The bedroom door is open and Danny can see Pam sitting on the bed, watching the scene in the living room. He starts to get up and shut the door, then thinks, Fuck it—let her see the man she chose.
“Who was the shooter?” Pat asks.
Liam shakes his head. Pat slaps him hard across the face. Danny sees Pam flinch as she watches.
But she watches.
Liam says, “Mickey Shields.”
“Who?”
Danny don’t recognize the name, either.
“He’s from the other side,” Liam says.
“Fuck.”
Danny blows a sigh. Liam is always messing around with this Irish shit, now he brought someone over to do a job?! Jesus Christ, Liam. You knew you couldn’t get anyone in New England to do this, so you went to the hard men in the North?
“What did you pay him?” Pat asks.
“I told them maybe we could help them out with some guns or something.”
Danny feels like his head is going to blow off. On top of all the shit that’s going to come down on us now, Liam makes promises to the freakin’ IRA?! About guns? Which will bring heat from the FBI? So if the Italians don’t kill us, we spend the rest of our lives in a federal lockup?
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Pat asks his brother. “Liam, do you know what you’ve done to us?”
Danny glances through the open door at Pam.
She knows.
Two hours later, Danny and Jimmy sit in the basement of Jimmy’s mom’s house down on Friendship Street. She’s out at her bingo night.
They’re freaked.
Freaked fucking out.
The only good thing, the only good thing, is that Paulie Moretti is going to pull through. The bullet didn’t strike the femoral artery or bone, but the peace is kaput, and Pasco Ferri has no choice now but to let the dogs loose. He’s been personally insulted, shown up, and blood has been spilled. Now they’re all in the shit, big time.
Danny does the odds in his head. They have ten, maybe fifteen guys who can be counted on in a fight; the Morettis have at least twice that number. The Irish have no resources outside Dogtown to call on; the Morettis can bring in shooters from other Mafia families. The Irish have a few councilmen from the Tenth and some of the police; the Morettis have the mayor, a handful of state legislators, and a bunch of cops, including two detectives from Homicide—O’Neill and Viola.
The money battle is lopsided: the Irish have the longshoremen’s union, the docks, and some small gambling and loan-sharking; the Morettis have the Teamsters, the construction unions, the vending machines, cigarettes and alcohol, major gambling, major money on the street, strip clubs and prostitution.
That’s the problem with a war: you have the challenge of trying to stay alive and at the same time make a living. Hard, when you’re being hunted, to go out and make your collections, or make a score, or even get back and forth from work. You need a bankroll, a war chest, to last you while you bunker up and fight it out, and not many of the Dogtown Irish—Danny included—have a lot in the savings account.
Jimmy stares at Danny.
“What do you want me to do?” Danny asks.
“Liam’s a worthless little prick,” Jimmy says. “You know it and I know it.”
“He’s my wife’s brother, for Chrissakes,” Danny says. “I’ve known him since he was a kid. I made him fucking peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”
“Danny . . .”
“What.”
“Do you know where he is?” Jimmy asks.
Danny nods.
“I’ll come with you,” Jimmy says.
Danny shakes his head. “No. I’ll take care of it myself.”
They have Liam stored all the way up in Lincoln, some old house out in the country, down the end of a dirt road.
Danny stops for some White Castles on the way up there.
He drives up to the house. Gets out of the car and knocks on the door. “Liam, it’s me, Danny. I brought you some food.”
He hears movement inside, then the door opens a crack. The safety chain is on, and Liam peeks through the opening, slides the chain off and lets him in.
The place is a dump. Old carpet, musty smell. Not what Liam’s used to, Danny thinks, probably not what Pam expected when she married the prince. Liam sits back on an old sofa, watching TV. Danny hands him the white paper bag of burgers.
“Hey, thanks,” Liam says.
“They’re cold, but—”
“They’re still good,” Liam says. “You want one?”
“Wouldn’t mind.” Danny sits down on the couch. “What’s on?”