Nick was no stranger to fear; he’d learned to deal with it at a very early age. Most of his life he’d been surrounded by some powerful men who used terror and intimidation to maintain control: drug dealers, pimps, politicians, dirty cops. But none of them chilled his blood as much as these three men did. They didn’t need to say anything to be scary as hell.
At that moment, Nick was profoundly grateful to be on the right side of things for a change.
“Look, like I said, I’m not stupid. If you guys are capable of even half of what I think you are, then the smartest thing I can do right now is keep my trap shut. But Nicki is my sister, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to fail her again.”
A heavy silence permeated the kitchen. Seconds ticked by in the quiet, each movement of the old fashioned clock sounding as if it had been multiplied a hundred fold. The three Callaghan brothers sat unnaturally still while Nick shifted in his chair.
It was Michael who spoke first. “No one questions your heart, Nick, but there’s more at stake here.”
“I know, I know,” Nick said running his hands through his hair. “The whole ‘ignorance is bliss thing’? Hey, I’m totally down with that. I don’t know the details and I don’t want to. All I’m saying is... I just want to be involved. There has to be some way that I can help.”
“Perhaps there is,” Shane said thoughtfully. “Nicki’s always found a way to get in touch with you before, right?”
“Right.”
Shane looked at Sean. “Let’s have Ian vamp up his mobile. If she texts or phones, he can get a lock.”
Sean nodded. “It’s a good idea. Come on. Let’s hit the Pub and get you geared up.”
*
Benny “the Bull” Marscone, now Richard Constantino, ran a portion of his business from a moderately-sized two-story at the far end of a cul-de-sac in a middle-class neighborhood. Nicki shook her head as they checked the place out. It was all so normal. Husbands were out shoveling the latest round of frozen precipitation from the sidewalks and driveways while kids laughed and played. Some made snow angels or snowmen. Some rode sleds and snowboards over the fair sized hill just off the park. Others had built forts and were engaged in snowball battles while moms chatted in puffy coats at the end of driveways with watchful eyes. Christmas lights decorated nearly every home in anticipation of the upcoming holiday. It looked more like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting than the home base of a vice lord.
“Tell me how a drug dealer operates in a place like this,” she said, shaking her head. She held Fisher’s hand loosely. She’d padded the feminine-looking parka to give the impression of pregnancy. Her hair was pulled back into a casual knot, and just a hint of makeup left her fresh-faced and young-looking.
Fisher, in his Dockers and stylish Northland jacket, was the epitome of the young professional with his stylishly boyish haircut and clean-shaven jaw. For all intents and purposes, they were a young, expecting couple checking out a few of the homes that sported For Sale signs along the street.
“Hiding in plain sight,” Fisher said under his breath. “And how much do you want to bet he’s got more than a few customers right here on Happy Street.”
It was true enough. Oh, probably not the heavy stuff, but maybe some weed, some mild pick-me-ups for the stressed-out moms, some perfectly acceptable pain meds and relaxants to make life just a little more bearable when things got tough for the upper middle class.
“He’s smart,” Nicki said, nodding pleasantly as she pretended to point out features on the nearest home. “He handles the white-collar crowd now, no doubt leaving his minions to deal with the riff-raff.”
Fisher put his arm around her and pulled her close, placing a chaste kiss on her temple. Brookes, he knew, was stewing in the car two blocks over. They always battled for who would play Nicki’s significant other, and Brookes lost the toss this time.
Nicki couldn’t help but smile. “Gloating doesn’t become you,” she said, knowing immediately what he was up to. Fisher laughed. “It suits me perfectly, and you know it. Now what’s the best angle of entry, do you think?”
They took their time, pausing to stop and chat with a couple of curious residents about the local schools, nearest playgrounds, all the while registering every detail. By the time the street lamps began to glow and parents started ushering kids inside for hot chocolate, baths and bedtime, Nicki and Fisher walked back to their car – a nondescript gray Malibu – and drove away.
They convened with Brookes a few minutes later, trading the Malibu for the full-sized van equipped with the latest technology.
“He’s got security cameras here, here, and here,” Fisher said, making points on the digital pics of the house they’d discreetly snapped, as well as the satellite images they’d pulled with a quick call to Taser, “though I would bet his security is a damn sight better than that piece of shit system he’s advertising on his lawn.”