by Anna Smith
The two of them sat statue still, looking at the floor.
‘Look at me!’ Kerry’s voice went up a little. ‘I’m seriously considering letting the pair of you go. Completely. Out. You know what I mean? Do you understand that?’
They nodded. Kerry folded her arms.
‘I don’t hear you.’
‘Yes,’ Cal and Tahir muttered in unison.
‘Is that what you want? Because there are plenty of other half-arsed thugs out there who’d be glad of a couple of idiots they can use as cannon fodder. You might make a few quid and have a bit of a swagger about you, but they will eat you up and spit you out. Is that what you want? Because you are free to walk out of that door right now and never come back here.’
Both of them shifted in their seats.
‘No,’ Cal said.
‘No,’ Tahir said shaking his head.
‘We’re sorry,’ Cal said.
‘It’s my fault,’ Tahir said. ‘I shouldn’t have led Cal into the danger. It was me. I was trying to help my friend . . . she—’
Kerry interrupted.
‘I know what you were trying to do, Tahir. Jack has already told me everything. But that doesn’t matter a damn. You work for me, you do what I tell you, or you disappear right now.’ She paused, feeling sorry for the two of them, for Tahir with his handsome young face now bearing a scar that would identify him for the rest of his life. ‘I have plans for this organisation. Good things that will happen, and I only want to have people around me who will listen to and learn from the trusted men who have been with me for years. I don’t need young boys to make my plans any better. So far you’ve done very well and Jack told me you’d been shaping up. Earning your stripes.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ Cal said.
Tahir shook his head in agreement. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘We are sorry.’
Kerry stepped back. She’d had enough of this for the day. She couldn’t be wet-nursing teenagers who were stepping out of line. If it hadn’t been for Cal being Maria’s son, she would have told Jack to send them packing. But she couldn’t do that. And right now, she needed all the hands she could get. Even young boys like them had a role. They’d already proved their worth on the ground, they were plucky and smart. But not smart enough to know when they were walking into an ambush. Perhaps it was time to take them out of the game and let them do menial tasks. She’d speak to Jack and Danny about it later. She looked at Jack and signalled that the meeting was over.
‘Right. Let’s go, boys. I’ve got work for you,’ Jack said.
*
Kerry was preparing to go over to Danny’s house to have dinner with him and Auntie Pat. The occasional meals she had there made her feel the presence of her mother, who was there in Pat’s actions and smile, and she loved to sit and talk of the old days. It was like therapy, to get away from everything that was blowing up all around them. She was showered and dressed and downstairs, having phoned the driver to meet her in the yard. It had crossed her mind that she would want to confide in Pat that she was pregnant, but she swiftly batted the idea away. Where would she even begin with that story? Once it was told, it put an entirely different complexion on everything, and she knew that Danny, much as he would support her all the way, would be concerned that she was in this predicament. Mingling with the cops was one thing, he’d told her, when she’d had to reveal that she’d had a fling with Vinny Burns – even a fling wasn’t the end of the world, though he’d urged caution – but actually having a baby with a cop who was on the other side of everything that they were doing right now would cause an explosion. He’d perhaps think that being pregnant by Vinny might cloud her judgement. Throwing it into the mix wouldn’t be a good idea. She was about to get her jacket from the hall cupboard when she spotted Danny, Jack and Mick coming out of a car that had just pulled into the yard. Their faces were grey with concern. It could only be bad news.
She stood in the kitchen as the door opened and Danny came in, his eyes on fire with rage.
‘What’s up?’ Kerry asked, dreading the answer.
‘Jimmy McConnell. Bastards shot him. Point-blank. In the middle of the fucking street.’
‘Oh, Christ! Not Jimmy!’
Kerry’s knees felt a little wobbly. Jimmy was only twenty-five and one of the young guns who had been with the family for the past few years. He was whip smart and a lovely, loyal tough guy who would have done anything for Kerry. His wife had just given birth to twins.
‘Is he . . .?’
Danny nodded.
‘Oh aye. Fuckers got him right in the back of the head.’
He ran his hand through his hair, and Kerry noticed they were shaking. Danny was sixty-two now. He shouldn’t be picking up dead bodies.
