by Steven Henry
Her closet was well-equipped for police work and athletics, somewhat less so for evening attire, and decidedly weak on gangster garb. She remembered Kira had worked as a gang task force liaison, and wondered if she should call up the other woman for fashion advice. Erin recognized this for the terrible idea it was. An Internal Affairs cop was one of the last people she should talk to on the subject.
The whole point was to sell the idea that she was head-over-heels for Carlyle. That meant she needed to dress for him, not for the others. Or, at least, to dress so the others thought she was dressing for Carlyle. With that in mind, she went over her wardrobe again and settled on a tight-fitting red blouse and figure-hugging slacks. She made sure to leave an extra button unfastened. Then, after doing her hair, she went to her cosmetics and picked out a more daring shade of red lipstick than she’d ever wear to work. By the time her makeup was done, it was half past seven. She’d have to go if she wanted to get there early, and she ought to touch base with Carlyle before the others arrived. Erin left her Glock behind, but she strapped her backup gun to her ankle, just in case.
“Be good, Rolf,” she told him on her way to the door.
He gave her a look that could have meant, “Right back at you.” Then he settled his chin on his paws, digging in for a long wait.
Chapter 6
Carlyle had suggested Erin use the Barley Corner’s back door for this event, rather than coming in the front. It made sense; she didn’t exactly want to advertise that she was meeting with the leadership of a major criminal organization. She walked up to the heavy steel door and waved at the security camera. After a few moments, the door was opened by a lean, tough-looking young man with a military-style buzz cut.
“Evening, ma’am,” he said.
“Evening, Ian,” she said, smiling at him. Ian Thompson, former Marine Scout Sniper, was one of Carlyle’s most trusted guys. He’d helped her out of trouble on more than one occasion. He was the most polite man in the Irish Mob and, according to Carlyle, the most dangerous. If he was here, it was a good sign Carlyle was taking his security seriously tonight.
“Come on in,” he said.
“I’m looking for your boss,” she said, stepping into the back hallway. She could hear a faint buzz of loud conversation and cheering from the bar.
“First door on the left, ma’am.” He pointed. His sport coat opened briefly, and she saw the Beretta tucked in his shoulder holster.
“Thanks.” She walked past him and through the indicated door.
The Corner’s back room was small, the round card table and chairs making it feel even smaller. A single light fixture in the center of the ceiling shone dimly through an amber lampshade. Two decks of cards and a box of poker chips lay on the green baize tabletop. Carlyle was the only person there.
He immediately stood when he saw her. “Erin, thanks for coming,” he said.
She entered and closed the door behind her. “Didn’t have a lot of choice,” she said.
He smiled wryly. “I’m grateful all the same. You’re looking well.”
“You, too.” He always looked sharp. His suits were well-tailored and expensive. The only time she’d seen him publicly disheveled, it’d taken a gunshot wound to make him lose his composure. “So, who’s gonna be here?”
“The usual suspects,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve not read the files on the O’Malleys.”
“Just what we’ve got at the Eightball.”
“It’ll be a fairly full house,” Carlyle said, ticking off names on his fingers. “There’s Evan O’Malley, naturally; your old friend Corky; Mickey Connor; Kyle Finnegan; Liam McIntyre; and two colleens, Veronica Blackburn and Maggie Callahan. Together with yourself and me, that makes nine.”
“It’ll be crowded,” she said, glancing around the room. “What do I need to know?”
“You already know Corky and me. You needn’t worry yourself about Maggie, she’s harmless. And you needn’t take particular notice of Liam or Veronica. Finnegan’s all right, as long as you understand he’s insane.”
“Come again?”
“He was in a misunderstanding with a couple of UAW lads outside Detroit a few years back,” Carlyle explained. “One of them put a tire iron into his skull. Finnegan was always a mite odd, and the blow scrambled him. You’d not know it most of the time, but it’s best not to provoke the lad. Oh, and don’t mention cats to him.”
“Cats,” Erin repeated, sure now that Carlyle was making a joke.
