The Fighting O'Keegans

by Aaron Kennedy

  He had thought it through, it was a shame to add such things to such a refined car but better a few extra precautions than to end up a dead man bleeding over the new leather upholstery. Meehan had specified each and every feature and inch on this machine, failing purposely to mention to anyone, even his brother that he had added the extra glass option. There was no reason why everyone needed to know his business and anyway, they might think he was getting jumpy if they knew this car was not only built to turn head but also to turn bullets.

  Meehan smiled to himself, let anyone try to plug him when he was in his new car, if anyone threw a few bullets in his direction he would just smile back at the bastards before hunting them down and cutting off their balls for scratching even the windows of his new pride and joy. It felt good to be bullet-proof, there was the one place where he truly felt safe, a place where no one could get at him, aside from it’s beauty, this was another reason why this was Meehan’s prized possession.

  Pulling himself back from another ten minute slice admiring his new car, Meehan thought through the plans he had made for tomorrow night’s excursion to O’Keegan’s fight night.

  Where the hell had this guy come from? He had sent feelers out and his man on the ship had not been bullshitting him, O’Keegan and his boys really had just come across on the steam ship. It was amazing to Meehan, the way these guys were moving around the city, setting themselves up so quickly, it was almost as if they had done all of this before.

  Meehan shook his head, not able to get his mind around the fact that these guys hadn’t come from some other outfit. Perhaps they had the backing of another family that wanted Meehan’s territory, no one just got off the boat and could be up and running so quickly unless they knew what they were doing. These guys couldn’t just be poor slobs from the old country who were getting lucky? His fingers continued to trace a line across the light’s chrome as his mind went over it, once more thinking through the solution.

  Meehan went back to his plans, thanking the fact he had stayed connected to a few good men back in Ireland. He could trust them as much as he could trust anyone, people he had grown up with, near cousins. He had kept them sweet, the odd gift here and there, sent back to those good old boys. He had never thought that it was anything but sentimentality, showing those old shit kickers just how far he’d come on since leaving. But now those connections and those efforts would paid off.

  It had literally only taken a day for some of those good old boys to track down O’Keegan’s old town and find out O’Keegan’s story, O’Keegan’s weakness. His ace would be arriving today, he was looking forward to it. It was the answer to all this crap.

  As Meehan’s fingers trailed one last time along the glossed fender, Shorty watched on from across the street, smiling as Meehan’s knuckle gave the side doors window an last tap before he went back inside his impregnable warehouse.

  Meehan was pleased in his own way, it felt good to hold all the aces. With effort, he pulled himself away from the car and thinking on O’Keegan. He’d wasted too much time on that bastard as it was, time to get back to real business.

  Walking back into the warehouse, he brushed past two of his collectors waiting outside of the office door. Meehan was instantly angry at himself, they must have walked straight passed him unnoticed while he was with his car. He really did need to get his head back on the important stuff. Walking through to his office, Meehan ignored their attempts to get his attention, slamming the glass wood framed door as he went. Sitting down Meehan planted his feet on the desk, looking at his recently polished shoes, turning his anger down as they gleamed back at him, knowing in a few seconds his brother would come through. Settling himself down, Meehan waited.

  Tony poked his head around the door, not willing to put his body in full view - that always meant bad news.

  ‘Okay if I bring in these two guys Denny?’

  ‘Yeah, but I hope for their sake they got a good story, I heard what happened already…tell them they better have a good explanation why it took them two days to come tell me, what have they been doing? Drinking every bar dry before they got here?’

  The two deswaggered collectors came through, both standing at the foot of Denny’s desk, as close to attention that civilians can get, eyes focused on the dirty yellow water stained space above Denny’s head, Meehan could smell the stale drink, cigar smoke and fear on them, sure they had recently dragged themselves up from the floor of some joint after pulling a two day straight binge. It could have been his Father standing there, it smelt like it.

