Mrs. McCrery is behind the bar, wiping glasses with a dirty rag that can’t really be helping their cleanliness. Maybe I can slide them back in the dishwasher with some soap when she’s not looking.
Her eyes land on Ronan first, and her lips compress into a hard line. “Your da has been waiting for you,” she hisses, her voice crackling from way too many years of smoking.
But then she catches sight of me and her eyes light up. In that split second you know exactly why my dad says she was such a heartbreaker back in the day.
“Sailor!” And before I can duck out of the way, she’s around the bar and hitting my rear with a snap of that filthy towel. Despite myself, I grin and duck down to give her a hug.
I pick her up and spin her around for good measure, and she rewards me with a shriek before she grabs my ear and yanks. I don’t see her often because she works days and I’m mostly here at night, but every time I do she reminds me of my mother. She feels smaller and frailer than I remember, though.
Seems like a whole generation is just fading away.
Just at the thought my gut tightens, but I don’t even get to dwell. A voice cuts in, a hard-edged guy I don’t recognize with a heavy smoker’s voice glaring up at me with watery red-rimmed eyes. “You Navy?”
“Coast Guard,” Mrs. McC says proudly.
He’s looking me up and down, getting ready to spew some insults, so I beat him to it. Flashing my biggest grin, I ask Mrs. McC, “You know what they say about the Coast Guard?”
She quirks an eyebrow, like she knows what I’m doing. Trying to stave off a fight. I’m not going to fight a drunk old bastard, and I can tell from the way he’s eying me he’s looking for trouble. All too often I’m dealing with assholes eager to take on the Doyle enforcer.
Enforcer. Such a stupid outdated word. Occasional thug.
“What’s that?”
“You better be over six feet tall so when your boat sinks you can walk to shore.” I’m well over six foot, and for some reason that always makes the joke funnier. The guy gives half a laugh and some of the tension diffuses.
“Kieran.” My father’s deep gravelly voice cuts through the room, and every eye in the bar moves in his direction.
He looks good today, but he’s wearing oxygen. His voice is mild, but there’s an edge that reminds me of times when I was too dumb as a kid to listen and got into a heap of trouble. “If you’re done flirting with Maude, come back and see me a minute.”
She winks as she swipes the remainder of my ice coffee from my hand and slides it onto the bar out of sight.
My father’s office looks exactly the way it has for the thirty or so years I’ve remembered it.
“Late night?”
Ronan’s eyes are going back and forth, trying to read the temperature in the room. He’s always an instigator, but nobody loves my dad more than Ronan. I see the hint of a sly gleam just as he cuts in.
“Found him in bed with three women, Dad. Took me an hour to drag them off.”
A long second passes, and then Murph gives a snort. “Stop calling your brother’s dog his girlfriend.” It feels like the old days for a second, and I bite my lip to keep from saying anything. Don’t want to disrupt the magic.
My father leans back, grabs an empty package of cigarettes, and taps the box on the edge of the table. It takes everything I have not to grab it out of his hand and hurl it out the window. I’ll hate the habit that’s taking him from us until the day I die.
“Ronan, give us a few minutes,” my father says, nodding to the empty package. In other words, get me some smokes kid. Ronan’s face tightens like he wants to argue, to stay, but he just grumbles and stalks out.
The heavy door bangs shut behind him.
Dad regards me steadily for a few minutes and then gives me a slow grin. “Three ladies.”
I shrug. “Just trying to keep up with your reputation, Dad.” We both know it’s bullshit. My father was a one-woman man all my life, even after she was gone.
He’s regarding me thoughtfully, and for a minute I think he might say something personal. But then he shrugs.
“Job for you. The Carneys.” He’s got the Irish accent but still drops his Rs in true Boston style.
Fuck. I hate the Carneys. Rich family, got one of the new casino licenses and splashing out a real fancy place. Buying up as much of the city as they can, turning good neighborhoods with good people into overpriced condo farms.
“What do you need, sir?”
“How would you feel about a little trip? Take that dog of yours, get out of town for a couple of weeks?” Chills shoot down my spine. There’s nothing I’d like better, but I don’t want to leave. And part of me is still freaked out by how well my dad has always anticipated what I need.
“Your uncle Danny called me last night.” Danny Fitzgerald is my mother’s brother, one of the men I looked up to the most as a kid. “He’s got some trouble out on the island. Needs some help.”
