Page 38 of Irish Vice

Samantha blushes. She knows she’s making a dog’s breakfast of the meeting.

After closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she closes her computer. She studies her hands for a moment. And when she starts again, she’stalkingto me, telling me all I need to know.

As Alix suggested, she starts with a summary of the new Irish law on antiquities, explaining that anyone who comes into possession of any archeological object is required to report it to the National Museum of Ireland within ninety-six hours. Shepresents the penalties—fines of more than 100,000 pounds and five years of prison.

She doesn’t wait for me to say I’m ignoring the law. Instead, she calls on the freeport experts to summarize the book I’m bringing in. Everyone uses careful language; they haven’t seen the actual item yet, and it may turn out to be a fake. But we’re all pretty sure the Book of Skreen is worth several million dollars.

At Samantha’s gesture, Alix reviews the auction procedure. We’ll set a reserve value before I consign the book to the freeport. “If the auction doesn’t get to that level,” Alix says. “The book goes back to you. But I don’t anticipate any problem meeting the reserve. Even without a perfect record of ownership, finds like this attract a lot of interest.”

I need a lot of interest. I’m millions in the hole for the year, with the truck of cocaine that ended up in Russo’s hands. And it’s just turned April.

Alix goes on. “As a matter of course, we advise our consignors, um,you, to be certain you want to put the goods up for auction. No consignor can bid on his own property.”

The restriction makes sense—fair play says an owner shouldn’t be allowed to bid up the price for his own possession. I gesture for her to go on.

“Auction houses schedule their blockbusters for May and November. You’re one of the freeport’s best clients, and you remain one of my absolute priorities. But I don’t think we can do justice to a treasure like the Book of Skreen, pulling something together in a mere six weeks. I advise you to wait until November.”

That sounds like a century or more. But I’ve come to the freeport because they’re experts on this type of thing. If Alix says we should wait six months, I have to trust her. Even if the delay will make my cash flow issues more…intense.

“November,” I finally agree, already calculating where I can cut corners with Kelly Construction.

There’s more—talk about catalogs, commissions, deadlines for printing and distribution. Samantha wraps up with a review of legal issues—the challenge of proving the book’s origin, taxation if it leaves the freeport, and dozens more details that leave my head spinning.

Samantha is calm. She’s professional. She’s brilliant at her job, and I could listen to her talk till sunset, even if I wasn’t thinking about fifteen different ways to make her come.

“Do you have any questions?” Alix finally asks.

“You’ll be the first to know, when I do,” I say. Then, looking pointedly at Samantha, I correct myself. “Or, more likely, the second.”

Alix laughs. Samantha doesn’t.

Alix collects her computer and I stand to shake her hand. “Thank you for trusting us with this,” she says. “I can’t wait to see the book in person.” It seems to take forever, but she finally leaves the room with the other freeport staff, who all wish me the very best of luck.

“Samantha,” I say, the instant the door is closed.

“Don’t.”

I cross to the head of the table. “I’m a feckin’ eejit,” I say.

It takes all her concentration to find the power button on her computer.

“I wanted to help you,” I say. “I thought I’d be funny. I thought you would laugh.”

“They think I’m your whore!”

“Any fecker who says that’ll answer straight to me. Fists or knives. And he’ll be out of the Boys for life, made man or not.” My old scar pulses. This is a promise I can keep.

But Samantha says, “You can’t do that.”

“I’m the Captain. I can do whatever I want.”

“Then send Fiona home.”

Christ. I’m the Captain of the Fishtown Boys. But Kieran Ingram is General of the GIU. I hedge: “She means nothing to me.”

“Get rid of her.”

“I can’t,” I have to admit.