by David DeLee
“Or what, boy-o?”
As lightning fast as Paddy Flanagan moved, McMurphy moved faster. He lashed out and grabbed his old man’s throat. Flanagan grabbed his son’s wrists but couldn’t break his grip. McMurphy shoved him back to the bar, bent him over it. Bottles rattled and several glasses fell to the floor, shattering.
McMurphy leaned in close to his father’s ear. “I’m not a scared little boy you can intimidate anymore, Paddy. Tell me what you want or so help me I’ll break your fat neck.”
Kayla put a hand on McMurphy’s shoulder. “Skyjack. No.”
Still McMurphy squeezed. Pure hatred blazing in his eyes.
Flannagan’s face turned beet red. He struggled to breathe against the pressure closing his windpipe. He slapped at McMurphy’s arm.
“Skyjack,” Kayla said. “Stop.”
Another tense second passed.
McMurphy released him. He backed away, but didn’t take his eyes off his father. McMurphy paced the room. Flanagan cleared his throat, coughed, and massaged his neck.
“The last time we…spoke,” McMurphy said, “you gave me your word. You’d leave me alone. Let me live my life, away from your sordid business.”
“The family business. Three generations,” Paddy shouted but his voice cracked. He coughed. “The business my grandfather, your great-grandfather started, that helped build this great nation.”
“Spare me, Great Granddad was a lowly mill-working and a hopeless drunk. And Granddad, he was nothing but a murderer who ran some small-time rackets and got what he deserved.” McMurphy tapped the back of his neck. “A bullet in the back of his head. His remains part of the concrete foundation in downtown Providence somewhere. Forgotten and missed by no one.”
“You’ve got no respect, boy-o. Never did.” Flanagan’s face flushed more. “Speaking of the dead that way. Shameful.”
“We agreed, Paddy, “McMurphy said. “You swore on Momma’s grave or does that not mean anything to you anymore? Your word?”
“Me?”
He rushed at McMurphy again, stabbing at his chest with his finger. “You did this. Not me. You.”
“Did what?” McMurphy growled. “I haven’t so much as thought about you in years.”
That wasn’t true of course. How could a son not think about his father? But in truth, McMurphy had tried. For the past five years he’d mostly succeeded.
Until Bannon and Tara got tangled up with Dominick Bonucci and Vincent LaSala. That dredged up old memories, painful memories. The current co-existence of LaSala’s syndicate, Flanagan’s gang and Kwon’s yakuza hadn’t come about around a campfire, singing kumbaya, and sharing a bottle of booze. It had been a bloody and violent undertaking, and it had drawn a young and impressionable John McMurphy into its chaos.
He’d managed his escape by joining the Coast Guard. Running away, as Paddy had put it. The family business. It had been McMurphy’s to inherit but he’d wanted no part of it, even if he came to that realization far too late.
Since then, he’d put it all behind him, did what he could to adjust his life’s balance sheet, and forget who Flanagan was and what he’d been to him. Once.
Now here he was, getting dragged back in.
Paddy grabbed a TV remote from the desk and clicked on a flat screen TV that sat on a rolling serving cart like the kind used in hotels. Stolen probably. The cart and the TV.
A gray scale picture snapped on to the dark screen.
McMurphy immediately recognized what he was seeing and his stomach soured. The screen showed a closed-circuit video feed of CCB, the check cashing store they’d helped Bonucci knock off in Dorchester. Specifically, the back room. The video feed had already uploaded to a remote server before Bonucci disabled the onsite hard drive and took it with him.
They watched in silence—without audio—as the robbery took place, clearly visible on the screen were Tara and McMurphy, the kid Chad, along with Bonucci’s idiot henchmen Rico and Bennie. It was clear as day as the cash was dumped into the gray containers and the containers were taken out the back door.
When the screen blinked to snow, Flanagan used the remote to snap off the TV. The screen went dark once more.