‘What happened?’
Jack spoke. ‘He was coming out of the bookies going to the bank and somebody must have followed him. He wasn’t carrying any money, so he might have been on a private errand or something. But on the way back they got him. As he crossed the road and got close to the bookies, the car pulled up. Apparently one guy got out, door still open. Went right up, put a bullet in and jumped back into the moving car.’
‘Christ!’ Kerry said. ‘Where is he?’
‘The ambulance came. But he was already dead. He’ll be in the hospital mortuary.’
‘Jesus. Does his wife know?’
Danny shook his head. ‘I need to go there now. Before it comes on the evening news.’
‘You want me to come?’
‘No,’ Danny said. ‘I’ll do it. Jimmy was my boy. I trained him up. Had high hopes for him. Jimmy wasn’t just a guy with a gun, he was smart. He was the kind of lad you could have moved up in the game. Anywhere. Maybe even Spain.’ He sighed angrily. ‘Fucking bastards. They’ll pay for this.’
‘Any ideas? What’s the word?’
‘Don’t know. It’s a hit. A planned hit. So Rodriguez has still got somebody on his side over here. Not that we didn’t expect him to hit back here as well as Spain. But we’ll find who he’s working with here, all right.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Frankie Martin stood across from O’Donoghue’s bar in Dublin. He’d crossed from his hotel through St Stephen’s Green, stopping at one point to sit on a bench and listen to a busker strumming his guitar to some old ballad. For a ridiculous moment he’d even felt like any other tourist enjoying the softness of the morning. But Frankie was far from that. The last time he’d been here was two years ago, with Mickey Casey, for a meet with Pat Durkin to set up the deal that would let them be bigger players in the game. Now, as he sparked up a cigarette and took a long drag, it wasn’t lost on him that he was the last man standing of the trio. It wasn’t something he’d be putting on his CV as an asset. But then again, the guys he was about to meet wouldn’t see it like that. The fact that Mickey and Durkin were dead and he wasn’t would tell them that he was a survivor. But it might also tell them that he was a treacherous bastard, which was closer to the truth. Either way, Frankie wasn’t about to start stressing over what they might think of him. Because when it came down to the bare bones, every fucker could be bought. Even though the boys he was about to meet were loyal soldiers of Pat Durkin, he knew they’d soon dry their tears if there was a whiff of greenbacks. He took one last puff of his cigarette and tossed it away as he crossed the street and pushed through the swing doors of the pub. The bar was busy with lunchtime punters, hung-over stag party lads topping up with a hair of the dog, and tourists taking the weight off weary feet. Frankie took a couple of steps into the throng at the bar, his eyes scanning the room for a face he recognised. Then a voice behind him in his ear.
‘All right, Frankie?’
Frankie turned around slowly, because deep down you never really knew who was breathing in your ear like this. He was met by the roguish grin of big Dessie O’Brien.
‘Howya, you handsome fucker?’ The big man’s blue eyes twinkled in his granite face.
‘All the better for seeing you,
big stuff.’
Frankie smiled back at him, even though he wasn’t actually glad to be seeing Dessie’s face at this stage of the game. He thought he was here to see Joe Boy O’Leary and Felix Riordan, two of Durkin’s closest associates who ran the Dublin coke trade for him. O’Brien was obviously here for the muscle, and who could blame Joe Boy and Felix these days if they never crossed the door without serious protection. Nobody would make a move on you if Big Dessie was there. A settled traveller, but fighting gypsy at heart, Dessie could pull an attacker’s arms off and stuff them up their arse if the need arose. Frankie had seen him take out three men in a fistfight one night, tossing them into the River Liffey like a discarded chip bag.
‘The lads are up the back. Come on.’
Frankie felt the grip of Dessie’s giant hand on his upper arm as he ushered him through the packed pub.
The crowd thinned out the further along the bar they went, until there was a table at the far corner, where Joe Boy and Felix sat with pints of just poured Guinness. They looked up at him as he approached, but their expressions were not glad-to-see-you-mate. Frankie knew they’d be looking for a post-mortem into Durkin’s demise, so he’d have to put on his best funereal face.