  ‘Well, you better have a fucking good explanation for killing that Shopkeeper, he’s paid regular for more years than I’ve been here, the others in that neighbourhood will respond bad to it. Was there no other way?’ Meehan flicked his eyes from one to the other, resting them finally on the one he knew was always the talker, the thinker and probably the only one with the balls to be the shooter. Meehan knew both collectors from way back, no one would claim they were old friends but these guys were as close as it got. He looked at the talker’s partner, knowing he didn’t have the grey matter to do more than he was told, this was the talker’s problem.

  ‘I don’t think so Boss.’ The talker stood more upright, trying to summon up the strength to take what was coming.

  ‘What…he threaten you? Come at you with a gun did he? Maybe a bat? Perhaps he threatened you with a big bag of flour? Maybe there were ten of them trying to beat you with their aprons? Come on, tell me how there was no other way…what did he do? Set his dog on you? You can tell me…speak UP for God sake. Tell me how the FUCK it happened that you kill one of the people that puts bread on my table without my say so…’

  ‘He didn’t want to pay, he tried to turn us away…gave us some story about the other shop keepers coming together…’

  Meehan sat back down, laughing.

  ‘You mean to tell me you killed this guy because a handful of shop keepers made themselves into a one or two street corner store union? You couldn’t handle it better than killing the first person that said ‘not today’ to you? Why do I pay you guys? I can get kids to walk into stores, pickup money and walk away, I expect some fucking brains from you guys…I pay for some fucking brains from you guys…’ Meehan could feel the blood pumping into his face, felt the tell tale throb of the vein in his head. Raising his fingers up to run along the thumping cord, he made an effort to breath, wanting control, struggling for it. Sighing, Meehan lowered his hand, trying to take hold of reason, of some understanding.

  ‘Look, I’m not saying that sometimes there isn’t the need to make an example of someone…but I knew this guy, he was regular, he knew how the game worked….he was one of the reliable payers.’ Slamming his hand down on the desk, reason started to dissipate.

  ‘But so far you haven’t told me enough that I shouldn’t hang you up on hooks outside the store where you killed this guy. I’m a reasonable man, you know that…’ He took a breath, watching the talker as he took an involuntary step back. ‘..so tell me why I shouldn’t do it? What more is there to tell me so I know this isn’t just some fucking giant screw UP?’

  The talker exchanged looks with his partner, they both knew this was as close as they had come with Meehan to finding themselves absent a heartbeat, looking back at Meehan, the talker heard himself say,

  ‘O’Keegan Boss. That was why we did it.’

  Meehan sat forward, hands pressed firmly down on his desk, knuckles tightening.

  ‘O’Keegan? He was there?’

  The talker shook his head.

  ‘No Boss…No, he wasn’t there, if he had been we would have dealt with him for you…’ He tried to give Meehan his best smile but failed, a frightened sneer the only expression his face could make,

  ‘…No, but it was O’Keegan, the shop keeper said he wouldn’t pay because of O’Keegan. Said all the shop keepers had got together, the neighbourhood had agreed not to pay until we sort out O’Keegan. Some of his boys had been around too and they weren’t s
ure who-’

  Meehan launched himself at the talker, reaching strong arms to grab his jacket, pulling him across the desk until he was laying across it, looking up at Meehan. The talker’s partner had his hand inside his own jacket, reaching for his gun, flying on automatic. He stopped, feeling a hard prod in his back before his hand was fully out. Stretching his head around, Tony grinned back at him, Tony’s gun pressed firmly into his wincing kidney. Meehan didn’t take his eyes of the talker, no longer even seeing Tony or the other guy, his fists pressing down into the talker’s chest as he held his jacket, his weight bearing down.

  ‘It’s taken you two days to come tell me this? Two days to tell me O’Keegan’s boys are trying to take my action? You killed this guy because he didn’t know who to pay? That was our problem, not his problem.’ Meehan pulled the talker up slightly from the desk, then shoved him back down, shouting into his face.

