Quinn asked Liam to meet him at Longo’s coffee shop early the next morning. Though Liam initially hesitated, he eventually agreed.
Longo’s was as much a Hell’s Kitchen institution as the Wild Hart. Grandpa Longo opened it in the 1950s as a soda shop, and in the past couple of years his grandson Michael had morphed it into a coffee shop.
Quinn was a regular, pretty much popping in every morning for a cup of coffee and a sticky bun, which he wolfed down at the counter before heading over to the Sent. He loved that for the most part, the place hadn’t changed since his childhood. The tiled floors were still a tiny bit sticky, the red Naughahyde seats of the booths worn and even torn in places. Behind the long lunch counter there were still soda fountains, but the back wall now had espresso machines next to the grill and fryer. The aroma of the place in the morning—eggs cooking and strong coffee—always comforted Quinn.
He pushed through the door, smiling at Grandpa Longo, who still liked to work there.
“There he is. Clark Kent.”
Quinn pointed to the nearest booth. “I’m going to sit here today. I’m meeting Liam for breakfast.”
Longo looked surprised, then headed off to get Quinn his coffee. Quinn slid into the booth, wondering if Liam would indeed show. He remembered an incident from years ago, when Liam was a kid and he and his juvenile delinquent of a best friend, Tommy Dolan, ran into Longo’s, stole some after dinner mints from the bowl beside the cash register, and ran back out. Old Longo thought it was funnier than anything else, though it bothered Quinn. Tommy Dolan had been a punk then, and he was still a punk. Everyone knew Tommy was in the mob, because he drove for Whitey Connors, whose crew ran Hell’s Kitchen. The fact that Tommy was still Liam’s best friend bugged the shit out of Quinn. Yes, they’d known each other since second grade and were still tight, but when Liam and Tommy hit adolescence, they embraced their role of bad boys with abandon, committing petty thievery and mischief all over Manhattan. It still amazed Quinn that Liam and Tommy had managed to avoid doing time.
Liam breezed through the door five minutes past their appointed time. Quinn already had his coffee and paper.
“Hey,” said Liam, sliding into the booth opposite him. There were only two other people there: an older man at the counter drinking coffee and spearing a football-sized piece of lemon meringue pie, and an earnest young guy tapping away at a laptop three booths back.
Grandpa Longo waddled over, surprising Quinn by giving Liam an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Long time, no see. You want some dinner mints?”
Liam laughed, but he looked sheepish. “God, are you ever going to let me forget that?”
“No. Just kidding. I’m just busting your balls. You were just a little boy. You and that Tommy Dolan.” Grandpa’s expression darkened. “You still friends with him?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s trouble, that one,” Grandpa groused under his breath. “You need to look at a menu?”
“Nah,” said Liam. “Coffee will be fine.”
Grandpa nodded and headed back to the counter.
“It’s pretty early, Quinn,” said Liam with a yawn.
“Yeah, well, I have a lot to do.”
“Yeah, well, I was out late last night,” Liam returned.
“Date?” Quinn asked mischievously. Quinn was the one in the family always accused of being the inveterate bachelor, but Liam was no better. According to their sister Maggie, he was king of the one-night stands.
Liam shrugged. “Just had some stuff to do.”
“Mmm.” Quinn wanted to ask but didn’t, not wanting to put Liam on the defensive immediately. “How’s Natalie working out?”
“Great.” Liam took a long gulp of coffee. “Too bad she’s not Irish. I think it confuses people to hear her accent in an Irish place.” He stared at Quinn sleepily. “So you dragged me out of bed at seven to talk about Natalie?”
“No.”
Liam frowned. “What, then?”
“I’ve been doing some digging.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I found out that Shields Brothers Construction is the one buying the buildings they’re fixing up around the neighborhood, not just fixing them up. I think they might be fronting for Whitey.”
Liam looked unfazed. “Yeah?”
“You know anything about that?”
“Why would I?”