“Aye. He hates them.” Carlyle wasn’t smiling.
“Okay, don’t pick a fight with the crazy cat-hating Irishman,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Evan and Mickey are the ones to watch,” he replied. “Evan’s smart, he’s sharp, and he’s a right ruthless bastard. He has these get-togethers to keep an eye on the rest of us. Some of the folks in this room will be playing cards. For Evan, the game happens around the table, not on top of it. He’ll not miss much, and if you make a mistake, he’ll notice. Don’t promise him anything you’re not prepared to deliver, and don’t lie to him if you can help it.”
“And Mickey?”
“Mickey’s a murderous thug,” Carlyle said. “Most lads need a reason to kill. Mickey only needs a place. He’s a former prizefighter. You’d think a lad his size would be slow. He’s not. He’s fast, he’s strong, and he’d not think twice about hitting a woman.”
“Nice friends you’ve got here,” she said dryly.
He shook his head. “This isn’t about friendship,” he said. “It’s a business meeting. Present company excepted, Corky’s the only friend I’ll have in this room. Any of the rest, except Maggie, would have me killed without a second thought. Most of them would do it themselves. On average, everyone in the room has killed more than once.”
Erin took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I don’t suppose I could just arrest everyone in the room?”
He did smile then. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
* * *
The guests began to arrive a few minutes before eight. James Corcoran was the first through the door. He grinned when he saw Erin.
“You just cost me twenty dollars, love,” he said.
“How’d I do that?”
“I bet Cars you’d not be caught dead with this sorry lot of gurriers.”
“Corky,” she said, “I don’t even know what that word means.”
“It’s a bit of Irish slang,” Carlyle explained. “It means a lad operating outside the law.”
“Come, love,” Corky said, walking around the table to sit on the other side of Erin from Carlyle. “Let’s have a kiss.”
She let him give her a quick peck on the cheek. He was the friendliest man in the Mob, a hopeless womanizer who’d only stopped trying to get her in bed when he’d learned she was involved with his best friend.
“How’s business, Corky?” she asked.
“Oh, grand. Is this lad treating you right?”
She nodded. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Oh aye, that he is,” Corky laughed. “But a gentleman’s not always what a lass needs. If you’re ever looking for a lad who’s a bit livelier, promise you’ll look me up.”
“You’ll be my first call,” Erin said with a straight face.
The door opened again and a man and woman entered. Erin knew their faces. She’d told Carlyle the truth; she’d been through the O’Malley files at Precinct 8 beforehand. Liam McIntyre was a little guy with a face like a weasel and a few too many gold chains. He was a narcotics guy, and looked like he got high on his own supply. Veronica Blackburn was a tall blonde with the best body money could buy. She gave Erin a thin, challenging smile and guided Liam to a chair. She sat between him and Corky.
“Hello, Corks,” Veronica said in a throaty purr. “I’ve been wondering when I’d see you again. You never call me back.”
“Pressures of work, Vicky,” Corky said. “You know how it is.”
“
Well, if you’re looking to let off some of that pressure,” she said, “I’m sure I can help you with that.”
Up close, Erin saw the lines Veronica had tried to hide under the liberal application of cosmetics. According to her file, Veronica was forty-two, a former street hustler turned madam. To Erin’s surprise, Corky seemed a little uncomfortable sitting next to the ex-hooker. He was being friendly, but with none of the flirtiness he usually deployed. Those two had a history.
Carlyle politely acknowledged Liam, who returned the nod and rubbed bloodshot eyes. Carlyle and Veronica scarcely exchanged a look.
The door swung open again, rebounding from the wall. Mickey Connor filled the doorway. Erin had always thought Vic Neshenko was a big guy who worked out a lot. Mickey had two inches and at least forty pounds on Vic. He was, quite simply, the most physically intimidating man Erin had ever seen. His face was heavy-jawed, scarred, unpleasant. He’d put on weight since his boxing days, but under the fat he was still light on his feet. She saw the muscles moving under his tight T-shirt and knew he was every bit as dangerous as Carlyle had said. His pale eyes scanned the room. When he saw Erin, his brows came down.
