Page 2 of The Associate

“It’s all here. Mostly ones and fives, but he’s not short,” Vic said. He stacked the bills from both containers together and put them with the rest of the day’s take. With a sad expression, he glanced at one empty pint box. “Sure wish thiswasfilled with lo mein. Ying didn’t even give us any fortune cookies.”

“You wanna go back in there?” As Gio said this, two more people entered the takeout space. “Tell him we’ve upped the cost of protection to include a half-dozen cookies?”

When Vic flashed him a sheepish smile, Gio laughed and turned over the engine.

“To be honest, I’d rather have fish and chips. It is Friday, after all,” he said. Tap-tap-tap with the ballpoint pen on the pad. “Last up is Lonnegan’s. It’s a block from the capo’s.” Tap-tap-tap with the ballpoint pen on his right temple. “You see how I arranged the pickup route? We ain’t wasting time driving all over creation.”

“Nice going, Vic. You ought to give tours.” Gio side-eyed his acquaintance, unable to see if the man had a blue ink blotch near his forehead. The coast clear, he pulled away and turned at the next light, heading toward their capo’s place.

Three miles later, made all the longer by uncooperative traffic lights, they came to the street on which the pub resided. On the westside’s dwindling Irish neighborhood, encroached upon over the decades by other ethnicities, the establishment maintained an authentic façade with its dark exterior paneling and gilded Celtic font on the signage. That the pub was sandwiched between a Catholic church and its rectory inspired Gio’s quiet laughter. He imagined a stream of parishioners on a Sunday morning emptying one place and filling the other.

What unsettled him, though, was the lack of activity. Not even an Irish flag hanging by the door. On a Friday night, the place ought to be packed with people named McDude and O’Something ready to kick off the weekend. Gio killed the car’s engine near the curb and ignored the meter when he got out to look.

He tried the door. Locked. He cupped his hands over the nearest window and peered inside, finding upturned barstools, the glowing distant exit signs providing the only illumination. Lonnegan’s wasn’t his type of hangout, but he drove down this street often and swore the place had been open earlier in the week.

Vic ambled up beside him. “Sign says they should have opened at three.”

“Brilliant detective work,” Gio said, his voice rough. He reached into his pocket. “See this?” He waved his phone. “This will provide more info than an unreliable sign.”

“If I had a phone now, I’d find nothing but ads for Chinese food, the way we were talking about lo mein.” Vic kicked at an uneven patch of sidewalk near the café seating area. “So, what sayeth the mighty cellphone?”

As much as the sign, Gio determined from the pub’s stale social accounts. The most recent post was timestamped shortly after Easter, and they were well into June now. Gio looked for comments from patrons and came up empty. “Well, fuck.”

Vic shrugged. “Hey, if they’re closed, they’re closed. It means we don’t collect from them, right?”

“Not today,” Gio said. He normally worked different parts of the westside, but their capo kept full records on steady accounts and delinquents. He hated going to Aldo Bertinelli with a light bag, and more than likely the man had a few home addresses for them to check. So much for spending his evening in more pleasurable pursuits.

He nudged Vic. “Get the bag. We’ll leave the car here and walk. There’s a plate ofsaltimboccawith my name on it.”

* * * *

“Mam, why do you keep looking out the window? Who are you expecting this late?”

Conor Malloy perched on the edge of his parents’ Queen Anne sofa, a relic from their youth in Limerick, while his mother sat closer to the window overlooking the street. Glancing around the darkened living room of the elder Malloys’ brownstone, Conor marveled at how little the place had changed since he left for college in Dublin ten years ago, and in his few subsequent trips back. Returning ‘home’ to see his ailing father more resembled a step through a portal. Same threadbare rugs, same faded wallpaper, same furniture. Only the photographs arranged on the upright piano against the wall, highlighting recent graduations and gray hairs, clued Conor in to any passage of time.

To this point, Conor thought the pub had done well, enough to allow his parents to upgrade their surroundings. They were late in life parents, though, and therefore of a generation where one hung onto items so long as they functioned well. It didn’t explain his mother’s hyperfocus on the street.

“Mam.” He raised his voice to break the spell. The worry creasing Mona Malloy’s brow and lips bothered him. Yes, her husband was sick in the next room, close to dying, but Conor suspected something unrelated to this grief ate at the woman. She radiated more fear than tears, it seemed.

“I’m sorry,” Mona said, her voice soft and barely audible. She blinked and faced him. “It’s been a long week, and this was so unexpected.” A grand understatement, to be certain. One day everything is fine, and the next your husband keels over from a massive cardiac event while behind his bar. Conor’s heart panged for his mother.

Turning in her chair, she shifted until she no longer blocked the window, then raised her hand toward Conor. “Please, come over here.”

Conor obliged, happy to offer whatever comfort helped his mam. He was exhausted and aching from his lengthy flight, having been forced into an economy space far too narrow for his six-foot-one frame. Following the last-minute trip over the ocean, he’d white-knuckled the rideshare from the airport to the Malloys’ home, hostage to a driver who loudly shared his political views—none of which aligned with Conor’s. His jaw remained sore from gritting his teeth while he’d listened to the withered, aspiring racer rant about the latest appointments to the country’s government, using the f-word in multiple forms.

Thefa-word at that, not so much thefu. If the driver had only known a bona fidefa-word sat next to him…

Despite his desire to stomp upstairs to his old room and collapse, Conor stood by his mam and held her hand. He thought it odd when she tugged him away from the window, as though she kept a secret on the other side. Conor glanced toward the street, seeing only bare asphalt and empty sidewalks.

“I have something important to tell you,” she said.

“Fine. Let’s have it.”

Mona shook her head, shifting her gaze to the first-floor guest room. “Not until they’re gone.” She referred to the crew sent over from the hospice, come to set up what might be his da’s final above-ground resting place.

“Mam, they’re probably too occupied with Da to care what we’re talking about,” he said, now worried. “Is it to do with the pub?” When she nodded, he relaxed a bit. “Anything relevant to the business, I’ll handle it. Rather, I’ll deal with Patrick.”

“No!” Mona’s eyes widened and she squeezed Conor’s hand. “I promised your da to keep him out of this.”

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