“Well, you’re still tight with Tommy, right? He’s one of Whitey’s crew. You involved with Whitey at all, Li?”
Liam just stared at him.
“Because if you are, I’ve got to warn you: I’m going to pursue this story hard, and I’d hate to think of you being mixed up with these assholes. If you’re tied up with Whitey in any way, I suggest you disentangle yourself now.”
“I’m not tangled up with Whitey.”
“Were you ever?”
“I ran a few errands when I was a teenager, filling in for Tommy. It wasn’t a big deal. I needed the money.”
“But you’re not involved now, right?”
Liam looked annoyed. “I just told you that.”
“I’m serious here, Liam.”
“Yeah, so am I, Quinn,” Liam shot back. “I don’t know anything about Whitey and the Shields Brothers.”
“Does Tommy?”
“I have no idea, Quinn. Ask him yourself.” Liam drained his coffee cup and stood up. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah, fine, go,” said Quinn. “Just promise me one thing.”
Liam looked bored. “What?”
“If you’re bullshitting me, and you’re still mixed up in any crap that could send you to jail, cut it out now, okay? Because it would kill Mom and Dad if that happened. Kill them. Also, if a blue moon should occur and you change your mind about talking to me—”
“Nothing to talk about.” Liam slid out of the booth, and walked away.
Later that night, Quinn got to the pub earlier than his friends so he could spend a little time at the bar, trying to ease some of the tension generated between him and Liam earlier that morning. His chance was lost, however, when Liam’s friend Tommy strolled through the door, taking the seat right beside him.
“Hey, Quinn,” Tommy said affably, patting him on the back as if they were old friends. “Long time, no see.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” said Quinn dryly. “Guess you’ve been pretty busy with your limo driving job.”
Tommy smirked. “Oh yeah. The money is way too good to pass up.”
“I’ll bet.”
Tommy pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and slapped it down on the bar in front of Liam. “One Newcastle Brown, Bro.”
Liam frowned at his friend. “You got anything smaller than that?”
“Sorry, Li. Can’t help you out there.”
“Asshole,” Liam muttered under his breath, but there was affection in his voice. He returned a few seconds later with Tommy’s drink as well as a stack of bills. “Thanks for cleaning out the till, pal.”
“Anytime.”
Tommy turned to look at Quinn. “How’s the newspaper biz treating you?”
“Pretty well.”
Tommy quickly gulped down some beer. “Still doing investigative shit?”
Quinn threw back a whiskey shot. “Yup.”
“You must be making a mint by now,” said Tommy, stifling a burp.
Quinn was intrigued. “What’s it to you?”
“Just curious.” He raised his beer, regarding Liam affectionately. “I keep telling this guy he’s never gonna make any serious cash working here with your mom and pop, but he won’t listen.”
Liam looked disgusted. “It’s all money with this guy,” he said to Quinn.
Tommy pounded back some more beer. “Makes the world go around, dude,” he said to Liam. “Can’t believe you haven’t figured that out yet.”
Jesus, what an asshole, Quinn thought. He tried to remember if he’d ever liked Tommy. The sad but true answer? No.
“You hook up with that blonde chick with t
he big tits who was in here the other night?” Tommy asked Liam in a lascivious voice. He nudged Quinn in the ribs as if sharing a confidence. “You should have seen this piece of tail. She was amazing.”
“She was also stupid as a bag of hammers,” said Liam. “So no, we didn’t hook up.”
Tommy shook his head in disbelief. “Since when did you give a shit whether any of the babes you give it to can even count to ten?”
Liam looked pissed. “Just drop it now, okay?”
Tommy shrugged. “Sure.” He drained his beer, this time wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can you hang when you get off?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” He slid off the barstool, pushing his empty beer toward Liam. “Catch you later, then.” He patted Quinn on the back again. “Good to see you, Bro.”
“Yeah, you, too,” Quinn said dryly, watching him go. He couldn’t escape the feeling that Tommy’s quick departure might have had something to do with his presence. When he turned back around to talk to his brother, Liam was at the other end of the bar, chatting with PJ Leary. He obviously didn’t want to talk to Quinn about Tommy. Quinn let it go. For now.
