

“Ya’ll be there, or I’ll find another Captain fer Philly.”

He’s never laid out a threat like that before—plain English, no hedging. I have no choice but to back down. “So if Scuderi chose the time, than you’re choosing the place?