Page 79 of Irish Vice

“White guy. Five ten, five eleven. Two-twenty maybe, all of it muscle. Prison tats on his face, arms, knuckles.”

The description opens a hollow inside me. I thought I was all right with that night, that I’d accepted how close I came to dying. Apparently, I was wrong.

Asher says, “I caught him on his third B&E. He pleaded it down to trespass. With his priors, he still went away for two years.”

“When was that?”

“Thirteen years ago, come June.”

“And you remember him that clearly? After so much time?”

“Sometimes I don’t like a guy.”

I nod. “I didn’t like him either. But I think I know who hired him. That’s what I want you to prove.”

“Who’s that?” he asks.

“Antonio Russo.” I wait to see if he’ll flinch.

He doesn’t. But he sounds skeptical as he asks, “The Philly capo?”

“Russo and I have some history.”

“That’s some dangerous history,” Asher says.

“I’m well aware of Russo’s reputation.”

“It’s not just a reputation.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

Asher studies me for a long time. I wouldn’t want to face him in a poker game. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.

Finally, he says, “It’s dangerous, poking around the Mafia. I get time and a half for hazard pay.”

“That’s fine. I need an answer by close of business on Friday.”

“Forty-eight hours?” He shakes his head. “COB Monday. That’s the best I can do.”

Five days sounds like forever, but I’ve already pushed him past his comfort zone, making him go after Russo. “Monday,” I agree. I give him my private email address. I don’t want his work mixing with freeport business.

He puts his little notebook back in his pocket and pushes back his chair. When he stands, he exhales decades-old cigar smoke into the room. He shakes my hand, firm, but not like he’s trying to crush my fingers.

“Monday,” he says.

“You can reach me here at the office.”

He looks around the room, and if he wants to criticize my hours he thinks better before the words cross his lips. As we head back to the security desk, I leave the conference room door open, hoping the cigar smell will be gone by morning.

32

BRAIDEN

Ingram yanks my chain at breakfast, same as he has every day this week. The rain is lashing down outside, making it hard for me to hear his creaky voice. “It’s Friday, boyo. Clock is tickin’.”

“I wear my own watch, Boss.”

“So ya know yer late gettin’ the job done.”