Declan was seriously worried. He had never had to deal with a situation like this before – his brother had made sure of that. Patrick knew the value of speed in these kind of situations. Michael was finally on his way, but it just wasn’t good enough. He should have been here ages ago, and he would tell him that as well. Michael was like a fucking ghost these days, drifting in and out at his leisure. It was a travesty. He was supposed to be the big boss now, and it seemed to Declan that Michael Flynn had dropped the fucking ball. He needed to up his game, because the people he dealt with looked for weakness and, if they found it, they went in for the kill.
He sat down. The Portakabin was too hot, stuffy, and it fucking stank. He lit a cigar, and puffed on it deeply. The smell of his big Churchill would mask anything and, as this place stank like a Turkish wrestler’s jockstrap, he welcomed the tobacco’s distinct aroma.
He could hear the swearing and threats coming from the other room, and he closed his eyes in annoyance. This wasn’t his gig – this was Michael Flynn’s territory. He didn’t like being dragged into it all, but he had no choice in the matter. Someone had to do something before it got out of hand. This was the kind of situation that could easily cause a war.
He saw the headlights of a car as it pulled up outside, and he waited patiently for Michael to join him. He was really aggravated, but he knew he had to keep a lid on it until this was all sorted out. One thing at a time, had always been Patrick’s mantra, and Declan chose to live by it.
Michael opened the door and, as he walked in, Declan saw that the man was already angry. ‘Tell me this is a fucking joke, Declan.’
Declan shook his head, nervous suddenly. Michael Flynn looked fit to be tied, and that wasn’t a good thing. ‘Like I’d bring you out at this time of night for a fucking laugh. I’ve been trying to get you all evening. This is your fucking business, Michael, not mine.’
Michael knew he was right. He should have answered the phone – no one rang the house unless it was important. Josephine was his only weak spot, his Achilles heel. He had fucked up big time.
‘So, come on then, what fucking happened?’
Declan realised that the man in the next room had suddenly gone quiet. He assumed that he had heard Michael’s voice, and was now rapidly sobering up and wondering how he could get out of the situation he had caused.
Declan puffed on his cigar for a few moments. ‘Jeffrey Palmer was in the new club having a few drinks, and who should turn up there mob-handed, full of drink, drugs and God knows what else? Only Kelvin McCarthy. He homed straight in on Jeffrey. It was fucking outrageous, Michael. Jeffrey was good in all fairness, he swallowed a lot. More than I fucking would have if it was me. But it got out of hand. Jeffrey was going to give him a well-deserved slap, and Kelvin pulled a gun on him – in full view of everyone. Thank fuck we were in the top bar. Most of the people there know the score. But it was fucking hairy, I tell you. He would have shot him and all, but young Danny Kirby wrestled the gun off him. He is worth watching, that lad. He saved us all a fucking serious nightmare tonight. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I have got Kelvin in there.’ He gestured towards the door that led to the other room in the Portakabin. ‘We bundled Kelvin out of there as fast as we could. But Jeffrey Palmer is not going to let this drop, and who could blame him? It was a public humiliation. It’s just that Kelvin’s father is a different kettle of fish as you know. Christie McCarthy is a fucking known Face, and he has a big crew behind him. He also has a son who is about as much use as a nun’s cunt. The bugbear is he is still his son.’
Michael looked around him quickly, his mind working overtime. This was a real problem in more ways than one. He admired and respected Christie McCarthy. He was one of the few people they didn’t do business with although they had requested his services on occasion. Christie McCarthy was actually the only person capable of taking him on. He was also one of the few people that Patrick Costello had genuinely liked. They had grown up together, and they had always had a good relationship. Christie McCarthy pretty much kept himself to himself. He had long-term businesses that were not just very lucrative, but were also specialised. He was the go-to man if you needed someone to disappear permanently but, for whatever reason, you couldn’t be seen to be involved. He was also a very experienced mediator who could not only solve certain problems between the warring factions, but who was also guaranteed to be without any bias whatsoever. That was his expertise. He had made his living from his ability to facilitate any kind of meeting, even between sworn enemies. He would then act as the mediator for their talks, and no one had ever dared to take advantage of him, use the meeting for their own ends or for payback. Christie McCarthy wasn’t a man who would allow anything like that to happen; after all, this was his bread and butter. He could also provide any service that might be needed, from a getaway driver to a bent barrister. His forte was his wide range of contacts and his reputation as a man who delivered.