Page 24 of Mob Knight

“Yes, extremely.”

“AtseñorPablo or at me?”

“Both of you. But I think more atseñorPablo because of what he told you. She wasn’t pleased when you got in a fight. That’s when she left for good.”

“Thank you for telling me this.”

“Please don’t tell her I did. I’m supposed to be going home. She made me swear I wouldn’t waste any time. But I don’t think this is a waste. I don’t like people who lie.”

A shiver runs through him, and it makes me wonder who’s lied during his brief life.

“AndseñoritaBracero is always kind to all of us. And she’s so patient. I wanted to help her because she always helps me and myabuelita.”

“I’m glad to hear she does that for you. I won’t say anything to her about you. But I’m happy to know she has such a brave and loyal friend as you.”

The boy beams at me as he steps back and turns around. He starts to run but stops and coughs for a moment. I’m ready to get out and help him, but now he walks quickly instead. He seems fine, but I follow him to make sure he gets into the building I saw Joey come out of the other day. I wait to see if any of Pablo’s men or anyone else follow him in.

It’s fifteen minutes before anyone does. And it’s an older woman who looks a lot like the boy, so I’m confident Pablo didn’t see him talking to me. Or if he did, he’s not lashing out to punish the boy. I don’t think he would, but I put nothing past the Diazes.

I wonder if everything Pablo said was a lie. Most likely it was. But now there’re more thoughts jumbled around in my head. I’m considering the possibility that maybe Jocelyn lied about how things stand with Pablo. Or maybe he spoke to her yesterday and charmed her. That stirs an emotion in me I have rarely felt. I grew up with five other boys and Dillan’s little sister, Colleen, before she died.

I think I’ve shared everything for the most part, and I’ve always been glad to do it. Seamus was two months premature, so I was only seven and a half months old when he was born. We’re practically twins, so we’ve always acted more like we are than not. We don’t have the same genetic intuition Sean and Shane have. But we’re pretty damn close. I’ve always shared everything with him until Tiernan came along. I would never ask, and he would never offer.

But the thought that Pablo might have something I don’t—that he might have someone I want—makes me want to punch him all over again. Preferably with a knife in my hand. I head back to my place, but a call from Dillan makes me turn around.

Chapter Seven

Joey

What the fuck did I just watch? I keep asking myself that over and over on a constant loop as I drive home from the office. I kept myself distracted with a couple of calls on my way from the neighborhood to my office. But now that I’m walking in the front door of my apartment, I can’t get it out of my mind. I just keep replaying the sight of those two colossi going at each other. It was like something out of the Roman gladiators.

I don’t know what happened by the end. I didn’t stick around to see. I think they were ready to talk again by the time I turned off that street. But it terrified me to see them going at each other. I don’t know who I worried for more: that Pablo might do something to Cormac and kill him, or that if Cormac killed Pablo, the retribution that would rain down on his family. I want to think it wouldn’t come to that, but I know it very well could if pushed too far. All it takes is one wrong word to go from an acrimonious conversation to a full-on street war.

I don’t know what they were arguing about. I tell myself not to have such an ego that I might believe it’s about me, especially since the reason Cormac was in the neighborhood was to collectmore money. At least, I assume that’s what it was about since that was why he was there the day we met. If it was about me, then I definitely don’t want to show my face anywhere Pablo might see it. But it couldn’t possibly be about me. I’m not that important to either of them unless I was just an excuse for them to argue.

Maybe that’s all they wanted. Justification for another battle in whatever war of attrition these families have going on with each other. If that’s the case, I don’t want to be the excuse. I want nothing to do with either of them if I’m going to be put in the middle or used. I don’t need anyone blaming me for shit that goes down between the two of them because I’m their scapegoat.

But there I go again. I have way too high an opinion of myself to think I’m even a blip on either man’s radar while they’re doing business with each protection racket target or their family rivalry.

I make myself dinner and flip on my TV. I’ve got some reality TV shows to get caught up on and a couple of historical dramas that just started their new season. I have every intention of bingeing those over the next three weekends. They keep my mind occupied until my eyes are fighting to stay open. It’s not that late, but I can say watching the WWE match right in front of me today wore me out. However, once I’m in bed, my eyes suddenly find toothpicks to prop them open.

My brain is back on its hamster wheel, memories whirling through my mind. My interactions with Cormac and mine with Pablo. I remember back to that day six years ago when I made the mistake of calling the police. I had no idea it was Pablo’s men beating the shit out of a middle-aged man. I thought he was being mugged because it was after dark.

I’d been running late all day after having to make two trips to the hospital and call Child Protective Services on a family. I didn’t leave as early as I wanted, and it was winter, so the sunset early. All I’d heard were somebody’s screams and the sound of fists hitting their target. I saw a man run out of an alleyway with two guys coming after him with their guns pointing at him. Then a giant—Pablo—stepped out of a shop, his arms crossed, as he watched.

I’d hidden in my car with my headlights off, slouched in my seat as I called the police. To my great misfortune, there was a cruiser only a couple streets over. Not in a Cartel-run neighborhood here on Staten Island, but one in Jackson Heights in Queens. I foolishly gave my name. I won’t ever do that again. If I ever have to call the police on anything to do with men in these neighborhoods who aren’t connected to my clients, I’ll always do it anonymously.

I waited around until the cops came because I was too scared to pull out of my parking spot and have any of them see me. It didn’t take long for the cops to discover what was going on, and a young man dressed in plain clothes arrived and talked to the officers. He obviously knew the men involved—all four of them—and he stuck around to talk to the guys after the uniformed cops left.

Nothing prepared me for the detective to pull his gun on the guy who was being chased. He put the weapon to the man’s forehead, right between his eyebrows. I fully expected to watch the man die. That wouldn’t have been the first time I saw something like that, but I thought those days were long over and far, far in my past. It reminded me way too much of my life in Mexico when I was a kid.

Today brought all of that back to me, even though there weren’t any guns drawn.

It wasn’t until after I got home that night that I discovered what was going on with the man they chased. I made some discreet calls to other social workers I know who’d worked that area before, and none of them reassured me I’d made the rightdecision calling the cops. That’s when I learned it wasn’t just a Latino neighborhood.

It was where the Colombian Cartel runs everything.

As soon as I found that out, everything went downhill, even though it all made more sense. When I described the young man who arrived, I discovered he was most likely Juan Diaz, thejefe’snephew.

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