The Fighting O'Keegans

by Aaron Kennedy

  O’Keegan, Flannery and even Meehan had been ‘assessed’, although no one truly believed the leaders would throw their hats into the ring, how would it look if they lost?

  But they were added to the boards anyway, the experts applying their expertise, giving the most favourable odds to the obvious Flannery.

  The slightly shorter, smaller O’Keegan ranked near the top. The oracles shook their heads when considering the O’Keegan, yes he was the leader but, in their wisdom, they decided he was the leader through smarts rather than brawn.

  Over the last twenty four hours, each of the O’Keegan boys had found they were now the new men about town, befriended by all, the guys that everyone wanted to know, some in an effort to get an inside scoop, looking for some an edge and an understanding of who were the real contenders for the O’Keegan Event crown. Every man in the O’Keegan gang was known and discussed.

  Each of O’Keegan’s men was given a real or more often than not a fantasy history to add to the glamour of the event.

  With each telling, from one friend or worker to another, the O’Keegan boys and their stories had grown, pumped up by each storyteller keen to get the biggest gasp from those listening.

  No posters, flyers, newspapers had publicized the event, but word had travelled faster than a cat with a fire cracker on its tail, running around each and every Boston street and meeting place, sparks flying.

  Chapter 28

  O’Keegan and Flannery sat, two lonely on-the house filled tumblers between them, sitting amongst the old ring marks amongst the lightening and darkening cherry wood of the table.

  Old smoke and years of beer barrels rolled daily down into the basement gave the bar it’s smell, Ireland not too far away.

  Flannery looked around, seeing the bar tender do what bar tenders do, his towels twisting and turning around a recently washed glass, minding his own business taken to an art form.

  The basement bar was almost empty, it waited for old timers, firmly placed between a hard day and an anticipated night. The dead zone, no happy hour for these drinkers or this bar.

  O’Keegan raised the closest tumbler to his lips before raising it, looking into the drinks smoke, peat a throat smoothing aftertaste.

  ‘I didn’t expect this…’ O’Keegan said,

  Flannery turned back to him, picking up his own glass.

  ‘What? The Bushmills?’

  O’Keegan smiled a relaxed smile, savouring the last taste, drawing a breath.

  ‘No, although that came as a surprise too.’ O’Keegan raised his glass looking at the smoky golden liquid swirling around the single chip of ice. ‘No, I didn’t expect our event to be picked up like it has.’ O’Keegan said looking over his glass at Flannery.

  ‘I know what you mean, we’ve got more publicity than if we’d killed somebody…’ Flannery said savouring his own few fingers of Bushmills.

  The barman coughed, O’Keegan looked over at the door, saw a few regulars coming in to start their sitting vigil early. Waiting for them to get settled a decent distance away, O’Keegan continued.

  ‘You know we’re on the map now, for some it takes years, for us it’s taken days. I’m not sure we’re ready.’

  Flannery leant towards O’Keegan, placing his glass down amongst their tables ring stains. ‘We have to be, we’ve got two weeks, Meehan will be looking to get out of it before then.’

  ‘What about the boys…you think they’re ready?’ O’Keegan questioned, meeting Flannery’s eyes. Flannery shrugged, then settled back more comfortably in his chair. ‘They’ll be good, you know them.’

  O’Keegan nodded. ‘The stories about us have been told so many times that even I don’t recognise who they’re talking about. It’s their fucking fantasy. Just to listen to them, even I’m scared of you Flannery, you sound like a real tough man’

  ‘Well, you should be, I’m the favourite…these Boston experts know a thing or two’ Flannery primed himself, pushing out his chest in mock display, all thoughts of their own fight almost forgotten. As an instinctive after thought, Flannery looked around as one of the drinkers settled himself down against one of the side walls, comfortable there were no fresh faces.

  Flannery looked back to O’Keegan, knowing they were both thinking of the challenge ahead, serious again. ‘This event has put us on the Boston gang map…whether we like it or not.’ He raised his glass, ready to take a drink. ‘You know these experts and pretty much everyone else is putting us up there with Meehan. They think we’ve might have what it takes to put him down.’