McMurphy shook his head. “I had no idea.” But the truth was, he should have. He knew enough about Flanagan’s business to realize the mistake he’d made. He just hadn’t thought about it. “I didn’t think…”
Flanagan tossed the remote onto the makeshift bar and picked up his drink, taking a healthy slug of booze. “On that we can agree, boy-o.”
Kayla looked from one to the other. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?”
“Paddy’s gang deals in loan sharking, illegal gambling, drugs, dealing in stolen goods.”
“I deny that accusation, such ugly terms. I am a businessman who provides the community the services it desires. Supply and demand. The same as any other business. It’s the American way.”
“Along with murder schemes, kidnappings for ransom,” McMurphy went on, “and let’s not forget my personal favorite, the protection rackets.”
“Apparently you did, boy-o.”
“Well that explanation was as clear as mud,” Kayla said. “And told me nothing.”
“CCB. The check cashing store we helped rob? It’s a protected business,” McMurphy said. “Paddy extorts money from the business owner—”
Flanagan frowned. “Extorts. Such an ugly word.”
“Gets paid,” McMurphy amended. “To make sure what we did doesn’t happen.”
“It wasn’t just a protected property, boy-o. Have you forgotten everything I taught you as a boy?”
“I’ve tired to.”
“A total cash operation. Millions of dollars in cash flowing through that place without almost any oversight.”
“Of course,” McMurphy said. “That’s what’s really got you so upset. It’s one of your money laundering operations, too.”
“I’d never admit to something so… criminal. But,” Flanagan paused for dramatic effect. “If one were to operate such an operation from such a place. And it got ripped off. That wouldn’t just embarrass said person, damage their creditability on the street, it would mean,” he thumped his fist against his chest, losing control, “you stole from me! FROM ME!”
Kayla looked from Flannagan to McMurphy then back again. “Okay, we didn’t know. It was a mistake. Surely we can work something out.”
Flanagan and McMurphy exchanged glances. Their frowns deep.
“It’s not that simple,” McMurphy said.
“I cannot allow a protected property to be robbed,” Flanagan said, defiantly. “If I did, then who will continue to pay me for protection? Would you? It’s a reputation thing. People need to know I can deliver. Then there is the issue that someone actually would steal from me. Well, that someone would have to answer for such a transgression. Someone must pay the price.”
“What kind of price are we talking about?” Kayla asked.
“A strong one,” Flanagan said. “One that sends a message. A strong message that deters anyone from trying something as foolhardy as this again. A message so strong, so loud, it assures my…clients, they’re protection money is money well spent.”
McMurphy snorted.
Kayla said, “Is he talking about what I think he’s talking about?”
McMurphy nodded. “The price is someone’s life.”
Kayla’s mouth dropped open. She spun around to face Flanagan. “He’s your son for God’s sake. You’d kill your own son?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Kill him?” Flanagan said. “What on earth would make you think I’d kill my own son?”
Kayla stared at Flanagan like he had two heads. “You’re a mobster. You murder people for a living, and you just said—”
Amused, he smiled. “First off, I do not murder people for a living, that would make me a hitman. Which I am not. I’m a legitimate business man.”
McMurphy barked a laugh.
; “As for what I said, it was the boy-o who mentioned killing someone.”
“Based on ample precedence,” McMurphy said.
Flanagan returned to the bar to refill his drink. Kayla now saw where McMurphy got his gargantuan capacity to consume alcohol from. “The boy-o and I have our difference—”
“There’s the understatement of the year,” McMurphy said.
“But even I know,” Flanagan said, “the great ‘Skyjack’ McMurphy, courageous helicopter pilot, Afghan war hero, Coast Guard Warrant Officer extraordinaire, winner of the Coast Guard Cross for extraordinary heroism in action, a Silver Star for gallantry in action, and not one, but two Purple Hearts...”
He clasped his hand on his son’s shoulder. McMurphy brushed it off. Flanagan raised his glass as if making a toast.
“A man boy scouts look up to and heroes want to be. That man would never stoop to a lowly life of crime. He would never tarnish himself with committing a street level heist. Not even for some misguided act of retribution against his old man.”
