Page 93 of Player

Finn

We’re at a pub having breakfast and in a heated debate over the edibility of blood pudding when four large men and a middle-aged woman wearing a large, sun hat and a vibrant, tropical printed maxi dress, are seated nearby. A hush falls over the dining area, followed by whispered words. Two words in particular seem to be on everyone’s lips.

South Africans.

Within minutes, a shadow falls across our table. Clarissa looks toward the source, but I don’t need to. I felt their attention the second they spotted us across the dining room.

“You Finn McDuff?” He’s a big fella with a loud, booming voice, but I could snap him like a twig across my bended knee and make him sing like a choir boy if I so desired.

The South Africans’ presence in Cork is no coincidence. And I’m intrigued by their connection to O’Brien. But it’s as clear as the sneer on the big fella’s face, they want something from me.

I slice into my broiled tomato and ignore him.

Clarissa kicks me from beneath the table. I’ve got to say, she’s mighty fast on the uptake. I bet my Sunday breakfast she’s plans on recording this exchange. We’ll find out if I’m correct when I’m deleting it.

“Come,” the big fella says.

“My chailín comes, too.” Guilt, this is. At least, she can walk away from this exchange with something to write about.

The man looks confused.

“His girlfriend. Me.” Clarissa stands. Her excitement could fill the pubs in Ireland.

I chew a mouthful of tomato.

“She’s waiting,” the big fella growls.

“Never make a lady wait,” Clarissa declares over her shoulder, already on the move, unaware that these fellas have the look of hardcore criminals. Trained killers, most likely. It’s in their body language, their arrogance. Hired by the woman waiting nearby.

Got to tell you, I learned the hard way back in Mexico City to never underestimate a woman, no matter her age, nationality, or the company she keeps. And doesn’t Clarissa reinforce this fact every bleedin’ day?

I finish my tomato, place the fork on my plate, then meander over to the table, taking a few seconds to slide my chair next to Clarissa before settling into it. All eyes are on me.

“I see you’re one of those?” the woman comments.

I give her my full attention while casually studying her. In her midforties, attractive in a cougar-like way, used to ordering men about.

“I’ll bite. What am I?”

“The loyal type.”

She glances at Clarissa then back at me. I ever so slowly stretch myself out in my chair and toss an arm across the back of Clarissa’s, while carefully watching the woman’s reaction.

She doesn’t disappoint. Something akin to envy flashes across her expression. Is it her husband disappointing her?

“Find the right beour and staying loyal comes easy.”

“I’m not the sharing type,” Clarissa joins in. “Luckily, Finn isloyal.”

“Happy to hear it. Now he can be loyal to me.”

Clarissa tenses in her seat.

“Easy, love. What she’s proposing isn’t sexual.” I grin at the woman. “Or is it?”

I give her credit, she doesn’t so much as blink. “Vidal needs to beat his next opponent.”

Ah, no qualms about getting straight to the point. “Why?”