  O’Keegan sat forward, forgetting for a moment that there were others in the room.

  ‘We do, I didn’t want Meehan to know that yet, but we do. We’ve gone from being flies on his shirt cuff to being a big and public pain in his ass’.

  The barman coughed again, this time O’Keegan checked out the doorway, seeing the Supervisor standing with the daylight behind him, his eyes squinting, getting used to the change from light to smoky near darkness. Seeing who he was looking for, he set his plump arms and legs in their direction, puffing his fat momentum to reach O’Keegan and Flannery’s table while dodging loose wooden spindle chairs scattered around the basement bar. Arriving past the obstacles, the Supervisor stood still, waiting, looking around nervously, seeing the bars drinkers disregarding him as they focused on their more important drinks. Flannery spoke first.

  ‘Mr Supervisor, how have you been? I see you have a new hat…’ He watched the Supervisor’s mind work, Adam’s apple bobbing under loose skin.

  ‘How did you know I lost the last one?’

  Flannery stood, pulling back a third chair for the Supervisor, his large meaty hand spanning three of the chair back spindles. Flannery waited for the Supervisor to sit before answering him.

  The Supervisor perched, not pulling in his chair, still looking for a way out.

  ‘Lost or dropped? I’m not sure what the exact telling was…’ Flannery said.

  O’Keegan nodded at the barman, who set about getting one more drink. Turning back to the Supervisor, he quietly asked his own question,

  ‘You have something for us or is this just a social?’ The Supervisor struggled with himself, still unsure of this step. Like toothpaste squeezed out of a twisted tube, he spoke.

  ‘Yes, I fixed up the meet you asked for…’

  ‘Meehan?’ O’Keegan leant back in his chair. ‘I think that ship has sailed’

  ‘Sailed? Meehan’s not going to like that’

  ‘He doesn’t have to like it.’ O’Keegan said with quiet confidence.

  The Supervisor’s Adams apple moved more vigorously appraising O’Keegan, small piggy eyes looking him over. ‘Okay, it’s your funeral. On the other matter…’

  The Supervisor shuffled forward, on the very chair edge, no longer sure if he should say what he had really come to say. Stammering, the Supervisor focused on the opportunity he was bringing to O’Keegan.

  ‘I have some men I want you to meet. You offered me a deal…get some men you said, people who would want to join you, you said. Well…I’ve done it.’ He ran his finger around his starched shirt collar, feeling the pressure.

  O’Keegan waited a second or two, wondering if the Supervisor could be offering him just what he needed to unlock Meehan. Watching the apple bob faster for a few more seconds, he waited.

  ‘I said I’ve done it…I’ve got some for you…’

  ‘You’re timing is perfect’ O’Keegan said, his tone flat.

  The Supervisor smiled, looking like a dog thrown a treat he didn’t expect. His smile dropped, O’Keegan didn’t look happy.

  ‘What? You don’t want them now?’ The Supervisor near whispered, a worried look first at O’Keegan then at Flannery. Flannery sat back, leaving it to O’Keegan to make the decision. O’Keegan kept his eyes on the Supervisor as if trying to see deeper, a second or so later he nodded.

  ‘Yeah, we want them. When do we get to meet them?’

  ‘Anytime you want, they’re a
lready here’ He said hoarsely, still not sure he was doing the right thing.

  ‘Flannery will set something up, get them ready to meet us…we’ll tell you how and when.’

  O’Keegan back at Flannery, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. The timing couldn’t be better, the timing felt all wrong, but they knew they didn’t have the choice.

  O’Keegan turned back to the waiting Supervisor.

  ‘You can go now’, patting his jacket pocket which still held the Supervisor’s family photo.

  The Supervisor swallowed. Backing up a step or two before stumbling around, eager to reach daylight.

  Chapter 29

  South Boston.

  Early for most, late for some.

  The shops were just opening their eyes, shop keepers fluttering around their produce, preparing their goods, looking for the edge that meant the sale.

