Page 74 of Irish Reign

This is all a game to you?

You’re a vicious cunt.

And even if he did, that wouldn’t solve my true problem. The clock is ticking toward the ethics panel issuing its decision. At most, I have six weeks before my license is pulled.

Six weeks to gain Russo’s trust.

Six weeks to take him down.

I want Mary to be right. I wish I knew what I was doing. I’m close to tears that I don’t. But I tell her, “Thank you. I know it wasn’t easy for you to say all that.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever.” She stands up and crosses to the door. “There are leftovers in the fridge. Mac and cheese.”

“Perfect,” I say.

That’s a lie. Nothing’s perfect. But if I play this role long enough, maybe I’ll finally start to believe it.

35

BRAIDEN

Fairfax enters the front door of the house, juggling four bowls and matching spoons. He’s laughing to himself as he carries everything to the kitchen.

I call out from the recliner in the living room, where I’m finishing the newspapers I didn’t get to this morning. “Those men get paid to guard the house, you know. You don’t have to feed them too.”

“Just some peach cobbler, to tide them over for the night.”

I wonder if I can deduct the cost from the massive sum I’m handing over to Sawyer Best every month.

Fairfax pauses on his way into the kitchen. “You know, I made this with real Irish butter.”

“Or so you think,” I say, because he’s been nagging about this for at least two weeks. Fairfax has looked the other way when I’ve extorted city officials. When I’ve traded cigarettes withouttheir legal stamps. When I’ve boosted cars and run guns and sold kilos of cocaine.

But he draws the line at feckin’ butter.

At my command, Seamus has finally followed through on his Irish butter scam. He’s sourced counterfeit labels and bought up American butter, selling the so-called Irish stuff to a network of small grocery stores in the state.

The operation has been brilliant. Not the sixteen-billion-dollars-a-year brilliance the Mafia is seeing with its olive oil scam, but a cool three mill cleared after all our costs, which isn’t bad for a trial run.

I’ve told Seamus to expand—more stores in Pennsylvania, then New Jersey and Delaware. Other captains are paying attention—Lynch in Baltimore is already making noises about my staying out of Maryland. Even Bowen, all the way out in San Francisco, has asked Seamus about printers for labels.

Fairfax is having none of it. He told me that he can taste the difference between Irish butter and the sorry American stuff, and he wouldn’t use the latter to bake dog biscuits.

I’ve told him not to worry. IfI’mrunning the scam, he’ll always know who has the true Irish goods.

He said he’ll pray for my soul.

Now, Fairfax moves into the kitchen, and I hear him filling the dishwasher. He runs water in the sink for a moment, and then he materializes in the living room doorway with another bowl.

“Here,” he says, apparently deciding to declare a truce for the night. “You weren’t forgotten.”

“I don’t need more.” Aiofe and I already had cobbler with dinner.

“Maybe it’ll sweeten your disposition.”

I foldThe Irish Timesover the arm of my chair. “I’m sure you won’t leave until you’ve told me the rest of what’s on your mind.”

“It’s been a month.”

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