Page 27 of Irish Vice

I should know. That’s how I got my ring on Samantha’s finger.

But there’s no reason not to humor Fiona for now. “What are you holding out for then?”

She spares a sly smile. “True love and ten dozen long-stem red roses.”

“I didn’t count you as a woman to sell yourself cheap.”

“Have you checked the price of flowers lately?”

“There’s that,” I say, as if I’m agreeing. I have no idea what roses cost, any more than I can quote the price for a gallon of milk. I sent three dozen roses to Samantha her first day back at work after our honeymoon. Sounds like I should have quadrupled the order.

We get to my first stop—a basement gambling den on Wildey—and I park in front of a fire hydrant. Most of the ticket writers know my Jeep by sight. If someone makes a mistake, well, that’s why I fund City Council campaigns. I know plenty of people who can make a fine disappear.

“Watch,” I say as we head down the steps. “Don’t talk.”

I’ll give Fiona credit. She’s quiet as my shadow, standing back and letting me take care of business. Mikey’s worked with me for donkey’s years now. “If it isn’t Himself,” he says, handing over the envelope that’s waiting on the corner of his desk.

“Feels a bit light,” I say.

Mikey looks like a Bassett hound caught in a rain storm. His jowls slosh as he shakes his head. “Business has been off all month. Some of it’s Lent, good Irish lads passing up the cards.”

“And the rest of it?”

He sighs. “This war you’re in with the goombahs. No one wants to get caught in the crossfire.”

“We’re in a truce now, Mikey. Have been for a month and a half.”

“The boys who come here want to gamble on a royal flush. Not on how long those guinea shitehawks will honor a feckin’ truce.”

Money’s getting tight. Russo drove off with two hundred and fifty million dollars of my cocaine. I’m looking for a new place to rebuild the Hare. I’ve got a constant stream of payments, getting city officials to look the other way, and business has been lighter than usual at Kelly Construction.

But Mikey isn’t responsible for any of that. I slip his envelope into my breast pocket. “Pleasure doing business with you,” I say.

Fiona waits till we’re back in the car to speak. “You don’t worry he’s skimming?”

“Mikey’s brother was a runner for me, years back. Till he decided it was easier to snitch to the feds than face a heroin rap. He ended up in the Schuylkill with a rat in his mouth.” I tap the envelope through my jacket. “Mikey knows the cost if he skims.”

I skip my other gambling spot, and the after-hours bars too. No reason to serve up my entire list to Fiona on a silver platter.

We hit a couple of restaurants, spread out over a dozen blocks. By the time we get to McKinley’s, word’s got out. Everyone knows the boss is making today’s run. I’d rather catch them unawares, but I’ll settle for seeing them on their best behavior.

I save the girls for last. Part of me is hoping Fiona’ll get bored, that she’ll decide to take an Uber back to Thornfield. Not feckin’ likely.

At this hour, the working girls are still asleep. Mimi’s nursing a coffee that looks like it’s half Bailey’s. It smells like pure booze.

“Your cast is off,” I say, as she raises her mug in greeting. One of Russo’s thugs broke her arm before our peace talks at the Rittenhouse.

“Good as new,” she says, opening and closing her fist. I paidfor her to see one of the best orthopedists in the city. And I picked up her tab for a week in Atlantic City when she was too sore to work. “Here you go,” she says, handing over her envelope.

“Good week,” I say, because Lent doesn’t seem to have made a dent in the whorehouse business.

“Spring break. God bless the frat boys of St. Peter’s University.” She makes a half-hearted sign of the cross before she nods toward Fiona. “Who’s your lady friend?”

“Just a visitor from out of town.”

“Showing her all the top tourist sites, eh?”

“The Chamber of Commerce says I’m a model citizen.”