For your information, not everything is about you,” McMurphy said.
Kayla noticed him glance at the smudged narrow windows that ran along the wall near the ceiling. They had grown brighter with the approaching dawn. She knew his thoughts were on Bannon and Tara, on the Bakuto docking at Boston Harbor.
“I knew,” Flanagan continued, “as soon as I saw him on that video, this had to have something to do with some secret, James Bond mission of his.”
McMurphy blinked. Not much surprised him, Kayla knew, but this, this was as close as he came to being shocked. “What is it you think you know about…what I do?”
Flanagan shook his head, as if dealing with a disappointing child. “You really think I’m not plugged into what’s going on with Homeland Security, the DEA, FBI. A person in my line of work wouldn’t get far without paid sources. I know you and that goodie-goodie you hang around with work for Secretary Grayson, doing her secret dirty work. ‘Know thy enemy.’”
“Seriously, you’re going to quote Sun Tzu to me.”
“You think of your son as your enemy?” Kayla asked.
Flanagan appeared to give the question serious thought before answering. “No. John’s more of an X-factor. A wild card in the deck. This situation being the perfect example.” His expression hardened. “Which brings us back to the point of this little get together. I want the people who are really responsible for ripping me off. Oh, and I want my money back. But let’s start with who are they?”
“I can’t tell you that,” McMurphy said.
“Someone needs to answer for this,” Flanagan reminded him. “You better rethink your answer, boy-o.”
“It’s a highly-secretive government operation,” McMurphy said, lying through his teeth. “A young man’s life is at stake and another one is dead. We’re trying to stop that from happening again.”
“And you needed my money for that, why?”
“We didn’t know the business was protected,” McMurphy said. “I’m serious when I say it had nothing to do with you or that you were laundering money through it.”
“Ignorance is no excuse,” Flanagan said. “I will find out what’s going on, and who’s behind it. If I have to turn the streets upside down to it, then more than one person’s going to end up dead.”
“You wouldn’t,” Kayla said.
“It’s what he does,” McMurphy said, utter contempt in his voice. “That bloody coup attempt against LaSala we talked about earlier. That was orchestrated by dear old dad here.”
He crossed the room and poured himself a large drink.
Flanagan watched him. “I deserved my shot.”
McMurphy drank. “The New York families didn’t see it that way. They shut him down,” he explained to Kayla. “Put this pathetic old man in his place, but not before a lot of people were dead.” He finished the drink and slammed the glass down on the bar. “We’re done here, Paddy.”
He strolled past Flanagan with purpose. To Kayla, he said, “Let’s go.”
He pulled the door open to leave, only to find Dennis waiting for him on the other side, an automatic weapon aimed at his gut. McMurphy turned back to face his father. “Seriously?”
Flanagan had extracted a shiny .45 caliber pistol from under his jacket. He thumbed the hammer back. It made a loud metallic click as he pointed it at Kayla.
“Nobody’s going anywhere until I say so. Who’s responsible for ripping me off?”
“And if I say shove off,” McMurphy said. “What then?”
Flanagan grabbed Kayla by the arm and pulled her in tight to him. He pressed the .45 to her temple. “Then I blow Sweet Cake’s pretty little brains all over my back room.”
McMurphy smiled.
Kayla raised an eyebrow. “Sweet Cakes?”
She twisted her head away from the gun and gave Flanagan a hard look. “Get that gun out of my face or it’ll be your brains they’re mopping up off the floors.”
“I’d be careful, boss,” Dennis said from the hallway. “She’s a fiery one.”
McMurphy glanced at Dennis. He shook his head. Exasperated he swung the door shut, slammed it in Dennis’ face. “I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
“Skyjack, no,” Kayla warned.
He waved her protest off. “It’s fine.”
Flanagan released his grip on Kayla and tucked the .45 back in his belt behind his back. “Now you’re talking sense, boy-o.”
Kayla moved away from Flanagan, closer to McMurphy. “You sure about this?”