  ‘You stupid fuck…now every shop keeper in this street and every fucking street will be turning to O’Keegan for protection. A few shop keepers don’t know which way is up and you push them all towards O’Keegan. Do you realise what you’ve done? Do you? DO you?’

  The talker struggled to speak, feeling Meehan’s weight pushing down on him.

  ‘I..I..I…’

  Meehan didn’t wait, couldn’t wait, dragging him off the desk, Meehan threw him into the corner of his office. Landing like a bundle of discarded clothes, collapsing awkwardly into the corner, the talker lay winded, twisted and turned around, bent with legs poised above his head.

  Meehan didn’t wait, went in, vein pounding an accelerated martial beat, his shoes keeping time, stamping, kicking, smashing everything Meehan could see and everything he couldn’t. Meehan’s hands pressed against each corner wall, steadying himself and gaining more leverage as he kept on, the talker’s knee cap smashed in on itself with direct blows, reversed, fingers splayed and splitting under solid heels, up down, up down.

  Breathing racking breaths, Meehan’s hair covering his eyes as he went on and on, pulping flesh, skin and bone past mush. Kneeling down on one knee into the spreading pool of blood, he knocked aside a hand raised in futile efforts to ask for salvation, for pity, Meehan focused, taking the hand in both his own, bending it back with a snap before letting it fall once more into the heap.

  Fist raised, Meehan struck at the face that grimaced blood wave streaks up at him, nose spreading smudged, blood bubbling, a last collection of Meehan’s fingers into the red Gollum’s throat, all air released, puncture out, Meehan rasped, finally done.

  ‘You stupid, stupid, stupid bastard…don’t you know what you’ve done?…don’t you?’

  Meehan felt his the machinery of his fists and arms slowing, felt the drain, the anger leaving him, seeing the collector below him, sure he was on death’s edge, hearing his last choke as his lungs struggled and failed to gain breath. Fingers touched Meehan’s shoulder, Meehan looked up, his eyes wide, wanting someone to make it all better.

  Tony looked down at him, hands under his armpits as he felt himself raised, feeling a wet stickiness on his trousers, his face, his hair, the smells of blood and crap engulfed everything, raising he was sure he would never smell anything else again. Standing, he allowed himself to be guided by his brother, moving as his eyes resting on the talker’s partner, a glowing shiny redness already seeping through to the brown tiles as he lay, near perfect except for his death wound, his body flat and breathless.

  Meehan collapsed into his chair, his face numb emotionless and solid, allowing his brother to finger comb his hair, as Tony sang an old song of his mother’s under his breath,

  ‘Hush now…hush now…’

  Meehan sat, blood drenched, allowing his eyes to close as he retreated back into the playground of his mind. His Mother singing to him as the overhead window cascaded light on his childhood memory, the smell of recently boiled clothes overwhelming.

  Chapter 32

  It was getting late in the day, the Supervisor hopped from foot to foot, he couldn’t help it. Looking around, six men looked back at him, nearly blank eyes, fire present in only a few, men of all shapes and sizes but all making the poor look wealthy.

  The sunlight began to die as the Supervisor looked up and down the front face of the warehouse, most of it wooden to allow vans to be backed in, a small door in the centre to allow human access.

  Taking a tentative step forward, he knocked noticing the green flakes of old paint fall as he took a step back, waiting.

  The Supervisor stood, most of him hoping there would be no answer, wanting more than anything to turn around and claim a wasted journey, willing to make the apology, even to these men.

  His hand involuntarily raised itself again, knowing that if he didn’t at least try one more time then O’Keegan would probably come looking for him, or worse, Flannery.

  Passing himself over to fate, the Supervisor knocked again, a fly’s breath on the door, without waiting he turned back to the men, a look of mock sadness backed up with a shrug, preparing to leave.

  A split second later the Supervisor froze, inwardly cursing as he heard the bars being pulled, sliding open into their rusted housing, his head jerked up, stepping back as his ears confirm the door’s pre-opening shiver.

