Page 80 of Irish Vice

I debate how much information to share. I want him off my feckin’ back, at least for a few more days. I settle on: “She’s out of town. I can’t get to her till she’s back.”

That sets him off, exactly the way I thought it would. He coughs for a while, and it takes him three tries to hawk up enough phlegm to speak. He finally bleats, “That’s a load of shite, and ya know it.”

“If I do it outside of Thornfield, I’ll have to answer questions. And I can’t guarantee your name would stay out of it.”

That earns me another coughing fit. He barely manages to whisper, “When’ll yer bitch be back?”

She’s not mine. And she’s not a bitch, no matter what she said to me in rage. But I give him a vague answer to buy more time. “Next week.”

“Have her home by Monday, boyo. Or I’ll send a man who can.”

Aiofe’s sitting at the table, so I don’t tell him what I’m thinking. Instead, I end the call and scowl at my newspapers until I can manage a civil word.

I’ve just managed to send Aiofe up to the nursery to wait for John Bell when my phone rings again. I glare, wondering if Ingram’s using a new number to torment me. He isn’t, but this call is nearly as bad. Seamus is calling with the weekly report I’ve ordered him to make.

He starts off with: “It’s bad.”

I stare out the window at the vicious rain while he gives me the grim financial rundown. I’ve heisted all the funds from Kelly Construction that I can manage without landing unwelcome questions from tax officials, labor unions, and more.

But we’re really feeling that shipment of cocaine Russo boosted last month. Ingram’s insisting on his ten percent, even though I never saw a penny from the docks. Every one of my gambling fronts is in the red—shite timing, and there’s no way of knowing when the tide will turn. The land for the new Hare and Harp was more dear than we planned, and we’re paying a king’s ransom to make the fire inspectors look the other way over the wetwork room in the old place. And then there’s “that matter” in Dublin, the one Seamus is careful not to name, as if he fears I’ll take his head off just for mentioning it. He thinks we’ve closed the books on that one, all that’s left is paperwork, but he can’t be sure for a few more days.

“Sorry, Boss,” Seamus says.

“Can’t be helped,” I tell him. But when I end the call, I send a text to Patrick, letting him know I’ll do the milk run today. I need to see who I can lean on for a little extra cash.

I start at Mimi’s.

The madam looks up from her Bailey’s in surprise. “Wasn’t expecting to see you,” she says, barely hiding a yawn behind her red-painted nails. “Want me to wake one of the girls?”

The thought of taking a ride turns my belly like milk left on the counter for a week.

I shake my head and say, “Just your envelope.”

Mimi laughs and flutters a hand over her chest, where her heart would be if she had one. “Well, your sense of humor’s fine as ever.”

I stand a little straighter. “Come on, Mimi. Hand it over.”

A quick glance at the counter between us tells me where she keeps her gun, or maybe it’s just a baseball bat. “Good one,” she says, looking straight in my eyes. “I’ll see you next week.”

She’s smarter than that. I plant both hands on the counter and lean forward, hoping all she needs is a little encouragement to turn back into the solid, reliable account she’s always been. “I need my money, Mimi.”

“Then talk to your brother.”

“To— Madden was here?”

“Him and the girl you brought in. The one that looks like someone forgot to cage a tiger.”

Fiona.

Fiona Ingram is supposed to be in Boston. But that’s not actually true, I realize in a rush. When I sent her packing at Easter, she hitched a ride with Madden. I assumed my brother drove her to Thornfield, collected her things, and took her to the private airfield north of Philly. I thought he put her on her father’s plane and sent her home—good riddance.

But Samantha never saw Fiona in Boston.

And Fiona herself said she was staying in Philly.

Fiona toyed with Madden the whole time she lived at Thornfield. He took her for a walk in the garden. He played her feckin’ limerick game at the party. He drove off with her in his acid-green McLaren, like he found the golden egg on his very own Easter egg hunt.

Christ.