“He might actually be of some use to us. Here’s the deal, Paddy. A body washed up on Hampton Beach yesterday with a bullet hole in the back of his head. To be clear, that wasn’t your handiwork, was it?”
“No,” Flanagan said. “Did heard about it though. Should’ve known that gombeen Vinnie Knuckles was behind this.”
“How’d you make that leap?” McMurphy asked.
“Riggi, the kid got whacked on the beach works for LaSala. A low-level associate of his. What’s that got to do with my operations?”
McMurphy kept it vague. “LaSala’s got a problem, financial in nature.”
“That jimmies up with what I’ve been getting from the streets,” Flanagan said.
“Which is?” McMurphy asked.
“Vinnie’s been knocking over cash rich businesses all over town for the past few weeks. This is the first time he’s been brazen enough to encroach on my territory though. He must be getting desperate. The word is he’s positioning himself to make a big-time drug deal with his buddies, Raul and Rafael Solis.”
“The leaders of the Boyacá Cartel,” Kayla asked. They weren’t the largest of the Columbian cartels in the South American but they had a reputation as one of the fastest-growing and most ruthless of the bunch.
“The very same,” Flanagan said. “Way I hear it, LaSala’s been making arrangements to purchase a large shipment of cocaine from Rafael. Bigger deal than anything he’s done before. But I’ve heard he’s run into a snag. This the money troubles you’re talking about?”
McMurphy nodded. “His chief finance guy’s gone missing.”
He didn’t elaborate beyond that.
“That how Toi Kwon fits into this?” Flanagan asked.
“What made you bring him up?”
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you since the CCB job. My guys saw you board the Bakuto last night. It was how we knew to nab you at the docks. Only reason you’d step foot back on that floating wreck was if Kwon was involved in all of this.”
The man’s instincts were sharp as ever, McMurphy had to give him that. “Kwon grabbed Billy Palmer, LaSala’s money guy.”
“Well that is a problem.” Flanagan said. “For LaSala.”
“You don’t seem too concerned,” Kayla said.
“If Kwon thinks LaSala’s gonna pay ransom for his guy, even this Palmer guy, he’s a bigger idiot than I thought he was.” He shrugged. “No skin off my nose if Kwon gets taken out.”
/> “You’re the idiot, Paddy.”
“Watch your tongue with me, boy-o.”
“Kwon’s not looking for a one-time ransom payout,” Kayla explained. “If he’s successful, Kwon’ll have access to all of LaSala’s financial records; access codes, passwords, details to every offshore account, ever dummy corporation, every investment, legit and otherwise, the syndicate has. Everything he uses to wash his money. A record of every dirty politician, judge, and cop he’s ever paid off. Every dime he’s ever earned from his illegal operations. His entire financial network will be in Kwon’s hands.”
McMurphy added, “Including, I suspect, any back room deals you and LaSala ever cooked up.”
Paddy blinked. A stunned expression on his face.
“Either way, you lose,” McMurphy said. “If Kwon fails, gets himself killed in the process, then LaSala makes his big deal drug buy.”
From Flanagan’s pained expression, Kayla saw McMurphy had struck a nerve.
McMurphy hammered the point home. “If he controls that much of the drug trade, he can flood the market with his product, then hold back supply and drive up demand, and prices. He’ll control the streets in a way he hasn’t been able to in over twenty years. Maybe even enough to squeeze you out. That’s what’s making Kwon so twitchy.”
“He’s afraid the Yakuza will get left out in the cold,” Kayla said.
Flanagan frowned. “He’s probably right.”
“If Kwon comes out the winner of this little gambit of his,” McMurphy said. “He’ll have access to everything LaSala’s used for decades to control Boston’s criminal underworld; his money, his businesses, his corrupt city officials, cops, and others. He’ll have LaSala under his thumb, doling out money and favors like a loan shark, demanding an exorbitantly high vig and forcing LaSala to borrow his own money. But if you think he’ll leave you alone to run your little fifdom here in Southie without interference, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“You’re sure about all this?”
“As sure as I am leprechauns wear green on St. Patrick’s Day.”
