Page 49 of Irish Vice
“She never has before,” Boyle says. “Her da’s seen to that.”
“First time for everything.”
Boyle nods. But he says, “Watch your back.”
Before I can respond, Arsene Dubois approaches. Like a concierge at one of his international hotels, the Frenchman is making his own rounds, shaking hands and catching up on business. I ask about his new property in Dubai but don’t bother listening to the answer.
If Boyle’s warning me, the situation with Fiona is worse than I thought. How many bosses are watching from the sidelines? How many men are placing bets the Fishtown Boys will fall?
When the game reaches the seventh inning stretch, I duck out of the suite. Aiofe’s birthday is next Wednesday. I have no idea what an eleven-year-old girl wants, but I’ve seen plenty of lasses in pink Red Sox shirts here at the game. I’ll bring one home, and at least she’ll know I thought of her.
I’m halfway to the store when I hear my name, slicing through the crowd: “Kelly!”
I recognize the voice before I turn. Kieran Ingram is surrounded by half a dozen of his most powerful lieutenants, as if they’ve all been conjured by my conversation with Boyle.
The deadliest man in Boston is wearing blue jeans and a weathered navy sweatshirt sporting the team’s stylized B. His thinning hair is covered by a cap marked with the same faded logo. It looks like he dug the outfit out of someone’s cellar.
He’s dropped at least two stone since I saw him last. The loose flesh of his neck droops over his collar like a turkey’s wattle. His eyes are bloodshot.
“Boss,” I say warily.
“Ya don’t call your General before ya come t’ town?”
“I’m here on private business.”
He doesn’t like my answer. He doesn’t likeme. And just likethat, the predator rises in him, an old fox snapping at a rabbit’s neck just because it can. Eyes narrowed, he says, “Then speakin’ o’ business, boyo?—”
I want to tell him I’m not his boyo, but he’s still my boss so I keep my mouth shut.
“—yer tithes’ve come in light.”
I won’t stand here in public, talking about my finances. Passing sports fans don’t need to hear a word about the cocaine Russo stole. But my General’s waiting, so I have to say something. “You get a share of everything I see. Same as ever.”
“Chicago turned in more last month than ya sent th’ past year.”
I make a mental note to send Mickey Reardon my congratulations. But I tell Ingram, “I’ve been fair with you. Point me toward any man who says otherwise.”
“Time t’ prove ya mean t’ stay in the Union, boyo.” He eyes me like he’s measuring me for a coffin. And then he hits me with a direct order: “Ya’ll marry Fiona by Easter.”
“I will, yeah.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and any Irishman in the world would know from my tone they mean the absolute opposite of what I’ve just said.
Ingram’s so surprised I’ve talked back that he starts to choke. His chest sounds like it’s full of tire irons wrapped in wet blankets, and his face turns redder than the B on his chest. Other sports fans cut us a wide margin. No one wants what he has, if it’s catching.
Still coughing like a shattered engine, he fumbles for a handkerchief and holds it to his lips. I don’t see what he spits into the white cotton, but it can’t be good. My stomach turns as he shoves the wad back in his jeans pocket.
When he can finally breathe again, he drills a finger into the center of my chest. He’s angry now—at my giving him lip, but also because I’ve seen how weak his body is. “By Easter, boyo.”
I want to break his feckin’ wrist, but there’d be holy hell to pay if I did that to my boss. Besides, I’ve been told since I was awee lad I could never marry for love. Weddings build empires. That’s why I skulked around County Cork in the first place, tying the knot with Birte where no one could stop me.
All my life, I’ve been groomed to take a wife like Fiona Ingram. If Da were still alive, he’d be toasting Ingram’s command with the Jameson 21. Hell, if Da were still alive, he’d angle for the girl himself.
But Da is gone, and Ingram’s repeating his order: “By Easter. Or I’ll put a man I can trust in charge of the Fishtown Boys.”
He doesn’t get to choose who runs the Boys. But with the weight of the Union behind him, he might be able to push me out.
I remind him, “That’s three weeks away.”
“Then ya better take out yer checkbook, boyo. I hear ya have some complications t’ work out before ya take yer vows.”