The island. Martha’s Vineyard, where my mother’s family owned property before it became the summer playground of fancy politicians. And worse.
“You go have a nice summer vacation. Deal with whatever’s happening, you hear me?”
He aimlessly taps the empty package against the edge of his desk. “Maybe go see if you can find out anything about their plans here. Hit up the casino, one of their bars. Whatever you’re up for, Kieran.”
A silence descends, and I’m thrown back to being eighteen. Standing in this same room, furious and staring into the bright red face of Murphy Doyle, who rarely got angry despite having a gang of stupid sons to deal with.
My dad bought off some cop or judge to knock the charges I’m facing to a misdemeanor. I’m pissed because, while I’d been doing some stupid shit, I didn’t really think I’d earned an arrest, never mind all the bullshit they say they’ll throw at me.
Then my dad’s talking about a deal he can cut. Sign up for the service, like actual military service, and no court. No charges.
“I’m not going into the fucking Army.”
My mistake hits me before the words leave my mouth. My father served in the Army, and what, I’m too good for it? Fuck, that’s not what I meant. But I can see it on his face, that combination of hurt and disappointment and endless patience that’s like a kick to the gut. That makes him such a great father. Such an intimidating man.
Even in that moment, I know I’m not too good for shit. I’m just eighteen, got too much testosterone. Hate people always wanting to fight me because I’m a Doyle, because I’m just some big thug. Angry all the time because nobody actually takes the time to get to know me or ask what the hell I want.
Not that I’d know the answer if they did.
All I want to do is play some music. Even toured Berkeley music college with one of my buddies, not that my grades are good enough to get into college, never mind a place like that. Besides, you can’t make a living playing guitar, as everyone loves to tell me constantly.
“Pop, I didn’t mean…”
Murphy Doyle has had enough of my shit for one day, and he puts up a warning hand. Stop talking or he’ll give me something to really complain about. Age and size be damned.
“Kieran, you’re not going to jail. I spent two years of my life in a concrete box and I’d sooner kill someone than let them put you there.”
Now I feel like more of an asshole. I dip my head to hide the flush creeping over my cheeks.
“Things are not going well for you right now, son.”
I start to argue, to say I’ll turn things around. Something. Anything to keep my life from spiraling out of control.
“You were always a happy kid, a good kid. A pain in my ass, but a good kid.” He looks at me hard. Really hard, and the weight of his stare and his expectations bear down on me. His love too, which is the hardest part.
“But you’re at a point in your life where I think you need to get away. Get some space. Get your head on straight.”
That’s what I�
��ve been feeling. But where the hell am I going to go?
“Being my son, being a Doyle. Not the easiest thing.” Something in my chest shifts.
It’s true, but he’s fought so hard for the life that he’s given me and my brothers. Our family. We owe him everything.
“But it’s not the hardest either, and you’re a man now. A god damned adult and it’s time you start acting like one. Comes a time you have to decide what you want from your life. I know you love that music, but you can’t eat songs, Kieran.”
My jaw goes hard. I’ve got the talent and the drive.
But even I know the people that make it are already way past where I am. Private lessons, summer camps, all that bullshit. No eighteen-year-old son of an Irish mafia guy, excuse me former mafia guy, is getting any breaks.
He sees the defiance, and whatever kindness was there a second ago evaporates.
“You want a place here, with me? You’ll earn it. You disappointed me, boy.”
And there it is, the words I’d rather die than hear. He clears his throat, points at the door.
“Get out. Take a walk, and for fuck’s sake, stay out of trouble. You got one night to make up your mind. Get your ass back here at eight a.m. tomorrow sharp and you’ll walk me through your plan. For now? Get out of my sight.” His voice has a flatness that gives the words a razor’s edge.
I can’t get out of that office, and out of the Kildare, fast enough.
My dad clears his throat, and my head snaps up. He’s watching me intently, his tired blue eyes sharp.
Putting my hands on my knees, I push up out of the chair and make to head for the door. “Thanks, Dad. I’ve got this. I won’t let you down.”
I’m almost out of the room, my hand on the door, when he says very softly, “You never did, Kieran. You never did.”
Doyles don’t cry, but I sure as hell don’t turn around. Something’s burning my eye. Time to go find some Carneys and find out what the hell they’re doing to my family’s property.
Ready for the rest of Kieran’s story? Grab your copy of thug on Amazon now!
Hustle: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 13
