Page 66 of Irish Vice

He’s shorter than I am by half a foot. His face is an unhealthy yellow-gray, and his eyes are set deep in fans of wrinkles. His chin is cobbled, as if something broke up the underlying bone a century or two ago. His wool suit hangs loosely from his shoulders, making me think he’s recently lost a lot of weight.

“Yer makin’ a mistake, lass.” His accent is thicker than anything I’ve ever heard from Braiden’s lips.

“Kieran Ingram.” I don’t pretend it’s a question.

“Tell yer man t’ fight his own battles.”

“Braiden didn’t send me. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then yer a lot more foolish than th’ stories I hear.”

I don’t ask what stories. I don’t want to know. “I want to see Fiona.”

“If she wanted t’ see ya, she’d be here instead o’ me.”

“With all due respect, I don’t care what Fiona wants.”

I’m not surprised my reply makes him angry. But Iamsurprised when his sharp intake of breath sets off a coughing fit. He digs his fist into his thigh, fighting for breath. His sallow face flushes, then turns red, then purple.

When he finally regains control, he drags a handkerchief from his pocket. I catch a glimpse of bright red after he spits, but he hides it quickly.

Before he can say a word, I pull the limerick out of my briefcase.There’s no way Ingram can read the words from across the room, but his eyes narrow when he sees the smear of lipstick at the end.

“Tell Fiona this is the last time she threatens me.”

He asks, “Do I look like a feckin’ message boy?”

“Tell her,” I say. “And if anything happens to me, if I so much as stumble and stub my toe, my lawyer has orders to send the original straight to the FBI.” I’m lying about the last bit, but I’ll call Teddy the moment I’m back at Thornfield. Sonja too, for good measure.

“Yer man’s too smart t’ run t’ the feds.”

“I already told you. Braiden didn’t send me. This isn’t Fishtown business. Not the Union’s, either. This is just between Fiona and me. Tell her.”

I drop the goddamn poem back into my briefcase and turn on my heel, leaving the room while Ingram’s still spluttering threats. Out on the sidewalk, Tweedledum and Tweedledee startle to attention, but I ignore them. I pass the corner boys without looking left or right.

I’m so grateful to reach the Mercedes unmolested that I have to swallow the urge to sob. But I maneuver out of my parking space with a minimum of turning the wheel. I head back to the freeway. To Thornfield. To home.

I’ve done what I came here to do. I’ve told Fiona I won’t tolerate her threats.

Sonowit’s time to deal with Braiden Kelly.

26

BRAIDEN

“Samantha, this is urgent. Phone me immediately.” I refuse to change my intonation. I already expressed my anger this morning, and that’s why we’re in this mess.

But if she thinks I’ll give up first, she clearly hasn’t been paying attention the past four months.

Plus, she hasn’t blocked me.

A call comes in before I can return my phone to my pocket. “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” Possibly the last sound in the world I want to hear right now.

“Boss,” I answer, because Ingram might get off the phone faster if I don’t purposely antagonize him.

“If ya don’t curb yer bitch, boyo, she’ll get a bullet in her head.”

My stomach tightens. He ordered me to make Fiona my bitch, and I refused. Birte and Aiofe and Grace are all secure at Thornfield; none of them can be the bitch who’s feeding Ingram’s rage.