With a Twist

by Martin, Deirdre

  He was wrong.

  It was Liam, distraught, asking if he could come over and talk to him now. And here he was, emanating dark, dangerous anger as only Liam could.

  “Calm down,” Quinn urged.

  Liam halted, laughing with disbelief. “When I tell you what went down, you’ll see why calm is the last thing I can muster up right now.”

  “Well, at least sit.” Quinn gestured toward his crappy old couch, its cushions covered in old files and newspapers that he promptly transferred to the floor.

  “You sure I won’t catch some kind of disease from this thing?” Liam joked before sitting down. Quinn thought it was a good sign that Liam still had his sense of humor.

  “You want a shot of whiskey? Calm your nerves?”

  “You sound like Dad.”

  “We do share some of the same genetic material.”

  “True. Yeah, whiskey would be great. Thanks.”

  Quinn nodded and went into the kitchen and pulled a half-empty bottle of Jameson from one of the cabinets. He poured a shot for each of them and returned to the living room.

  “Sláinte.” Liam threw the shot down his throat.

  “Sláinte,” said Quinn in return, doing the same. He sat down beside his brother. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Two days ago, Tommy came to me and asked me if I could drive a moving truck out to Long Island tonight so he could help one of his longtime clients move. He can’t drive a stick, and I can. Said he’d pay me. So I said yes. I mean, what the hell, right?”

  “Okay. So you moved the guy’s stuff and—?”

  Liam looked pained as he ran a hand through the tangle of his dark, curly hair. “We drove back into the city. Tommy said he needed to drop some DVDs off at the video store or else they’d be late. He was just going to throw them in the drop box, you know? Again, no big deal. So we pulled up in front of the store, and thinking he’d only be a minute, I kept the engine running while he jumped out.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know. Midnight, maybe.”

  “Whoa, back up. You moved the Long Island guy’s stuff at night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That didn’t strike you as weird?”

  “No.”

  Quinn shook his head. “So what happened next?”

  Liam’s eyes flashed with anger. “Tommy hops out of the truck, grabs something from under his seat, smashes the door of the store, and runs inside. He loads up a couple of duffel bags full of shit, and then sets the fucking place on fire. Then he hops in the front seat and tells me to get the hell out of there as fast as I can.”

  Quinn pressed his palm to his forehead as he tried to take this all in. “Li. You saw him break into this store and you just sat there? It never crossed your mind to just drive away?”

  “What the hell was I supposed to do, Quinn?” Liam snarled. “Leave him there? Besides I was too shocked to even move!”

  “Do you have any idea if anyone saw you were driving the truck?”

  Liam frowned. “I’m pretty sure no one did.”

  “But you’re not hundred percent certain. Jesus Christ.” He went back into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, came back to the couch, and poured them both another shot. Without a word the brothers both tossed the second shot down. “Then what?” Quinn asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Tommy directs me to a warehouse on Twelfth Avenue. I’m screaming at him the whole way about how he used me. And you know what he says? He says he had no choice, that Whitey told him to. That now that I was involved, you’d stop nosing around.” Liam put his head in his heads. “Can you believe this? My oldest friend in the world, Quinn.”

  “Shit.” Quinn felt waves of guilt break inside him. “This is all my fault.”

  “No, it’s my fault, because I was stupid enough to trust that asshole. I never thought he’d screw me this way. I’m going to fucking kill him.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t bullshitting you when he said he had no choice.”

  “Screw that. You’ve always got a choice,” Liam said bitterly. “Oh, and by the way, this warehouse? Two down from the one that was torched.”

  “Anyone at the warehouse?”

  “I don’t know. As soon as we pulled up, I jumped out of the truck and told Tommy to go fuck himself. He tried to throw some money at me, but I started jogging away, trying to wrap my head around all this. That’s when I decided to call you and walk over here.”

  Quinn put a consoling arm around his brother’s shoulder. Liam hung his head. When he lifted it, his expression was pure despair. “What the hell am I gonna do if Tommy comes strolling through the door of the Hart with some ‘job’ Whitey wants me to do? If I say no, they’ll nail the video store robbery on me or threaten the pub or Mom and Dad.”