I don’t know how much longer I can work here, Natalie thought desperately, serving a foursome of firefighters their plates of bangers and mash. First, there was the food. One night, she was so ravenous she actually did eat some Irish stew. These Irish knew nothing about spices. Nothing. Everything was salt, salt, salt. When she suggested a few menu changes to Quinn’s mother, she was met with a stony stare. Didn’t the woman realize she was only trying to help her by suggesting food that actually had some taste? Apparently not.
Then there were the regulars at the bar. Lunatics. Though she could tell they liked her and a few of them enjoyed sparring with her, their oddness often rattled her. No one like this had ever come to Vivi’s. What did it say about the Wild Hart that it attracted this sort of clientele, and what was more, let them sit at the bar for hours without really paying anything?
Still, she couldn’t afford to alienate them. Diners taken care of, Natalie went to the bar.
“How’s the book coming?” she made herself ask PJ, who was shoveling stew into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Poor devil, Natalie thought. He must not have taste buds. She’d noticed that whenever she left a bill for PJ, Liam discreetly took it away and put it under the bar.
“Very well,” said PJ, looking thrilled to be asked. “The leprechauns have joined with the Galway salmon, and together they’ve attacked the fairie folk and made them slaves. But I’ve added a complication: King Seamus has fallen in love with the fairie queen, Lucille.”
“Lucille?” asked Liam. “That doesn’t sound like a very Irish name. Or a very good name for a queen, either.”
These people are crazy, Natalie thought again. Vivi kept talking about visiting the Hart. Let her come and see the lunacy I have to deal with nightly. Then she’ll understand .
“Names are very, very important,” said the Mouth. “For example, my first wife was named Belinda. Same first letter as the word bitch. I should have paid attention to that, because she was one.”
“Good thing her first name wasn’t Catherine,” Liam deadpanned. “You have to change the queen’s name,” he continued. “Something more regal.”
“Like—?” PJ asked.
“Natalie.”
They all laughed, all sans Natalie, who wasn’t sure if Liam was teasing her or trying to make a point.
The door swung open, and in walked Mason Clement. There was an empty stool at the bar, and he slid onto it, saying his hellos to the other regulars. He was always unfailingly polite to them, which impressed Natalie. Quinn’s jealousy blinded him; there was no way on earth Mason could be so awful in the office yet be so kind and caring outside of it.
“Bonjour,” he said to Natalie as she came to take his order.
“Bonjour,” she replied. “What can I get you this evening?”
“Actually, I just stopped by to see you; then I have to go. I’m exhausted.”
“Oh.” Natalie felt tingly all up and down.
“You told me you liked museums.” Mason looked shy. “Well, there’s an exhibit opening at MoMA of up-and-coming new artists. Would you like to go with me Saturday afternoon?”
Natalie flushed. “Yes. Very much.”
“Terrific. Give me your number, and we’ll finalize plans.”
Natalie wrote her number down on a page from her notepad and handed it to him. Looking confident, Mason slipped it into his back pocket.
“Au revoir,” he said. “See you Saturday.”
“Yes. I’m very much looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.”
She watched him depart. A date with a cultured man; this was what she’d wanted for a long while. Perhaps working at the Wild Hart was going to turn out to be a godsend in disguise.
“What the hell is this?”
Quinn threw the evening edition of the Sent down on Mason Clement’s desk. Following his failed conversation with Liam, he’d gone to the paper and busted his ass on a piece about yet another molesting priest. Cindy came out of the morning editorial meeting telling him it wasn’t going to be a half page long as originally thought. Instead, it was reduced to two columns. Why? To run a half-page article on Desiree Drake, the nineteen-year-old star of a show on Nickelodeon who’d crashed her Porsche into a utility pole after downing a few Valium and Vicodin cocktails.