  The door opened a crack, swinging back inwards, Shorty’s face replacing it as he eyed the Supervisor and the men. Shorty didn’t move, weighing each of them with a practiced up and down glance then satisfied, his eyes flicked along the street in both directions, careful to check over entrances and exits.

  ‘Come on in…’ Shorty pulled the door open half way, stepping back into the warehouse, shoes shuffling against the concrete floor.

  Some of the men nodded to each other, the most courageous stepping over the bottom door frame lip into the warehouse, then they took turns forming a careless small line as each took his turn to shuffled in behind the last man. As the last nameless man entered, they settled themselves down, feet shuffling and scuffing the hard warehouse floor as they formed a new line to face Shorty and Flannery. Keeping their mouths shut, they waited for the Supervisor to show himself, faces turned back to the outside sunlight. With a trip, the Supervisor puffed his way into the warehouse, a white handkerchief dancing across his nervous sweat filled forehead.

  Shorty had taken his place beside Flannery, looking each man over as they had filtered through, running their eyes meticulously, from boots to hair, taking onboard each man’s physical nuance, mentally filing away a complete picture of each man in line before doing the same with the next.

  Flannery looked around, seeing for a moment the warehouse as the new men would, a makeshift curtains segmenting one corner off from the rest, a few large planks of wood thrown together as a sturdy but temporary bar and a large circle ring already chalked in the centre of the warehouse. Flannery watched the men filter through, some with touches of coal dust still present despite obvious efforts to tidy themselves up a little. He assessed them as a group seeing the same drawn and tired look that he and his boys must have had so soon of the ship. These were just the kind of guys he and O’Keegan wanted, if he could just get them sign up then they would almost double their number overnight, this was too big an opportunity to screw up. Wanting to get as many of these guys as he could, he stepped forward and getting down to business.

  Flannery’s eyes focused on the largest man. Looked over every bulky square inch, Flannery took in the dusty overalls, the tell tale workman’s boots, the dark skin and black loose hair that threatened to block out his vision, the white teeth smiling through. Addressing the big man, Flannery asked his first question.

  ‘Before we talk, which one of you is the leader of your group?’ Taking his eyes off the big man, he looked up and down the line of men, watching a few of the shrug and shuffled, hesitant to volunteer the information. Some seconds passed before, still silent, most of the men turned to look at the first man Flannery had noticed, his grin widened with silent personal amusement.

  ‘I would most
likely warrant that honour’. Taking a step from the line, he mimicked a slight bow.

  Flannery allowed himself a small smile, before continuing.

  ‘…and all of these boys came across with you?’

  The leader frown as if not quite understanding the question then thinking through who had brought them here, he understood. With a firm nod, he said

  ‘Yes. I can vouch for every man here. There are no recent ‘additions’ if that’s what you are asking?’

  Flannery ignored the last statement, content with the leader vouching for his boys. As long as the leader was legitimate then they all were. Flannery took his own step forward already putting together how he would take control of the situation and these boys.

  ‘…and did the Supervisor tell you why you are here?’ Flannery studied the man’s face, watching each muscle movement as the man broadened his smile.

  Turning to the small fat braided Supervisor, the man flicked a lazy index finger over to him with the small amount of respect he could muster.

  ‘He said we should come and meet with you.’ He looked Flannery over, wondering who would need someone like the Supervisor to line up men but he kept his thoughts to himself, still not sure who or what Flannery was. Sensing the man’s hesitation, Flannery looked over at the Supervisor who was trying his best to stay out of focus, standing to the side of both groups.

  ‘You can go now.’ Flannery said.

  The Supervisor thought about it for a second, wondering if he should say anything about the money he was owed if these men joined O’Keegan. The Supervisor fought with himself for a second or two, the desire to make sure his skin was safe starting to overrule his greed.

  Flannery smiled a hard smile at him, almost reading his thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find you’.

  Shaken out of his thoughts, the Supervisor nodded, wondering if Flannery’s boys finding him would a positive or a negative. His shoulders slumped as he became more resigned to it, hoping that Flannery and O’Keegan would still see his usefulness.