“So you’re Carlyle’s new pet,” he said with a thick Brooklyn accent.
Erin bristled inwardly, but kept her face impassive. She wasn’t here to pick a fight, particularly not with a man with fists the size of grapefruits.
“Watch yourself, Mickey,” Corky said. “She’s liable to bite.”
Mickey snorted. “What’s it to you, Corcoran? You tapping her, too?”
Corky put his hands on the tabletop. To Erin’s surprise, she saw the tension in his arms and neck. When he spoke, though, he had the same free and easy manner she was accustomed to.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mick. I know you thought I was saving myself for you.”
“Just keep talking,” Mickey said. “Every time I hear your voice, I look forward to shutting you up.”
Corky smiled a cold, midwinter smile. “Any time you want dancing lessons, big fella, I’ll clear my card for you.”
Holy shit, Erin thought. Those two guys absolutely hated one another. She glanced at Carlyle to see how he was taking this. He was watching carefully, but saying nothing.
Mickey paused, considering the much smaller man opposite him. Then he shrugged, as if Corky wasn’t worth the trouble, and sat down next to Liam. A few seconds later, the door opened once more and the last three guests came in. Maggie Callahan was a little, mousy woman who didn’t make eye contact. She immediately sat down next to Carlyle, picked up a deck of cards, and started shuffling. Erin, taking Carlyle’s advice, didn’t pay much attention to her, though she was curious. Maggie was the only person in the room who didn’t have a file with the NYPD.
But Erin didn’t have time to worry about her. Kyle Finnegan and Evan O’Malley had come in together, and they demanded her attention. It would’ve been hard to put two more different men next to one another. Evan was the perfect image of an old-school gangster, from his fresh-shined black shoes to his neatly combed hair. He had eyes like chips of dark blue ice. Finnegan looked more like an out-of-work professor, a little unkempt with an unfocused expression.
“Evening, ladies, lads,” Evan said. “Thank you for coming. I understand we’ve a new arrival among us.”
“Aye,” Carlyle said, standing and, indicating with a slight nod for Erin to follow suit. “This is Erin O’Reilly. You’ve all heard of her.”
Everyone around the table except Maggie nodded.
“Excellent,” Evan said. He didn’t offer to shake hands, but nodded politely. He took his seat to Mickey’s left. Finnegan took the final chair, between his employer and Maggie. Erin and Carlyle resumed their seats. “Are you a card player, Miss O’Reilly?” Evan asked.
Erin remembered what Carlyle had said. Evan’s game had just begun. “I’m not much of a gambler,” she said. “But I know how to play cards. What’s the game?”
“Texas hold ‘em,” Maggie said, looking at the tabletop. She set the cards aside and started counting out piles of chips. “Two thousand dollars, fifty-dollar ante, bets and raises limited to fifty dollars.” She passed out eight piles of chips. The other players reached into their pockets and produced rolls of bills. Carlyle’s was double-thick.
At least she wasn’t wagering her own money. It’d been Carlyle’s crazy idea to have her here, so it was his cash on the line. That was some consolation, because Erin realized very quickly that she wasn’t likely to be winning.
“Maggie, love,” Corky said. “Deal me a pair of aces in the first hand. I’ll thank you in my prayers.”
Maggie didn’t respond. Instead, she looked at Evan.
“Deal the cards,” he said. “Let’s play.”
* * *
Erin knew how to play poker, but was no professional gambler. And this was no friendly game. Her police instincts were screaming at her that several of the people in the room were extremely dangerous, particularly Mickey Connor. He was the sort of guy a cop would never lose sight of, no matter how crowded the room. But she didn’t want to stare at him. Besides, Evan O’Malley also needed her attention, and she was trying to keep track of everyone else at the same time. There was just no way to play skillful cards in this situation.
