Christie McCarthy was a man who had his creds, and he had come here for a fight – not just to avenge his son’s death, but to show people that some things needed to be redressed.
He glanced at his close friend, Sam Dunne, his sister’s husband, and a man who he knew would always be there if needed. Like him, Sam was subdued.
‘He was still my son, Michael, my boy, and you fucking murdered him.’
Michael shrugged nonchalantly. This was starting to irritate him now. It was all going on too long. ‘Well, you know what? He didn’t give me much fucking choice, did he? I’m not going to enter into a big discussion about this. I had to do what I did, and you both know that. I’m sorry to the heart of me for offending you, Christie. I have the greatest respect for you, but this was just business. It wasn’t personal. If I had let his actions slide, you know I would never have lived it down!’
Christie was shaking his head in denial, so Michael bellowed, ‘He asked for it, and he fucking got it! Not before time, either. You should have seen this coming, mate. He used your name, and he lived off your reputation like a fucking leech. I’m only saying to you what everyone else has been saying about him for donkey’s years. I didn’t want to do anything to him. As you know yourself, this kind of thing is a last resort, for fuck’s sake! But it happened. Whatever you might think, I did what I had to do.’
Sam Dunne couldn’t look Christie in the face. He was with Michael Flynn every step of the way. He loved Christie McCarthy like a brother, but that son of his had always been trouble. It was awful to know Kelvin was dead, for a father to know that his son had been murdered, but it had to be a relief for him in some ways. Christie had been plagued by the lad’s antics for years. He spent money like water; he couldn’t hold a job down, he had stolen from his own family. He had been devoid of any kind of decency whatsoever, he had lived his whole life believing he was entitled to everything. Now he had been taken out by Michael Flynn, and Sam Dunne was seriously regretting his impulsive actions in coming here. But family was family.
Michael could see how hurt Christie McCarthy was about his son. He didn’t like to see the man so upset, but he wasn’t going to sugar-coat everything; the man knew he had spawned a fucking moron of Olympian standards. He attempted to swallow his anger once more, and said gently, ‘Look, Christie, I can’t really apologise for what I did, all I can say is, I hope you can let this go. I don’t want to fall out with you about it. I have no fight with you – I had no fight with him till he brought one into my club. But if you can’t get over this, then tell me now.’
It was a threat, and Christie recognised it. Michael Flynn was getting bored, he wanted this over. He had apologised in his own immutable way, had tried to explain his action, and given Christie the respect he was due.
Christie had far more sense than his son – he knew when to let things go. Michael Flynn was also the main employer for many of the men he had to deal with on a daily basis – he was his bread and butter, really. It rankled – the death of a child wasn’t something to be forgotten overnight, even if that child had been on a death wish for many a long year – but his earlier anger had diminished.
‘I don’t want to carry this on. You’re right, Michael – my son should have known better. I knew he was a fucking waster. He broke my heart. I gave him every opportunity to work for a living, to have a life in the real world, but he fucked it up every time. I don’t want to fall out with you over this. It is hard to say it, but he ain’t worth all this. He never was.’
Michael smiled widely. He could be generous now, magnanimous. He had got what he wanted. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Christie. I would have hated to have us at each other’s throats. When I saw you two in my hallway, and my poor wife looking so fucking frightened, I was all for killing you both, just for the piss-take. I really didn’t think we would get this far. It shows you how wrong first impressions can be, eh?’ He held out his hand and Christie McCarthy shook it heartily. Then Michael turned to Sam Dunne, and did the same. It was all friendly now, the atmosphere lighter, and both Christie and Sam knew they had dodged a bullet. Michael was relaxed, acting like he was relieved that they had understood his terrible predicament and forgiven him.
‘Let me pour us a drink. I’m so pleased we managed to get past this shit.’ He poured them large brandies, personally serving them, making sure they were comfortable, offering them seats and cigars, treating them with the utmost respect, making them feel valued, acknowledging their status in his world.
‘A toast. To the future.’
They all raised their Waterford crystal glasses, knowing that Michael Flynn had won the day. Everyone would find out that they had folded, that Christie had been forced to overlook his son’s demise, and accept Michael Flynn’s actions without any recourse whatsoever.