  “Don’t worry about Mom and Dad. Whitey’s never offered them weekly protection, as far as I know. Don’t know why, but he hasn’t. There’s always been something about the Hart that’s kept Whitey from throwing his weight around. I don’t think he’d threaten them.”

  “But he can drop a dime on me.”

  Quinn grimaced. “Yeah, he can.” His guilt was all-enveloping now as he realized his story might well have screwed up his brother’s life for good. “I’m gonna quit working on this story,” he declared. “It’s not worth it.”

  “Yes, it is,” Liam insisted. “They beat the shit out of PJ, threatened Franco, and torched the Sweeneys’ store. You gotta nail their asses.”

  “I don’t cave, and you’re screwed.”

  “We’ll figure something out.” Liam stood. “I’m wired. Wanna go to that all-night diner, get some food?”

  Quinn gave a small wince. “No. I’m gonna call my contacts at NYPD and see what they know about the video store.”

  “Okay.” Liam dug his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I guess I’ll be going, then,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah.”

  Quinn hated how it was still two steps forward, one back with him and Liam, moments of closeness alternating with moments of awkwardness. At least he got the sense that Liam’s long-held resentment was fading. That was something.

  He walked Liam to the door. “Hang in there.”

  “I’ll try.” Liam glanced back over his shoulder at Quinn’s living room. “Word of advice: don’t ever have Mom here. She’d have a heart attack if she saw how filthy it is.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Quinn said, mildly mortified.

  Quinn patted his brother on the back. “Talk to you tomorrow. Probably see you at the pub after work.”

  “I’ll be there,” Liam said dryly, “unless I’m off torching a store for Whitey.”

  “I’m sure he’s on his way, cherie. You’ve said he tends to be late.”

  Natalie put her best smile on as she tried to believe Vi-vi’s assurance. All around her, people were having a great time at her surprise party. All the regulars were there: Mrs. Colgan, PJ, and Joey. Quinn’s sister, Maggie, was there, too, with her husband Brendan. Quinn’s sister Sinead was tied up at her office, but she’d sent her apologies with Maggie. Even Anthony and his sister-in-law Theresa were there. Michael Dante had a hockey game but said he’d try to stop by afterward.

  It seemed like everyone was there but Quinn.

  She never suspected a surprise party. She and Vivi were going shopping for her bridesmaid’s dress in the city. When Vivi expressed curiosity about visiting the Wild Hart since she’d never been there, Natalie decided there would be no harm in bringing her over.

  She’d nearly leapt out of her skin with shock when she walked through the door of the Hart and heard the loud, enthusiastic shouts of “Surprise!” Above the bar hung a hand-painted banner that said, “Happy Birthday, Natalie!” She quickly scanned the cluster of faces gathered in front of her. No Quinn. Maybe Vivi was right. Maybe he was just running late. But Natalie couldn’t help but notice Quinn’s mother glancing at her watch every ten minutes.

  Her first thought w
hen she’d walked through the door was that the party was Quinn’s idea, but it wasn’t. She soon realized it was all Quinn’s mother’s doing. At first Natalie was incredulous. Then she understood it was Quinn’s mother’s way of showing her that she was now part of the family. That meant more to her than any gift. When she went to thank Quinn’s mother, she found herself crying tears of happiness.

  Natalie chatted with her sister for a bit before Vivi moved off to talk to Quinn’s mother (about cooking, no doubt), and Anthony took her place, nodding approvingly as he looked around the pub. “Nice place. Not as small as it looks from the outside. The dining room goes far back.”

  “Yes.”

  “They play Irish music here?”

  “All the time.”

  Anthony screwed up his face. “Too maudlin for me. All those songs about ghosts and the pipes calling and lovers away over the sea leaving the other one behind to dig potatoes and all that crap. I can’t stand it.”

  “Oh, and songs about the moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie are better?” Natalie challenged.

  “Hey, watch it,” Anthony warned, playfully wagging his index finger at her. “That’s my heritage you’re talking about there.”

