The sex between them—delayed so long because they were Irish Catholics and she was Pat’s sister—was always good. Danny never needed to look outside the marriage, not even when Terri was sick.
Especially not when she was sick.
Her last words to him, before she slipped into the morphine-induced terminal coma— “Take care of our son.”
“I will.”
“Promise.”
“I promise,” he said. “I swear.”
Driving through New Haven on Route 95, Danny notices that buildings are decorated with giant wreaths. The lights in the windows are red and green. A giant Christmas tree pokes up from an office plaza.
Christmas, Danny thinks.
Merry freakin’ Christmas.
He’d forgotten all about it, forgotten Liam’s sick stupid heroin joke about dreaming of a white Christmas. It’s in a few days, right? Danny thinks. The hell difference does it make? Ian’s too young to know or care. Maybe next year . . . if there is a next year.
So do it now, he thinks.
No point in putting it off, it’s not going to get any better with time.
He gets off the highway at Bridgeport, follows a street east until it takes him to the ocean. Or Long Island Sound, anyway. He pulls into a dirt parking lot by a little beach.
Within a few minutes, the others pull in behind him.
Danny gets out of the car. He pulls the collar of his peacoat up around his neck, but the sharp winter air feels good.
Jimmy Mac rolls down his window. His friend since they were in freakin’ kindergarten, Jimmy gets a little chubbier with every year, has a body like a laundry bag, but he’s the best wheelman in the business. He asks, “What’s up? Why did you pull off?”
Get it over with, Danny thinks. Just say it, short and sharp. “I dumped the heroin, Jimmy.”
Jimmy’s shock is plain on his bland, friendly face. “The hell, Danny? That was our shot! We risked our lives for that dope!”
And we shouldn’t have, Danny thinks.
Because it was a setup.
From the get-go.
A Moretti captain named Frankie Vecchio had come to them with the proverbial offer you can’t refuse. He was in charge of a forty-kilo shipment of heroin that Peter Moretti bought from the Mexicans on the come. Frankie thought the Morettis were going to have him whacked, so he came to ask Danny to hijack the shipment.
Danny saw it as a chance to cripple the Morettis and end the war.
So I went for it, Danny thinks now.
They jacked the forty keys, it was easy.
Too freakin’ easy, that was the problem.
A fed named Phillip Jardine was in bed with the Italians. The whole plan was to have the Murphys hijack the shipment, then bust them. Most of the heroin would find its way back to the Morettis.
It was all a trap to finish off the Irish.
And it worked.
We fell for it, Danny thinks, hook, line, and sinker.
The Murphys got busted and the Morettis got the dope.
Except for the ten kilos that Danny had stashed away.
It was their safety net, the getaway money, the funds that would let them go off the radar until things cooled off.
Except now Danny has given it to the ocean, to the sea god.
Jimmy is just staring at him.
Ned Egan walks up. Marty’s longtime bodyguard, he’s in his fifties now. Built like a fire hydrant but a hell of a lot tougher. You don’t fuck with Ned Egan, you don’t even joke about fucking with him, because Ned Egan has killed more guys than cholesterol.
Marty stays in the car because he isn’t going to get out in the cold. Back in the day, you said the name Marty Ryan, grown men would piss their pants, but that was a lot of days ago. Now he’s an old man, more often drunk than not, half-blind with cataracts.
Two other guys come over.
Sean South couldn’t look more Irish if you stuck a pipe in his mouth and shoved him into a green leprechaun suit. With his bright-red hair, freckles, and clean-cut appearance, Sean looks about as dangerous as a day-old kitten, but give him a reason and he’d shoot you in the face and then go out for a burger and a beer.
Kevin Coombs has his hands jammed into the black leather jacket he’s worn since Danny first met him. Long, unkempt brown hair down to his shoulders, three days’ growth of beard, Kevin looks like the stereotypical East Coast punk. Add his boozing to that and you have the whole Irish Catholic?alcoholic combo plate. But if you need some serious work done, Kevin is your man.
Collectively, Sean and Kevin are known as “the Altar Boys.” They like to go around saying that they serve “Last Communion.”
“What are we doing, boss?” Sean asks.