by L. Danvers
“The MMA academy.”
She nodded. She leaned in closer and whispered, “I think it’s his Mother Theresa complex. He wants to save the children. You know?”
I did. But I believed it was sincere. Maybe ill-gotten gains could be cleansed if they brought hope to an area decimated by governmental apathy.
“He said I should train there with O’Keeffe. Work on my cardio and combat skills.”
She frowned. “Not so you can start fighting. Have you seen Daddy’s nose?”
I was touched by her concern. “It’s just for fitness.” So the likes of Savage can’t beat me up.
“What’s going to happen the rest of the business?”
“I’m going to take on more responsibility. I’ll hire a couple of good managers, though.”
I nodded. “Your father tried to pull too many strings. Best to delegate.”
The main course arrived. My salmon was on top of some chive mash for some bizarre reason. I used a knife to put it back on the plate where it belonged. I tucked in.
“This is good,” I said. “Beats a battered cod any day.”
An embarrassed smile from Grace. “Certainly it’s healthier. What with your new fitness regime.”
I nodded. I’d keep to the healthy eating plan. But on Saturday mornings I’d allow myself a portion of Clonakilty. Something to keep me straight for the rest of the week.
“Can we do this more often?” I said. “The dinner, maybe the occasional drink?”
Her face lit up. “I think that would be nice.”
I put my hand across the table. She flinched slightly, but then allowed me to hold her hand.
“You’re too good for the likes of me,” I said. “But I’m good people.”
“A good person,” she said, trying to correct me.
I laughed. “Sorry. It’s an expression. That a single person can be good people.”
Her brow furrowed. I didn’t think she watched much gritty American TV.
I said, “Like a horse could be good horses.”
She laughed and there was a snort. “Oh God, Michael. Are you always going to tell bad jokes?”
“If you’ll tolerate them.” I squeezed her hand. “I might slip a good one in now and then, though.”
We finished our main courses and most of the wine. The waiter returned and asked if we wanted dessert. We refused, but asked for another bottle of the wine.
While we waited, I took the note my Dad had written from my wallet. The crisp one that had Starman written on it. I rubbed my thumb over it.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Ah, it’s nothing. An old note I found.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s a reminder that I have a job to do. But it’s for another day.”
“Another week, another month, I hope.”
I nodded. “There’s no rush with history.”
She took a final sip from her wine glass. “You know … they have vacancies.”
“I don’t know that I’m qualified to work –”
“Room vacancies. Not job vacancies!”
I felt like a tool. “Oh.” Then it hit me like one of Hognatt’s Doc Martens. “Oh!”
“Shall we?”
She stood up and offered her hand. It had been years. Many years. I took her hand and stood. I felt a tingling in my groin. A nice tingling.
We left to get a room.
~~~
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About the Author
When not writing about the darker side of human nature, L.D. Cunningham is a lecturer in computer science. He also researches how video games can be used for transformational purposes. He lives on the north side of Cork City with his wife and young son.
You can find out more about Larkin at his website, www.ldcunningham.com, or follow him on twitter @LarkinDC. For more on the Mickey Bosco series, visit the dedicated series website, www.mickeybosco.com.
About this Book
I looked in his eyes.
Those dead eyes.
I wanted to choke some life back into them.
When DI Michael Bosco strangles a suspected child killer into a coma, he is expelled from the Gardaí. Now lacking a purpose in life, Bosco gets a job offer he can’t refuse from a supposedly retired gang boss. It’s not long before he becomes the main suspect in a series of vigilante murders and survives an attempted hit. Under siege and emboldened, Bosco has some morally ambiguous choices to make, like whether to play by the rules or take the law into his own hands.
Prepare to meet some unsavoury characters from the streets of Cork – a fixer who chops off a finger if you welsh on a debt; a corrupt Garda officer; a mercenary who wields a machete like it was just a toothpick; a bagman who is quick to collect debt, but slow to put his hand in his own pocket.
At times introspective and other times thrilling, The Murk Beneath features a liberal dose of wry Irish humour and the kind of cynicism and fatalism you would expect of a literary noir novel.
For more on the Mickey Bosco series of crime novels, visit mickeybosco.com.