Joe Boy got up first and stretched out his hand.
‘Frankie. Good to see you.’
‘You too, man,’ Frankie said shaking his hand warmly.
As Felix stood up, Frankie reached out to shake his hand. Felix’s eyes narrowed a little, and he seemed to hang back for two beats, but eventually he took Frankie’s hand.
‘What in fuck’s name happened out there with Pat? Brutal, man! Fucking brutal!’ Felix said, looking Frankie in the eye.
‘Totally,’ Frankie replied. ‘And so fucking unexpected.’ He sat down. ‘We were just sitting there and the Colombian was banging on about how there was a failure in Glasgow with the operation to get Kerry Casey. Then out of fucking nowhere, one of his boys pulled a gun and stuck it right into Pat’s head. Fucking awful to see.’ Frankie shook his head as if it had actually bothered him.
‘What did you do?’ Felix asked.
‘What did I do? Are you fucking kidding me, Felix? Pat’s lying on the deck with blood seeping out of his head, and Rodriguez is sitting there calm as fuck. I did absolutely nothing. I’m not stupid.’ He paused. He wasn’t afraid of these two dicks by any means, but they were entitled to an explanation. Frankie leaned forward. ‘But the thing is, as you know, it went tits up in Glasgow. I was nowhere near that. I wanted to be, or at least to be able to advise Pat about anything that would help with the landscape, but he fucking froze me a bit on it. I don’t know why that was. He said he had his own men, and some of the Irish boys in Glasgow, and he said it was sorted. I wasn’t required. So I was never involved in it. Look, I’m not saying it would have been different if I had. But I know the Caseys. Fuck, man! I grew up with them. I know how they operate. If Pat had brought me in I could at least have marked his card.’
The pair said nothing for a few moments, but Frankie knew they would be aware of some of what happened with the Glasgow operation, and they would have to admit to themselves that it had been a failure.
‘Drink, Frankie?’ Joe Boy asked. ‘Then we’ll get talking.’
‘Aye,’ Frankie said. ‘I’ll have a large vodka and fresh orange.’ He half smiled. ‘I’m on a health kick.’
Joe Boy looked up to where Dessie was hovering with a pint in his hand, and told him to go and get the drink. Frankie breathed a little sigh of relief. He had business to do with these boys today, and he needed them onside. He knew it was risky coming to Dublin after Durkin had been executed in front of his nose in this new set-up they were all involved in. But he thought it was worth the risk. He’d told Rodriguez there would be repercussions from the Durkin clan over what happened, and it was in his interests to quell any trouble before it started. That’s why he was here. To keep them in the fold. And to get them to help him in the fight ahead in Glasgow. They were all on the same shitty ship here. There were no lifebelts if you jumped over the side. All of them were chasing money and power. Frankie had to convince them that he could bring that to their doorstep.
Dessie returned and placed Frankie’s drink on the table, then he retreated to the bar to watch the football match on TV, as well as keeping an eye for any trouble coming in the door. Frankie took a good swig of his drink. He had the feeling he might need it to get through whatever lay ahead here.
‘So,’ Joe Boy sat forward, folding his arms on the table, ‘this Colombian fucker. What’s he like?’ He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose and sniffed. ‘I think we can safely say he’s a bit of a ruthless cunt, given what happened with Pat. But tell me, Frankie, because you’re right in there now. Why should me and the rest of the posse here throw in everything with him? We’re pretty much top dogs here. Sure, we’ve got the fucking ongoing turf shit with the Monaghans, but that’s just the way it works. We’re getting the better of them though. No doubt about that.’
‘Sure,’ Frankie said. ‘But you could make it happen quicker, if you had more heavy-duty help.’
‘Meaning what?’ Joe Boy asked as Felix also sat forward.
Frankie took another swig of his drink, holding the moment as he sensed they took the bait.
‘Rodriguez will throw anything you need at it. Money, guns, bodies – anything you need to stamp all over the Monaghans, wipe them out. Once they’re bleeding, the smart ones will either come over to you or fuck off out of the game.’
