Page 67 of Irish Vice

“If you set one finger on Samantha, I’ll see you buried in a shallow grave, old man.”

How the fuck did she get all the way to Boston in the time she’s been gone? She must have averaged seventy on the Interstate, and still been lucky with traffic. I don’t bother wondering how she found Ingram; she’s smart and she’s strong, and apparently she’s highly motivated.

“Yer bitch came intomyhome, talkin’ about goin’ t’ th’ FBI.”

“Call her that again, and I’ll be the one in your home.”

“Yer not listenin’, boyo.F. B. I. She said it like she was writin’ up her grocery list.”

Oh, Samantha… What have you done now?

I can take a hard line, telling Ingram he’s brought this on himself, sending Fiona down here in the first place, upping the ante with his Easter deadline. I can remind him Samantha’s a lawyer, that she doesn’t make idle threats, and if she mentioned the feds, she must have had good reason. I can tell him he’s old and sick and he must have misunderstood.

But the truth is, Ingram’s taken out men for less than Samantha’s done. Everyone knows the old man had Finn Monahan executed—rat in mouth, the whole nine yards—just for wearing a gag t-shirt he bought on a street corner in Washington, DC.FBI, it said in big block letters. And smaller, around a fake badge: Female Body Inspector.

Kieran Ingram won’t tolerate any mention of the feds in his territory. And I can’t imagine what possessed Samantha to drive three hundred miles to taunt him.

At least I know why she hasn’t responded to my voicemail messages.

“What’re ya gonna do about her, boyo?”

“She’s not going to any feds.”

“I hear yer voice. ’N’ I understand yer words. But ya don’t have any way o’ knowin’ what yer one’s about to do.”

Yer one. That’s better thanbitch. He’s not ready to pull the trigger yet. Not ready to force my hand.

“She’s on her way home now,” I say. I don’t know if I’m lying. I have no idea where Samantha is. And I’d be incriminating myself, to even imply she’s been out of touch.

His voice ratchets higher. “Ya take her in hand, boyo.”

“I will.” That grim promise is easy to make.

His tone rises a few more notes. “Ya make her understand what she can and cannot say.”

“She’ll understand.”

“If I—” He’s worked himself into a proper fit. He breaks into one of his coughing jags.

This time is worse than the others. His cough is deeper. Wetter. It goes on for long enough that I wonder if I should end the call and reach out to 911. Or, at least to Fiona, so she can get him the medical care he clearly needs.

“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” he finally groans. And then he’s right back in the thick of our argument. “Yer one,” he says, and something’s shifted. He’s angrier. More determined. “She’s not just talkin’ t’ th’ feds. She’s sellin’ ya out t’ th’ dagos.”

I roll my eyes. Fiona must have passed on Madden’s paranoid fantasies.

“She isn’t,” I tell Ingram. “Antonio Russo killed her parents. Her cousin, too. She’d die before she’d tell Russo the first thing about how I run the Fishtown Boys.”

“She’d die,” Ingram repeats. “Then ya understand what has t’ happen.”

A chill knifes through my gut, but I argue with the old man. “You’re not listening. Samantha hates Russo.”

“But she told him about yer shipment at th’ docks.”

“She didn’t?—”

“And she let him into yer pub.”

Jesus. Fiona’s trotted out all the old lies. “Samantha had nothing to do with Russo burning down the Hare and Harp.”