  Each thought about the day ahead, pencils were chewed and absentmindedly found their place behind ears. One last look around the shop, assistants ready to assist. Shop uniforms, clean and pressed aprons, tied at the waist, eyes settling on shined shoes, the last checked off item.

  The day could truly begin, the customers could come, they were ready. For some it was collection day. Meehan’s men expected, percentages saved, envelopes padded and sealed. For some it was pay day but for others, it was a day to be nervous.

  The two men swaggered.

  Italian suits buttoned, broad silk ties tied. They too had their uniform, their trade tools oiled and checked. They too were ready for business. They swaggered. It was a requirement. It was necessary. This was their route, their shops, their job. This was how they paid their bills, how they stayed clothed and fed.

  The swagger was always first, inflicting pain always second, nothing much in between unless they were particularly bored, in need of some pain filled entertainment.

  The bell did what bells do, the door knocking against it as they arrived and entered the first store on their round.

  The smells of tobacco, of fresh sacking bags, of wax wooden floors reminding them of the shops purpose, standing in the shops heart as the bell died, ears straining to the last of it. One long, old wooden counter ran along one side, an all chrome and metal register, ivory buttons the shop keepers favourite jewels glinting as light broke through the now closing door.

  They were in, their business begun. Long ladders leaning, wheels well oiled, assistants perched, cans stacked, faced to front, the shop keepers infantry in the war against want. As the bell died, the shop keeper’s heart died too, Meehan’s men were back again. Had it been a week already? Was he one week older? Was he one week closer, one minute closer? Meehan’s men would decide. Their shark teeth smiling, it was a good day, a day to swagger.

  ‘How’s business?’ His fingers wanting to play with the shop keepers jewels, the holy cash register just a few feet away.

  ‘Business…’ He shook his head, reinforcing it with a sigh. ‘business, it’s bad, I wish it were different but I can’t honestly say that it is…’

  The man put his shark teeth away, just for a second, showing his sympathy, playing the game they always played. They were back.

  ‘Maybe you’re in the wrong business…have you ever thought it?’

  The shop keeper nodded, brushed hair loosening with his nervous fingers.

  ‘Yes, you know, every day I think that. Maybe it’s time for a different business I say to myself. But I always wake and here I am, with the same business, selling just what my Father sold. I wait for business to be better. God will provide I tell myself.’

  ‘...and does he old man? Does God provide? I hope for your sake he does. I hope for my sake that he does’.

  Head shaking sorrow.

  ‘Not yet, but I’m confident he will. Doesn’t he always?’

  ‘Not in my experience old man. You have to provide for yourself. Enough of this, where’s our money?

  The shop keeper stepped back, his resolution crumbling but trying to hold out nevertheless.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have nothing for you today.’ He said, fingers tightly gripping the side of his cash register.

  Meehan’s man lifted his hand to his ear. ‘I didn’t hear right, forgive me, my hearing sometimes plays tricks. You said you have…what for me?’ He made up some of the gap between himself and the Shopkeeper, stepping one step closer. Hand now resting on the Shopkeeper’s counter. Just wood and money dividing them.

  ‘I am sorry, but there is talk and business is bad. I have no money for you today. It might change, I’m prepared for it to change but not today.’

  The collector smelt blood, there was something behind this, if he wasn’t careful it could ultimately be his own blood but he wasn’t yet sure.

  ‘What talk? What’s going on here old man?’

  ‘O’Keegan. Talk says he’s soon to be the man, might already be the man. We’ve all talked along here, we need to wait and see. A day, a week, until we hear. I’m a simple man…all this confuses me, when I’m confused, I wait and see.’ The shop keeper breathed, he was still alive. He didn’t know if he would be by now but the shop keepers on this street had decided, let Meehan and O’Keegan figure it out.