Frankie watched as Joe Boy glanced at Felix as they both processed the information. They were no rocket scientists, this pair, but it wasn’t rocket science to know how to wipe out your enemies. You just pummelled them into the ground, picked them off until every one of them was shit scared to step out of the door, and they didn’t even feel safe in their own homes. Any turf wars Frankie and Mickey had sorted in Glasgow were small scale though, among no-mark toerags who had got too big for their boots. They were easy to beat, but there was always the next dipshit, fresh out of jail and feeling like Al Capone, who thought they could take on the Caseys. Frankie and Mickey had always relished the challenge. But the Dublin drug wars were bigger than anything he’d ever done. Two gangland families had been going at it for years and there was blood all over the walls. Even the cops couldn’t get to grips with it. But Frankie hadn’t come here to sell the idea that the Colombians would throw in handers with Durkin’s boys. He’d come to make sure he could get them onside to take on the Caseys and help trample their empire. That was the brief from Rodriguez, but it was up to Frankie how he worked it. If it meant pitching in with them to get rid of their own enemies, that wasn’t a problem.
Joe Boy looked at Felix and they both finally nodded.
‘That’s good to know, Frankie. I like that.’ He paused. ‘But we’ve also got a big operation here. I mean, our coke market alone is massive. You know that. We’ve got our own people we deal with in Spain and Amsterdam. We don’t have a problem with supply and shit, so why do we need to do business with Rodriguez? I know Pat talked it up to us before he left. He convinced us that by pitching in with the Colombian, we’d have access to some big fuck-off hotel complex and much more property than we already have. But then he bumps Durkin off. I mean, where does that leave us?’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ll tell you the problem we have at the moment. I’ve had the accountants looking at our investments and money and where everything is, but it’s looking like Pat moved a substantial amount to Spain. The accountant said he was investing in new business. But where the fuck is this new business? That’s what I want to know. Has Pat invested our money with this Colombian cunt?’
Frankie had never been that close to the conversations between Durkin and Rodriguez, so he couldn’t say if the Irish mob’s money was now already in Rodriguez’s grasp. But he suspected it was.
‘I can’t tell you the answer to that, guys. But all I know is that Pat was thick as thieves with Rodriguez. He was heavily into thei
r operation, and it was him and Billy Hill who were selling the Colombian to the Caseys at that meeting with Kerry Casey a few weeks ago. But it was a frosty meeting and she didn’t get on with Rodriguez, so that’s why there was a bit of trouble there in the past couple of weeks.’
‘I know about that,’ Felix said. ‘What the fuck was that all about? O’Driscoll? Cut his fucking head off? That’s bad craic, man. Bad craic. O’Driscoll was all right. He was over here a few months ago and was a sound man.’
‘He was,’ Frankie said, recalling how he and O’Driscoll had grown up with the Caseys. ‘It was a bad business, and I pointed that out to Pat and to Rodriguez after it happened.’
‘What did Pat say?’
‘To tell you the truth, he wasn’t that arsed about it at all. He was . . . How can I put this without being insulting? He was kind of carried away by the Colombian and the way he did business. Like he was infatuated by the power he seemed to have,’ Frankie exaggerated.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Felix said. ‘What the fuck happened to Pat!’
‘Who knows,’ Frankie said. ‘But that’s over now. All you can do is move forward. Keep going. Look, you can only work with what you’ve got in front of you. And you need to look and see what your best opportunities are.’
They sat for a long moment in silence, and Frankie swirled the ice at the bottom of his glass, then signalled to Dessie for another. The big man came over to the table and the other two ordered two more pints.
‘So,’ Frankie said. ‘Another situation I want to talk to you about.’ He paused. ‘Kerry Casey.’
‘Mickey’s sister,’ Joe Boy said. ‘She sounds ballsy enough all right.’
‘She is that,’ Frankie said. ‘But she’ll come a cropper.’
‘Tell that to your Colombian mate who got a fucking bullet in his leg when he tried to take her on in her own turf,’ Felix grinned. ‘That was a fucking belter, by the way.’
Frankie nodded, half smiling. ‘Yeah. It was that. But it shouldn’t have happened. The operation wasn’t handled properly. She should have been there for the taking. She is there for the taking.’