Page 36 of Irish Reign

15

BRAIDEN

It’s been six weeks since I’ve done the milk run. Six weeks since Madden cleared out my accounts, picking up all my cash-filled envelopes.

Rory and Seamus have been keeping me informed. Rory has done the run twice himself, making sure people understand he’s my most senior enforcer in Philly these days. Seamus confirms everyone’s following the rules, handing over what they should. He also, though, has told me we’re entering the lean months—summer, when kids are home from school and families travel on vacation and men with wicked tastes have neither time nor cash to indulge.

So I plan a route and take the Jeep out after breakfast. Driving around the city is a better way to spend the day than waiting for Samantha to call, to tell me her hearing went fine and all her nerves were for nothing.

Mikey’s waiting at the bar when I get to his underground gambling den. He looks like he’s coming off a rough night; he’s already sipping a glass of the black stuff. I wave off his offer of a Guinness of my own, even as he calls out, “If it isn’t Himself!” Just like he’s pleased to see me. He almost makes me feel like a friend.

The envelope he hands over is half what it once was.

“How’s business?” I ask, because that’s more polite than making threats.

“Going to hell in a handbasket.” He sounds like someone poisoned his dog. “We put Cillian Ryan in the ground last Friday, may he rest in peace.”

As he crosses himself piously, I tap his envelope against the counter. “Ryan’s not responsible for all the shortfall.”

Mikey scowls. “He’s not. But his son is. And all his grandsons too. Not one of them knows what to do with an honest bookie. If they can’t place a bet on their phones, they won’t bother. It’s sportsbook this and betting kings that, with a dozen fancy lines you need NASA’s computers to understand.”

I’ve heard the complaint before. Now that sports betting is legal everywhere, casual gamblers stay away from joints like this.

But all us businessmen face pressure. “I’ve got a floor, Mikey. I need to see a minimum, or we’ll find ourselves in trouble.”

“I’m working on it, Boss. But I’ve gotta be honest. Regulars are pretty spooked by the Italians.”

He pronounces it like my da always did—Eye-talians. “Spooked?” I ask. “Why?”

He looks like he wants to spit, but he’d only have to clean up the mess. “No one’s told you what’s going on? They’re doing their best to scare folks off. Driving down the middle of the street after midnight, two men flashing machine guns in the back seat. Standing on the corner and greeting regulars by name.Last week, they wrote down license numbers, like they were the fucking cops.”

“Goddamn Russo.”

Mikey sits back in his chair. “I thought you two had a truce.”

“We do.” But that’s not the truth. Not anymore—not after he turned Madden. And not after the truckload of electronics went missing. Definitely not after he threatened Aiofe on the steps of St. Columba. “Why didn’t you say something to O’Hare?”

Mikey shifts his weight and fiddles with his glass. “I hoped it could wait till Moran was back.”

Patrick. He wanted to confess to someone he knew.

“Moran might not be back. Not for a while. You don’t trust O’Hare?”

Mikey answers so quickly he swallows half his words. “O’Hare’s fine. He’s fair. He doesn’t lean too hard, not like?—”

He stops short. From the pure panic on his face I know what he hasn’t said.Madden. O’Hare’s not like Madden.

He’s right. But I’m glad he didn’t say the words out loud. Because we’re still living the lie that my brother might walk through the door any minute, and I don’t want to be forced to defend the dead dry shite’s honor.

I slip Mikey’s envelope inside the breast pocket of my jacket. “Let O’Hare know if Russo steps up his game.”

By the time I get to the door, Mikey’s drained half his glass. He freezes when I turn back, foam on his upper lip. “But I need a full share next Tuesday, Mikey. Business is business.”

I wait for him to nod before I leave.

Mikey’s story is repeated, stop after stop. Business is off. Marks are scarce. Russo’s men are hanging around like a bad smell in the jacks.

The goombahs aren’t entering my buildings. They aren’t taking over my games, my bars, my girls. They aren’t doing anything I can call them on, as a mob boss or as a legitimatebusinessman with lawful concerns on the streets of my adopted home of Philadelphia.

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