Page 19 of Alfie: Part Two

I snorted under my breath and nodded at the tee box. “You’re up. Amaze me, mobster.”

At least I made him laugh a lot.

“You remind me of Emilia,” he said. “Her first pet name for Finn was criminal.”

“Was she too weak to run away too?” I mean, clearly, she had been.

“Different circumstances.” He went up with his driver and rolled his shoulders. “She was eighteen years old, wise beyond her years, and severely mistreated by her alcoholic father. Finn offered her a way out.”

I wasn’t in such a vulnerable position—nor was I wise beyond my years.

I watched Shan swing back and make his shot, and not much had improved. If anything, this one was worse. It was another par-4, this one at 290 yards, and he’d need one or two strokes to reach the green. The grass was pretty high where his ball had thumped down.

He turned to me with a frown. “Did you give me shit advice?”

“No, you’re just shit at following good advice,” I told him. “You twisted your body weirdly.”

His frown deepened as he walked off the teeing ground, and it was my turn.

I didn’t know if he’d planned it this way all along, or if my bluntness about his drive had triggered a spark of defiance, but Shan spent the next hour or so talking about how fucked the world was.

Howcorruptthe world was.

For example, two goddamn Sons on the board of where Iworked? I’d played golf with Steve Curry in Boston, for chrissakes. I received a nice bottle of scotch every Christmas from Rick Moloney.

I didn’t know how to process this.

What the fresh fucking fuck.

Whether the Sons of Munster had managed to justify their acts was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was that they operated on a philosophy that revolved around protecting their community—all while making bank. And this evidently included having an influence over local media outlets, such as the show I produced.

“It allows us to move around more freely. Make more money, do more good.”

Do more good. Right.

When I jokingly asked if they saw themselves as some fucked-up version of Robin Hood, he said no. Not at all. They made no excuses. Shan merely explained they did what they did and why. It just happened to be easier in a society where the government was, in his words, failing the whole country.

“It doesn’t matter what issues you vote for today,” he said. “Everyone knows the money will go to the wrong places. Besides, you can’t fix a country in four years, no matter which way.”

To be frank, he wore me the fuck down.

I knew very well about our issues. I knew the system was fundamentally flawed when so many people fell through the cracks. I knew the corruption and lobbyism were nationwide, from the bottom to the very top. I knew how politicians filibustered themselves halfway into a coma to say a lot without saying anything at all. I knew promises were a dime a dozen with almost no following through.

And in that mess, the Sons of Munster had built up an empire that got rich by stealing a lot of fish—and teaching some othershowto fish. While sponsoring their first fishing rod and boat.

It wasn’t a new concept. For as long as the mafia had been around, they’d been very charitable in some regards. And maybe, just maybe, the Sons did it because they genuinely cared for their community. But nobody could expect me to believe every mafia donation to a charity was for the right reasons. It was all about write-offs, tax breaks, and money laundering.

I told Shan all of this right before he sank a ball into a pond, and he clenched his jaw and took a deep breath.

“You’re lucky we’re not playing for money,” I commented.

He shot me a stubborn look. “Next time.”

I smirked.

“For the record,” he said, walking toward the edge of the pond, “no one can make me feel guilty about screwing over the government. Every presidential election is just four more years of red tape, and we’ve long since given up.” He dropped a new ball in the rough and brought out his scorecard to make a note. “Same with corporations, of course. You’ll never hear of a bailout going to regular employees. Parachutes and ridiculous severance packages are for the ones who don’t need them.”

No matter how correct he might be on the matter, I had to interject. “My, you sound like a socialist.”

---