  The Shopkeeper raised his hands in resignation. ‘Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll believe you, I will, I really will - but the street decided, we’ll pay protection money if you can protect. Can you protect us from O’Keegan? Can he protect us from you? Tell us, prove it to us and the world can turn again…just like it always did. Business isn’t good enough for two mouths, that is what we decided. I am sorry…I wished I could say something else to you…’

  The collector’s stomach twisted, his ulcer souring, wanting nothing more than to kill the shop keeper, it would be so easy, seeing the lesson that was needed but sure that wouldn’t get him his money and likely turning the other shop keepers to O’Keegan’s gang for their protection. No, he wouldn’t kill him without Meehan’s say so. But was this the first, the one and only rebel or was this the beginning of a virus already caught? Meehan would know the answer, and the collector already knew what the medicine would be.

  He turned his back, nodding to his silent partner, de-swaggered, they took the steps necessary towards the door. As he moved, the collector noticed the brass bell, not wanting it to ring the end of round one. The shop keeper breathed, his first remembered breath of the day, finger loosening his collar as he leant back against the back wall racks. His eyes probed the bell, as his hands began to turn the door handle, a dwarfed, misshapen shop keeper appeared reflected, his relief still visible despite the bent image.

  Slanting his body back towards the Shopkeeper, the collector’s hand lifted, reaching horizontal, his finger twitched, the noise of the gun bouncing between the wall of cans, one last blow before the bell sounded. Not waiting for the count, they left.

  The shop keeper, chest broken, penetrated, bloody, reached out, red hand smearing his cash register’s ivory keys, his last ‘No Sale’. End of Round One.

  Chapter 30

  O’Keegan and Flannery sat with their heads together talking through their plans. The chopping of the thick carcasses of meat could be heard from the front of the shop as they sat on rickety wooden chairs in the makeshift office.

  Flannery glanced a few times through the open door divide and watched as a slow stream of people made their way into the butchers, the door bell ringing as each person came and went.

  O’Keegan pushed the chair back, looking around their office before settling back to watch Flannery for a second or two.

  ‘We’ve come along way in the last month haven’t we?’

  Flannery settled back into his own chair,

  ‘Yeah, and one way or another it will all be over soon.’

  ‘This thing with Meehan, it’s moving fast.’

  Flannery nodded, neither of them wanting to say much.

  ‘…yeah, fast and it’s not completely in our hands any more. We started it all, and we just have to hold on and no
t let go until it’s done. A month or a week, something tells me it’s going to end the same way whenever it happens.’

  ‘When are we meeting with the boys the Supervisor has lined up?’

  ‘2pm…at the warehouse.

  Chapter 31

  Meehan had taken delivery of his new car only a day before and it was a beauty. The burgundy shine set off the chrome work that he had spent days thinking about and choosing.

  The car had been parked outside of Meehan’s warehouse, for all to see and admire. Even the street scruffs had steered clear of the car, everyone knew who owned it, Meehan’s rep hadn’t gone down that far yet.

  Getting up from his desk, Meehan walked through the warehouse to stroll around and caress his new car, the fifth time in an hour.

  He couldn’t keep away from it, like a new girlfriend that he couldn’t help but see, touch and taste tenderly whenever he could. For Meehan it was the reality of all his hard work, the one gift he had given himself after years of doing everything necessary to make his mark on Boston and Boston had finally delivered, Boston had given Meehan his new baby.

  Meehan felt the possessiveness of a boyfriend towards such a fragile thing, could any other man not envy him for owning, driving and travelling in such a work of art?

  His fingers gently slid over the cool, smooth metal and hesitantly touching the gleaming silver work, he felt an almost electrical charge of pleasure as his fingers slide from flawless surface to flawless surface, one curve beginning as another ended.

  They came to rest on the windows, his moist fingers leaving tips of moisture clouds on the surface as he left them splayed for a few seconds.

  His fascination with the window was the only sign that there was more to this car than just a thing of beauty, of America’s best carriage works and that Meehan was anything more than the usual spoilt rich man buying himself a pleasure machine.

  Making a knuckle Meehan rapped the side panel, grinning at the thunk his hand made, satisfied with it’s solidity. He was pleased. He had paid for something special, bullet proof windows that even his colleagues in Chicago and New York would envy.