  “Yes, well, Irish music is their heritage. I don’t mind the harp music. Up front in the bar, they play more rock music. U2 and things like that.”

  “I bet. They don’t want everyone crying into their beers.” He leaned in to her confidentially. “Just so you know,” he murmured, “I told Vivi she didn’t need anyone to stand up for her but you. And she picked out the flowers. And the invitations. And where we’re going on our honeymoon.”

  “Yes, she told me when we were shopping. She’s very happy. She’s especially thrilled about going to Hawaii.”

  “Yeah, me, too. I’ve never been. That’s where Mikey went on his honeymoon. He said it’s fantastic.”

  Anthony moved off to talk to Quinn’s father, giving PJ the opening to come up over to Natalie to give her a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek. They were only an hour into the celebrations, and he was already drunk. “Marry me,” he slurred.

  “Can’t. I’ve already got a boyfriend.”

  PJ looked around. “Don’t see him here.”

  “He’s running a little late,” Natalie said with a weak smile.

  She was relieved when PJ staggered away, but the relief evaporated when Joey Evans immediately came to take his place. She was beginning to feel like a queen receiving visitors at court. “Birthdays are milestones,” he began solemnly. “They are a way for us to measure the progress of our lives. A means for every man and woman to—”

  “Can you please not run your mouth for one day? Just one?”

  Natalie peered past Joey’s shoulder, relieved, as Liam approached. Joey looked offended. “I was merely trying to offer young Natalie here some important advice.”

  “She doesn’t need advice, Joey,” said Liam. “She needs to have a good time. Why don’t you go join Mrs. Colgan at the bar? She’s crying over Rudy again.”

  Natalie glanced with trepidation in the direction of the bar. Mrs. Colgan was cradling the urn holding the dead parrot’s ashes.

  Flashing Liam a dirty look, Joey went to the bar to console his friend.

  Liam leaned over and kissed her cheek, touching Natalie immensely. “He’ll be here.”

  Natalie felt a lump form in her throat.

  “He’ll be here,” Liam repeated. “I talked to him yesterday. He’ll be here.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s just hard sometimes.” She scoured Liam’s face with concern. “Are you feeling better? Your mother said you were sick last night, and that’s why you missed work.”

  “I’m fine,” Liam replied somewhat gruffly. “Just a little twenty-four-hour bug.” He changed the subject. “You got some nice presents.”

  “Very nice,” Natalie agreed.

  It was odd: she’d found it hard being the center of attention as she opened them, feeling like she didn’t deserve them somehow. Vivi had given her a beautiful brocade blazer, while Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien had given her a gorgeous midnight blue shawl from Ireland. Maggie gave her a gift certificate for a massage, while Liam gave her a pair of dangly silver earrings she was certain Maggie had picked out. The regulars had pooled their resources and given her a hideous fluorescent pink scarf.

  She mingled and chatted, all the while feigning happiness while trying not to watch the door.

  It never opened, because Quinn never showed up.

  29

  Quinn knew he was cutting it close, but he had thought he’d make Nat’s surprise party in the nick of time. He’d been at the Sent a bit longer than he’d planned, finishing up a piece on a shooting spree that had taken place in Harlem in the early morning hours. Six people had been killed, three wounded. It was believed the shooter was a twenty-three-year-old man taking revenge for being beaten up the day before. After visiting the crime scene, Quinn had spoken to the three survivors in the hospital before heading down to Police Plaza to see if there were any final details. He hated stories that involved people winding up dead. Still, something like this was better than a story involving a child being tortured or beaten.

  He was hustling down Forty-third Street when a black limo pulled up beside him. The black-tinted back window rolled down, and a man with a giant head and ruddy face poked his head out. “Get in.”

  Quinn just laughed. “Kiss my Irish ass,” he said as he continued walking. Seconds later, he heard the car door open, and a big, beefy hand gripped his shoulder. “Whitey Connors wants to talk to you,” said Ruddy Face. “Get in the fucking car.”

