I’m pretty into watching sports.
By sports I obviously mean David Beckham.
Phoebe West, detailing the best attributes of soccer.
“Miss West. Please, sit.”
I’m stunned to find myself face to face with a pleasant looking man in slacks and a button down, his sandy, red-blond hair well groomed and his lithe, athletic stature non-threatening. I’m not sure what I was expecting Keegan MacDonough to look like (maybe someone with massive muscles and a perpetual scowl and possibly even fangs or claws) but it certainly wasn’t this — an unexceptional middle-aged man I wouldn’t glance twice at if I passed him on the street.
His eyes are light blue and hyper-intelligent, tracking my every move as I step further inside. There’s hardly any furniture — just a heavy-looking metal desk and two steel-backed chairs, bolted to the ground. The windows are blacked out with dark spray paint. It looks more like an interrogation room than an office.
“Sit,” he repeats, authority ringing in his tone.
Anyone who underestimates this man based on his appearance is a fool; it’s clear from the first two seconds in his presence, he’s not someone to be trifled with.
I sit.
He does the same, settling on the other side of the industrial desk. His hands steeple in front of him as he stares at me.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, after a long silence.
“I’m assuming it’s not for a chick-flick marathon with popcorn and hair-braiding.” I’m proud my voice doesn’t shake. “Which is a shame, ‘cause I do a mean fish-tail.”
He doesn’t smile or laugh. His lips don’t even twitch.
“Your father broke the terms of our agreement. So long as he pays me, you won’t be harmed.”
I swallow. “The way he tells it, you’re the one who broke the terms.”
“So you know about our arrangement.”
“If by arrangement you mean mistake, then yes. I know about the mistake my father made, dealing with you.”
“A mistake?” His head tilts. “No, I don’t think so. Mistakes imply you don’t know what you’re getting into. Your father knew exactly what he was doing, when he decided to negotiate with me. That’s not a mistake. You may blame me for how things turned out, but he’s as much at fault as anyone.”
“You’re the criminal, here. Don’t turn it around on my father.”
“You call me a criminal because I make deals in a seedy bar in Charlestown; you’d call me something else if I made those same deals from a corner office downtown. Entrepreneur. Businessman.” He leans back in his seat. “Criminal is just an arbitrary label, Miss West. A state of mind.”
“Says the criminal,” I mutter.
“Your father is a wealthy man. You think he’s gotten that way by following the law? You think he’s not a criminal, for the things he’s done?” His eyes narrow to slits. “He’s greased the palms of every zoning official and city surveyor since he started building his little green-development empire. And before then, a decade ago, when he laid his submarine communications cable from Boston to England and made the bulk of his fortune… You think that project would’ve passed regulations, if he hadn’t bribed everyone standing in his way? Silenced every environmental group and opposer with threats and defamation lawsuits?”
My heart is pounding a sharp staccato inside my chest.
For the first time, a hint of a smile crosses Mac’s lips. “Bribes and threats — that’s what makes the world go round. Your father knows that better than anyone.”
My mouth presses shut. I don’t know what to say — how do I defend my father when my own faith in him has crumbled like stale bread? When he’s just as untrustworthy as a mafia lord?
“You’ve been dealing with my father for years. He knows your secrets. You hurt me, he’ll go to the police,” I bluff. “He’ll testify against you.”