Page 13 of The Associate

“Since yesterday morning,” he said. “My stay is open-ended. How’re Tess and the kids?”

Patrick gave a hasty summary of his family’s achievements, from job promotions to recent grades and extracurricular interests. No empty invite to dinner followed, which suited Conor fine. He hadn’t attended the wedding, and Patrick was the conservative sort. Conor wasn’t interested in putting himself on display as the token gay relative for virtual strangers, nor would he consider pretending to be heterosexual for a night ‘for the sake of the children.’

“Is Uncle Hugh awake?” Patrick straightened the papers into a neat stack.

“Is all that to do with the pub?” Conor asked. When Patrick pressed his lips into a straight line he added, “No sense in keeping secrets, is there? I’ve seen my parents’ wills and end of life plans, I know what they say.”

Patrick flicked his gaze toward Mona, who affirmed it was okay to speak in front of Conor. She lowered herself in the nearest chair but Conor hovered close to his cousin, trying to read over his shoulder. Patrick thwarted him by laying his arm over the stack.

“I suppose it doesn’t make a difference since I assume you’ll eventually return to Ireland,” Patrick said, then addressed Mona directly, “and you’re on the deed as co-owner of the building housing Lonnegan’s. An offer’s been made on it, one I would strongly advise you take.”

Conor sat, quiet, while Patrick summarized his conversation with the potential buyer, an entity called The SSG Group. A shell company, Conor guessed. All through his talk, he noticed Mona’s body language. She seemed stiff and distracted, nodding by rote and glancing around the room as though looking for something.

No, Conor thought,maybe someone.His mother gave off paranoid vibes. He then remembered his abbreviated talk with her yesterday, and how neither of his parents wanted Patrick involved with the future of the pub.

“These people came to you directly?” he asked, interrupting Patrick. “How recent was this? And did they come of their own accord, or did you start making phone calls the moment my da collapsed?”

Mona nudged him, looking horrified. “Conor!”

“I’m sorry, Mam, but just last evening you sat with me in the front room and said you promised Da not to involve Patrick in any dealings with the pub. So why is he bringing you bids?” Conor glared at his cousin. “Are you even aware of this?” he asked Patrick, all the while forming another, more urgent question in his head.

Had either of his parents given Patrick power of attorney?No, he thought. That wouldn’t make sense after his talk with Mona last night.

If Patrick was affronted by Mona’s dismissal of his counsel, he hid it as he faced Conor and Mona with a bland expression. “Aunt Mona, I’ve told you before it isn’t necessary for you to shoulder all the responsibility,” he said. “You’re not doing yourself or Uncle Hugh any favors by refusing my help.”

“My parents operated Lonnegan’s for decades without lawyers,” Conor cut in. “Surely they can find a proper buyer without your interference.”

“It’s not that simple, Con.” Patrick shook his head, speaking again to Mona. “You could have asked me to step in before it came to this.”

Mona pinched her eyes shut and her whole face tightened. Conor sensed something off about the conversation. Debts, he guessed, desperate tactics to keep the lights on and the taps running. Conor could only guess that Patrick acted as an intermediary with some bank to liquidate the bar before it was seized.

What a mess if true. Every time Conor had called home and asked about Lonnegan’s, he received the same answer.Everything’s good, busy as always.His parents weren’t the type to fib for the sake of comforting their son, but damned if they were drowning and chose not to throw out a distress signal.

“What’s really going on? What are you two not telling me?” Conor demanded, his glare hard on Patrick. Mona now buried her face in her hands and heaved quiet sobs. He hated secrets, and knowing his parents kept bad news from him boiled his blood. “Out with it, you’re both scaring me.”

Mona sniffed, wiping away her tears. “Con, we never wanted you to find out,” she said. “We didn’t think it would get so out of hand.” She touched Conor’s wrist—he felt the moisture. “Your father’s health problems have been going on for a while, longer than we’ve let on. Our savings took a fair hit as a result.”

“So, what? You took out another mortgage on the house, or the pub building?” Conor asked. He aimed his glare at Patrick, seething. “I know we’re not close, but I’m not inaccessible. You didn’t think to loop me in on my own father’s failing health?”

Patrick turned up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I’m just learning this part of the story myself. To answer your other questions, I haven’t gone behind Aunt Mona’s back looking for buyers. The SSG people contacted me through their lawyer on this offer.” He shoved papers at Conor, who held them away from Mona when she attempted to intercept.

“Why do I get the feeling these ‘SSG people’ aren’t reputable businessmen?” He brought out his phone. “If I search them, what am I going to find?”

“Nothing, I imagine,” Patrick said. He glanced at Mona, who widened her eyes in an obvious silent beg to stay quiet, and defied her. “Salvatore San Gaetano.Thatname will yield all the info you need.”

Conor let his phone fall asleep.Nice, a predatory land developer. “Whoever he is, the offer is laughable,” Conor said on seeing the low-balled number blaring out in bold black ink like an insult. How disgusting to take advantage of a grieving, vulnerable woman. “I may not live here, but I know the property is worth way more than that. Tell him to fuck off.”

Mona gave a low wail and bolted from her chair. She excused herself and left the dining room, and Patrick grabbed for Conor as he tried to go after her.

“Con, you have to listen,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “You don’t want to mess with the San Gaetanos. They’re a…” Patrick paused, showing his stress. “Damn it, Con, we’re talking about the mob.”

“What?” Conor pulled away from Patrick’s touch, as though stung. How in the hell had his parents gotten tangled in Mafia dealings? Surely they hadn’t gone to some loan shark to cover Hugh’s medical bills.

He listened as Patrick laid out the Malloys’ predicament. “There’s always been a mob presence in the city, Con. You were probably too young or naive to see it. A number of businesses here are fronts. Not Lonnegan’s, of course, but like any other hard-working business owner, your father was paying protection fees.”

“Christ,” Conor muttered. Memories of his summers bussing tables resurfaced, this time with special attention paid to details that once seemed innocuous. Burly men, neither regular customers nor familiar vendors, would saunter into Lonnegan’s. Hugh would disappear in the back with them for a minute or so, then return to business as usual. Conor never asked about those exchanges because, in all truth, he’d focused more on his plans for the tips and wages.

“Their lawyer advised me that Uncle Hugh had fallen behind on the payment schedule,” Patrick was saying. “I’ve no doubt what’s put him in hospice is a result of the stress he’s carried because of it, compounded with his health issues.” He brought his fist down on the table. “His damned Irish pride.”

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