Page 65 of Irish Vice
Clearly, he’s over his tantrum from breakfast, and he’s back to his trademark control. I’ve glanced at all the transcribed voicemails he’s left. They’re identical:Samantha, this is urgent. Phone me immediately.
If Braiden wants to apologize, he can do that by message too. And if he doesn’t, I’m not ready to talk to him.
I clutch my briefcase and get out of my car.
The juvenile delinquents on the street corner stand straight as I approach. The one who wolf-whistled reaches into his jeans pocket and produces a phone. Barely glancing down, he taps the screen. I feel as if I’ve rung a doorbell.
The kids have no right to stop me from using a publicsidewalk, but the weight of their combined stares feels like a javelin between my shoulder blades. Trying not to twitch, I make my way to the serious enforcers at the main door.
“I’m here to see Fiona Ingram,” I say.
“There’s no one here by that name,” Tweedledum says, almost before I get out the last syllable.
I shift my briefcase, not afraid to make this look like an official visit. “We both know that’s not true.”
“Ifa Fiona Ingram lived here, she’d accept service through her attorney.” Tweedledee chimes in. His Boston accent is thick; her name sounds like Fioner.
“I’m not serving process.”
“We have to ask you to move along now.” Tweedledum takes a step forward, intentionally crowding into my comfort zone.
I square my shoulders. “No, you don’t. You have to let me in to see Fiona.”
Sunlight glints off the butt of Tweedledee’s pistol. “If you know enough to ask about the Ingrams here, then you know enough to understand why it’s a very bad idea to outstay your welcome.”
The man has a point. One I intend to ignore, but a point, all the same.
Pretending my heart isn’t pounding, I cross to the far side of the street. I plant my feet in front of the run-down house there and cup my hands around my mouth. “Fiona!” I shout. “Fiona Ingram!”
Tweedledum lunges across the street to pin my biceps in a grip so tight I know I’ll be bruised for a week. A curtain twitches at a window on the Ingrams’ third floor, but falls back before I glimpse a face. A door opens behind me, but it slams closed so quickly I wonder if it was caught by a localized hurricane. At the far end of the street, a man and woman approach, only to be held back by the kids at the corner.
“Let that be the last stupid mistake you make today, Samantha Mott,” Tweedledum growls.
Someone has fed him information through his earpiece. They must have noted my Mercedes, out of place in this neighborhood. They ran my license plate through a database like LexisNexis.
Tweedledum clearly thinks his using my name will terrify me. But from Day One, Kieran Ingram has taken the position that my marriage to Braiden doesn’t exist. I’m not a proper wife because Father Brennan wasn’t a proper priest.
That makes me a civilian. And the Mob can’t hurt an outsider. They can’t harm one woman bringing a private complaint to another woman’s doorstep. Not if Kieran Ingram intends to live by his own code.
Tweedledee presses his fingertips to his ear, clearly receiving instructions from someone inside the Ingram castle. Ignoring him, I shout to the third-floor window: “Fiona! Call off your dogs!”
Tweedledum snarls and tightens his grip on my arm. Involuntary tears spark in the corners of my eyes, but I raise my chin and call out again. “Fiona! How’s this for a limerick? There once was a woman from Southie!”
I don’t have a second line in mind, but I’m spared the need to scramble for one because the Ingrams’ door opens. A kid, even younger than the boys on the corner, steps onto the stoop.
Tweedledee glances over his shoulder and barks, “What?”
The kid pipes, “Let her in.”
Tweedledum drags me across the street. He keeps his grip tight as Tweedledee frisks me. The scowling goon makes sure I’m not hiding anything in my bra. He spends a lot more time than necessary checking for a weapon in the waistband of my pants, and he uses the excuse of potential ankle holsters to shove his face into my crotch.
I refuse to let him see a reaction. And when he finally decides I’m not an armed threat, I stand straight, stepping into the clapboard house like I have every right to be here.
I don’t know what I expected—maybe an armory guardroom with a dozen soldiers, or a secret passage to a basement lair, or a blinding white reception area like some exclusive doctor’s office.
But what I find is a parlor that looks like it was decorated in the middle of the last century. There’s a plastic-covered couch with a huge floral print. It faces a pair of matching armchairs with sagging seats. A coffee table is covered with water stains from years of drinking glasses placed without coasters. The entire room reeks of stale cigarette smoke.
No. Not the room. It’s the man standing in front of me who reeks.