Page 20 of Irish Vice

“I’ve already told him how,” Madden says to Fiona. He has to look over his shoulder to talk to her, which makes him look scared. Scared as well as stupid, because he chirps the same song he’s tried before. “Sam’s feeding information to that goombah.”

For one blinding moment, I consider shutting his eejit mouth forever. Or at least knocking his teeth down his throat. Breaking a few bones. Carving a reminder on his feckin’ chest so he drops his line about Samantha forever.

After all, why should I keep a hospital-grade surgery in the house, if I’m not prepared to use it? Why should I keep Doc Kelleher on retainer if I don’t create an emergency or two on the regular?

But I’ve got legitimate business to get through this morning. So I lower my voice to barely a whisper and deliver a different threat: “Say it again, and you’re out of the Boys.”

Madden opens his mouth. Shuts it. Sits back in his chair with the exasperated tongue-click of a teenage girl. I watch him consider half a dozen responses—lies about Samantha, all—but he chooses a wiser course of action.

He says: “I know how you can make up the shortfall.”

He’s my feckin’ Clan Chief. I need to take my second-in-command seriously. “I’m listening,” I say. Fiona glances between us, like she’s watching a tennis match on the telly.

“Explosives,” he says.

I’m not sure I heard him right. “Explosives?”

“Bombs,” he says, like I might have stumbled over the three-syllable word.

“What the hell do the Fishtown Boys know about bombs?”

“The Boys don’t,” Madden admits. “ButIdo. I’ve learned a lot from the boys in Dublin.”

Madden’s always been fascinated by the old country. There’re plenty of old-timers there, happy to talk about the Troubles over a lash or ten. Madden planted three pipe bombs for me back in February, one of the first skirmishes in our war with Russo.

Now I eye him with curiosity. “So, you’re the Mad Irish Bomber now?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been reading some things. Experimenting.”

“And how, exactly, will we make money with explosives?” I give all three syllables equal stress before I say, “Assuming you don’t blow your fucking hands off.”

“My hands are in perfect working order.” That sounds like a boast, like he’s keeping a harem of needy women satisfied.

Fiona scoffs.

“The money?” I remind him.

“We can hire out our services—anyone going after a bank, an armored car, any sort of safe. Or we can work as middlemen, start with raw materials and send out finished bombs. I’ve only been working with dynamite so far, but I have a line on military-grade goods. C4. That type of thing.”

I’m surprised. Madden’s never shown this much initiative before. But I imagine the thought of blowing up shite puts some iron in his prick. I’m just not sure it’s a good idea to set my brother loose with that type of power.

Fiona seems to notice my hesitation. She offers a pointed smile over another sip of her coffee. “Or not,” she says, as if I’ve already given Madden an official shut-down notice. “What’s your plan, Captain?” she says to me. “You’ve got limited territory. Reduced earnings. A stolen shipping container. What are you going to do?”

I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want her learning the first thing about my operations.

But she’s here, and she’s staying, at least for now. And if Idon’t give hersomethingto pass on to her da, I’ll only face more grief down the road.

So I open the door on my latest operation, one that sounds so outlandish Boston’ll never buy in, nor anyone else in the Grand Irish Union. “To start with,” I say. “Counterfeit goods. Butter.”

“Butter?” She’s careful not to laugh out loud. Madden sulks as I refuse to engage on his grand scheme.

“Home cooks’ll pay twice as much for something labeled Irish as they will for domestic.”

“Is there any difference?”

“Irish butter is more yellow. And it has a higher fat content. But with a little food coloring added in, who’s to know? The Mafia do the same with olive oil—buy cheap stuff and label it extra virgin.”

“There’s money in it?” she asks.