  Quinn halted, glancing down at his watch. Shit . . . the party . . . but Whitey wanting to talk to him . . . this was a reporter’s dream. Maybe he wouldn’t be there long. He might be late to the party, but at least he’d get there. Natalie knew how important this article was to him; she’d understand. The limo sat there idling, Ruddy Face glaring down at him in what Quinn assumed was supposed to be an expression of intimidation. Too bad it had no effect on him.

  He followed Ruddy Face back to the limo, sliding into the plush leather backseat. Natalie would understand, he told himself again. Ruddy Face blindfolded him as the limo slowly pulled away from the curb.

  The ride took about half an hour, with Quinn the only one talking. “How you guys doin’?” he cheerily asked Ruddy Face and the driver. “Enjoying this beautiful Sunday?” He couldn’t help himself. The whole situation seemed absurd, as though he were guest starring in an episode of The Sopranos. Neither man responded.

  When they finally guided him out of the car and took off his blindfold, Quinn found himself inside a dark, shabby bar, almost a seedy version of the Hart. There were tattered posters of Ireland scattered on the walls, and a huge Irish flag hung behind the bar. Quinn could have done without the shamrock and leprechaun lights strung from the ceiling, but to each his tacky own.

  Ruddy Face locked the door behind them, his expression deadly serious. Quinn stifled a laugh, wondering if he was supposed to be scared. He wasn’t. He was excited. A one-on-one chat with Whitey Connors.

  Predictably, Whitey sat waiting for him at a back table, the farthest from the door. Were Whitey Italian, Quinn was certain he would be sipping from a tiny cup of espresso. Instead, he had what looked to be a regular cup of coffee in front of him.

  As always, Whitey was impeccably dressed in a dapper suit and tie, his gleaming white hair brushed back off his pale, craggy face. Quinn started toward him but was stopped by Ruddy Face and another man who had quickly slipped out from behind the bar. Quinn recognized him from around the neighborhood: Mickey “Shoes” McCourt, so nicknamed because of his passion for expensive, handmade Italian shoes. Quinn glanced down at Mickey’s feet: they were shod in alligator loafers polished to a high sheen. They had to cost a mint.

  “Hold up your arms,” Mickey commanded.

  “What?” Quinn was momentarily confused. But when Mickey began patting him down, Quinn coul
dn’t hold back a laugh. “You think I walk around with a gun? I’m a reporter, for chrissakes.”

  “We still have to check.”

  When Mickey was through, he told Quinn to hand over his backpack. He rifled through it, pulling out his digital voice recorder. Fuck. Hopefully the idiot wouldn’t think to listen to it. As far as Quinn knew, his chat with Carmine Porco was still on it.

  Mickey pocketed the voice recorder and demanded that Quinn hand over his cell phone as well, which he turned off. “Go on.” He jerked his head in Whitey’s direction. “And don’t worry; you can have your toys back when you’re done.”

  Quinn surreptitiously checked his watch. Natalie’s party must have started by now. He tried to imagine what her expression was when she walked in and everyone shouted, “Surprise!” He wished he were there to see it. He wondered what she made of his not being there. She was probably hurt. Or furious. Or both. He didn’t even want to think about how his mother had to be reacting to his absence.

  “Quinn O’Brien. Good to see you again.” Whitey, as polite as ever, rose to shake Quinn’s hand. Quinn noticed he was wearing a gold Claddagh ring with a ruby heart in the middle in addition to a simple gold wedding band. Quinn knew nothing about his missus—nothing at all, really, about Whitey’s personal life, apart from the fact that he supposedly lived in a pretty plush mansion on Long Island’s North Shore. Obviously the “customer” whose stuff Liam and Tommy moved was part of Whitey’s circle. It pained Quinn to think that right up until Tommy screwed him, Liam still trusted his friend, holding on to the belief that somewhere deep within Tommy there existed a shred of decency. Stupid Irish loyalty, Quinn thought. He really felt for his brother.

  Whitey gestured at the chair across from him. “Sit. Please.”

  Quinn sat.

  “You’re looking well,” Whitey observed.

  “I’m feeling well. You?”

  “Fit as a fiddle. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”