She bet conservatively, trying to take the measure of the other players. Carlyle and Evan played like pros, giving nothing away, staying calm, watching everyone else. Mickey played aggressively, trying to intimidate the other players with big raises. Corky was reckless, bluffing as if they were schoolkids playing for pennies, laughing off bad luck. Liam was nervous and twitchy, unpredictable, but with a tendency to fold. Veronica didn’t seem to care what cards she was dealt; she was too busy playing the players. Corky started a couple of times, and Erin would’ve bet the other woman had done something to him under the table. Finnegan appeared distracted, almost unaware of what was going on. Carlyle occasionally had to quietly say, “It’s your bet, Kyle,” to call him back from wherever he’d gone in his head.
Caitlin, one of the Corner’s waitresses, breezed in every few minutes to freshen drinks. The most popular beverage was Glen Docherty-Kinlochewe whiskey. Erin stuck to Guinness, figuring she’d better keep her head as clear as possible. Liam opted for something called a “death by chocolate,” which appeared to be a bastardized milkshake, complete with whipped cream and a cherry on top. She noted that Evan only ordered one drink, and an hour in, it was still half full. Finnegan asked for mineral water, which led Corky to comment, “Lad, she asked if you wanted a drink.”
“Liquor makes me fuzzy,” Finnegan said.
“Like a cat?” Corky replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Carlyle shot his friend a sharp look. Erin, remembering what he’d said about Finnegan, tensed and wondered exactly to expect from a crazy mobster.
Finnegan’s cheek twitched and his whole body jerked slightly sideways, like a man getting a mild electric shock. He looked down at the tabletop and rubbed his thumb against his fingertips.
“People say there’s more than one way to skin a cat,” he said quietly. “But it’s all cosmetic. Really, when you get down to it, there’s just the one way.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
“My bet?” Finnegan said, blinking and looking around.
And the game went on.
After that first hour, Liam was out of chips and Veronica and Finnegan were running low. Erin, to her surprise, had more or less broken even. Corky and Carlyle were winning. Erin was even relaxing a little. Conversation was remarkably commonplace. Even crooks liked watching sports and talking politics. No illegal business was discussed.
Liam excused himself and sidled out of the room. He’d been getting edgier as his pile of chips had shrunk, and Erin figured he had a date with a dime bag of powder. The game went on without him.
It was the middle of a hand, a little after nine o’clock, when things got out of control.
The flop in the middl
e of the table showed the ace of clubs, five of spades, and three of diamonds. Erin’s hand was garbage, a seven and eight, and she folded in the first round of betting. Veronica dropped out, too, and was watching Corky with an intensity that was making him nervous. The other players were still in.
“Hey, Cars,” Mickey said. “Got a question for you.”
“What is it you’re wanting to know, Mickey?” Carlyle replied quietly.
“I was just wondering how you and the city kitty got acquainted.”
Erin glanced at Finnegan, but he didn’t seem aware of the second mention of felines.
Carlyle smiled thinly. “One of the advantages of being a publican is that one has the opportunity to meet people. She walked through my door one day, and we got to talking.”
Mickey snorted. “I don’t believe it.”
“Are you questioning my truthfulness, or my memory?” Carlyle asked. “Regardless, my answer’s what it was.”
“You sure you’re not leaving things out? Like, maybe she gave you a ride in the sow crate?”
Erin suppressed a flinch. She’d heard the term before. A sow crate was a police car driven by a female officer, and was not something you said to the cop’s face. She did a quick mental tally and decided Mickey was on his fourth drink of the night. He might be a little buzzed, but a guy his size wouldn’t be drunk enough on four shots of whiskey to have lost his self-control
“You know as well as I that I’ve never been arrested this side of the pond,” Carlyle said, still calm and controlled. “Unlike yourself.”
“Yeah, you’re slick,” Mickey said. “You’re so slippery, I bet you don’t even need to lube up before you get it on.”
There was a momentary silence. Looking around the table, Erin saw several startled faces. Even Finnegan seemed to be paying attention now.
“Mickey,” Carlyle said, and there was a definite edge to his voice. “You’ve crossed a line. I suggest you take a good, long step back.”
