Thank God she had come to her senses.
It was late when I opened the door to the house that had once belonged to my grandfather. Killian McPherson had lived here for almost fifty years, and half of those years were with his wife. Sadly, my grandmother died of cancer when I was five. All I remember about her is that she took me to church and taught me how to pray. And that when we went, her white hair was always pulled tightly back and she wore the same blue dress. That woman was the love of his life and he never remarried. In fact, he never brought another woman to this house, and he lived here alone until my father moved in once he and my mother divorced.
All the lights were off. “Pop, you here?”
There wasn’t any answer. I looked in his office. It was empty. I ran up the stairs to his room. He wasn’t there. I came back down and opened the door to the family room. Nothing. He wasn’t back yet.
I flicked on the television and sat on the couch.
I’d wait for him.
A hand on my shoulder woke me. “Logan, what are you doing here?”
I blinked and looked at my watch. It was almost one in the morning. “I came by to talk to you. Why are you home so late?”
He rubbed his hands on his pants and sat on the chair beside me. “Patrick wasn’t at Lucy’s when I arrived, but he told Tommy I was to wait.”
Lucy’s was not only the largest but also the best-known strip club in Boston. It was also the Blue Hill Gang’s headquarters.
It was only one of twenty other strip joints that fronted Patrick’s illegal operations run under the corporation eerily named All My Women. Sick fuck. The strip clubs, or gentlemen’s clubs as my pop preferred to call them, were named after women all right, but the women were cartoon characters. There was Betty’s, Veronica’s, Wilma’s, and a slew more I couldn’t recall.
Tommy, the prick, was Patrick’s son and just as big of a douche as his father. He and I never did see eye to eye, and while he had reason to hate me, I had reason to hate him more.
Worried, I clicked on the lamp sitting on the table and studied my father. “Have you been drinking?”
He shook his head. “No, but I wanted to.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did the prick pour you one?”
He nodded. “Left the bottle on the bar in case I changed my mind.”
It wasn’t the first time.
Scowling, I let my anger out. “Son of a fucking bitch. That’s it. You’re not going there without me anymore.”
My father slammed his palm on the table beside him and the lamp shook. “Logan, I can take care of myself. I told you I want you to stay out of this. And besides, you know you can’t set foot inside there or anywhere near that little prick.”
Knowing he was right, and feeling empathetic after my outburst, I said, “Don’t you get it? Now that Gramps is gone he’s trying to break you.”
My father’s jaw clenched. “Let him try. I’m not as weak as he thinks.”
“Pop, you have to get out before you can’t. Things are different now. The stakes are so much higher with Gramps gone. He’s got you doing things you’ve never done and you know you shouldn’t be doing them.”
He sat back in the chair. “You don’t think I know that?”
I grunted, “I’m not so sure.”
His voice rose. “Well, I do. And you also know I can’t get out.”
Frustrated, I stood and went to glance out the window. “It’s been twelve years. I think that’s long enough to be Patrick’s personal counsel, liaison, or whatever the fuck he calls you.”
My father leaned his head back and shut his eyes. “Son, you know it doesn’t work that way.”
Practically growling now, I spat, “Fuck him and fuck the way he thinks things should work.”
My plan had better be successful because if it isn’t, I just might kill the motherfucker. Then where would I be?
“A life for a life,” my father muttered.
Feeling like I might explode, I punched the wall. My hand started to throb instantly. “Fuck.”
Shaking his head, my father went into the kitchen and came back with a bag of frozen peas. “You need to calm down. Put this on your hand and have a seat.”
I took it and sat on the couch. In a much calmer voice, I said, “Tell me exactly why you went to O’Shea’s like a madman today and what he told you when you were there.”
My old man let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, Logan. There were a few factors that played into my demeanor today, but mostly I’m just tired of people getting hurt. And if this son of a bitch thinks he’s going to get a pass from Patrick because he’s blaming his wife or because his old man Mickey O’Shea, Patrick, and me grew up together, he needed to know neither means shit to Patrick. I wanted to make that crystal clear right off the bat.”
“Did you get his attention?”
“I don’t know. I hope I made him weigh his options because if he doesn’t stop thinking out of his ass, he might not even get enough time to try to right the wrong he claims his wife caused.”
Sympathy?