Page 50 of Irish Vice
Money would take care of Birte. I can buy an annulment in Ireland—rebuild a few churches, pad a few pockets from priest all the way up to bishop. It would cost a fortune on such short order, but I could do it.
But Samantha’s another matter. I’m not setting her aside, for Fiona or anyone else. To buy time, though, I say, “It’ll take a while to run things up the chain in Philadelphia.”
“Ya don’t need a chain, boyo. Ya bought yerself a dirty priest before ya took yer dago skirt.”
My fingers curl into fists, but I can’t take a run at my General. Besides, once I get past the slur, I have to admit he’s right. It’s child’s play to annul my marriage to Samantha. I made sure of that when I ducked the bigamist noose.
I shoot in the dark, same as I did when Ingram told me Fiona was coming to stay a while. “What will your daughter say about this?”
“Fiona’ll do as she’s told. Before I sent her t’ ya, I gave her a month in Dublin. Let her sow her wild oats, same as any son.Now ya’ll marry Fiona by Easter or ya’ll regret it from six feet under.”
I can’t let that threat go unanswered. But I can’t start a fight in the middle of a baseball stadium either, same as I can’t take a swing at a wheezing old codger.
Choosing the best of my shite options, I retreat toward Prince’s suite.
“Hey, boyo!” One of Ingram’s thugs slaps the back of my head. “Don’t turn yer back on yer boss.”
I swing before I think out the consequences. It’s a sucker move, because it’s six against one. Ingram’s men aren’t armed; the metal detectors outside the stadium have seen to that. But one grabs my hand in a professional wrist lock, and another gets his arm around my throat. Someone shoots a fist into my kidney, sharp enough that I see actual stars. Another fist lands by my right eye, a blow that vibrates down my spine.
“Hey! Why don’t you try a fair fight?” The shout is backed up by someone wading in next to me. The hold around my neck breaks, and I turn to find Gage Rider grinning like a Viking raider. The former hockey player is landing short, sharp jabs to the ear of the guy who still has me pinned by the wrist. Rider takes a break for long enough to throw an elbow at another one of Ingram’s men, and the crunch of nose cartilage is audible over my rasping breath.
I finally manage to kick the knee of the guy who has my arm, breaking free. Rider and I instinctively line up back-to-back, holding our fists at chest level.
But before either of us can get in another blow, a pair of security guards runs up. They’re gripping weapons that can do a lot more harm than Tasers, and one squawks into a radio pinned to his shoulder.
Ingram calls his men off with a single bark that brings on another coughing fit. As his crew gathers round, Radio Cop asks for any available EMT to come to the luxury suite lobby.
“You okay?” I ask Rider, who’s working his fist like it hurts.
“Never better.” He grins like a Labrador retriever set free on a beach.
“How—”
Did you know I needed helpis the rest of that question. But Rider interrupts. “Boyle said you might need a hand.”
Connor Boyle must have taken his own stroll from the suite. But rather than fight his General directly, he sent the next best thing—a man who built a professional career fighting on ice.
Before I can thank Rider, Trap Prince pushes his way through the crowd of gawking baseball fans. “Jesus fucking Christ! You cocksuckers can’t be left on your own for one motherfucking minute!”
Parents cover their kids’ ears, and smart folks scurry back to their seats. The rent-a-cops send Gage and me to one corner, and Ingram’s men to an alcove across the way.
Prince talks to Radio Cop, and then to someone more senior in uniform, and then to a man with a size-twenty neck in a cheap suit and a name tag that says he’s the Director of Security. I don’t know if money changes hands or if cooler heads prevail, but we’re finally told no charges will be filed.
All of us have to leave the park, but the security guys send Ingram’s men out first. That’s a wise choice, because the General of the Grand Irish Union is the color of a wet baseball, barely able to stand without assistance. He refuses treatment, though. The ballpark EMT strongly suggests he see his own doctor for attention to that cough.
By the time the Boston group has left, the baseball game is over. Prince collects the rest of the Diamond Ring, and we all make our way to our waiting limousines and our rooms at the Mandarin Oriental.
Connor Boyle avoids me at the after-party, and I can’t really blame him. He risked enough for one day. Rider and I do our best to keep our distance from Prince. Best shakes his head on the sidelines, like he’s grateful he didn’t have to call in a clean-up crew.
I’m the first man to call it a night. A hot shower doesn’t make a dent in the ache of a bruised kidney. But it isn’t the pain that keeps me awake.
I have three short weeks till Easter—twenty-one days to take a stand for Samantha and the Fishtown Boys. And Fiona Ingram’s still living in my feckin’ house.
19
SAMANTHA
I’m curled up on the sofa in the den, reading a Tana French mystery I took from the shelves by the safe room, when Braiden returns from his Diamond Ring meeting. “How was Bos—” I start to ask, marking my place in the book. But then I take in his black eye and the hitch in his step as he makes his way across the room. “What the hell happened to you?”