Clement slowly lifted his head to look at Quinn. “Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. You cut a major Manhattan story to make room for a piece about a talentless kid too stupid not to know not to drink and drive?”
“People care about this kid, O’Brien, even if you don’t.”
Quinn snatched the paper back up and, licking the thumb of his right hand, began combing the pages. “You couldn’t cut this goddamn half-page picture of the pope in his new hat?” he snapped, showing the picture to Clement. He continued flipping pages furiously. “Or how about this?” He threw the paper back down on Clement’s desk, poking a story with his finger. “ ‘Over Sixty Sex Parlor Raided in Brooklyn.’ Gimme a fuckin’ break! That could have been covered in one column, and you know it.”
“Smut sells.”
“Not smut about retirees,” Quinn scoffed. “I mean, c’mon. Seriously.”
“C’mon what?” Clement looked annoyed. “I told you Hewitt was taking this paper in another direction. Did you think I was kidding?”
“Do you not understand how important my story is?”
“The Drake story is breaking news. We had to bump you.”
“You didn’t freakin’ bump me, Clement—you cut me to shreds.”
“We’ve had this conversation already, remember?” Clement gave a bored sigh. “I don’t want you to stop being Mr. Run and Gun, okay? I know it’s what you do best. But you need to get it through your thick skull that entertainment is what sells papers.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot: No one bought the Sent during the last presidential election. Or in the weeks following 9/11. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Different kettle of fish entirely,” Clement said dismissively. “Those were stories of international importance. Stories that focus solely on the city? Less important.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No, you’re wrong,” Clement snapped. “The numbers don’t lie.”
“Do not edit my stories down to minor footnotes in the paper, you got that?”
Clement laughed curtly. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“The best fuckin’ reporter in New York, that’s who.”
“And I’m your boss, which means I can fire your ass so fast your head will spin,” Clement replied angrily.
Quinn shrugged. “So fire me. The Times or the Standard will snap me up in a heartbeat.”
Clement just sighed. “Just do your job, and let me do mine, all right?”
“If you’re gonna keep cut
ting my stories to ribbons, can you at least indulge me where the Wild Hart is concerned?”
“Meaning—?”
“You should be at Barzini’s with the rest of editorial. What’s the problem?” Quinn sneered. “None of them want to hang with you?”
“You’re treading on thin ice here. As a matter of fact, I have gone to Barzini’s. The food is terrible, and so is the service. I prefer your mother’s cooking and the attentiveness of the Hart’s staff.”
Prick, Quinn thought. Durham was right: the bastard was getting ready to make a move on Natalie. It was none of his business. So why was a slow blaze of anger building in his gut?
“You don’t have to worry, O’Brien,” Clement continued smoothly. “Let me get this straight, though. You’re willing to let me cut your stories if I don’t spend time at a certain pub? Something I’m doing there getting under your skin? Somebody you’re interested in that might be interested in me? Never mind. Rest assured: I’ll never try to sit with you and the reporters.”
“Good thing,” Quinn muttered, hoping Mason didn’t follow up on his shot about Natalie that had obviously been on target.
“We’re done,” Clement announced. “I have an evening edition of the paper to get out.”
“Yeah, we’re done,” Quinn replied contemptuously. At least where work was concerned.
9
Mason had asked Natalie to meet her at the Sentinel, eager to show her where he worked. She agreed, though she was reluctant to admit part of the reason was she wanted to see where Quinn worked.
Natalie had imagined the newsroom would be a frenzy of activity, and she was right. Her first instinct, which she successfully squelched, was to scan the newsroom for Quinn, but she couldn’t. First of all, it was far too big. Secondly, the newsroom was broken down into aisle after aisle of individual cubicles. For all she knew, he was hunched over his keyboard somewhere, tucked firmly out of sight. If so, she hoped he stayed there.
Mason was waiting for her by the elevators, ushering her first to his pristine office, where the walls were lined with awards and blowups of some of the newspaper’s most famous covers.
With a Twist Page 7
