“So why did you want to meet me, Danny?”
“Because you’re going to win,” Danny says.
Peter nods graciously. Smug fucking smile on his face. “See? This is what I mean. The Murphys always underestimated you. You’re smarter than any of them.”
“Here’s what I want,” Danny says. “One: the Ryan part of the business comes back to my father and me, like you said, with me in the corner office. Two: nobody touches my father, not now, not ever.”
“Is there a three?”
“Pat Murphy gets a pass.”
“No fucking way,” Peter says.
“Go enjoy your heater.”
“Be reasonable,” Peter says. “Even if I was to give Pat a pass, he wouldn’t take it. You know him—he won’t stop coming. I admire it, frankly. But give him a pass? After what the Murphys did to my brother? Forget it.”
“You haven’t heard what I have to offer.”
“You can’t offer what—”
“Liam.”
Peter actually looks stunned. He asks, “You’d do that?”
“I have a kid on the way,” Danny says. “My own family to look out for. But you have to give me Pat.”
Peter looks out at the ocean like there’s an answer on Block Island. Then he says, “You deliver Liam, I won’t make a move against Pat unless he comes for me or mine.”
“Okay,” Danny says. “So Liam has a piece on the side.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Peter says. “He’s tapping that, and he’s going out for strange?”
Danny shrugs. “He sees her Thursday nights. Fifty-eight Weybosset Street.”
“Who is this chick?” Peter asks, suspicious. “A working girl?”
“She’s a pro-am,” Danny answers. “Slings drinks at the Wonder Bar. Cathy Madigan. Check her out, you want. Liam goes over around nine, bangs her, leaves by ten or eleven, tells Pam he was out on business.”
He knows they’ll check it out. And they’ll find a Cathy Madigan working at the Wonder Bar. They’ll confirm her address. They might even see her bring a john home. The rest of the story, about Liam, is bullshit. But he also knows that they won’t approach the girl, won’t question her, for fear of scaring Liam off. Even if they do, Cathy Madigan’s gambling problem has her underwater for over five grand plus the vig, she’s scared to freaking death and will say what she’s told to say.
“If this pans out,” Peter says, “you’re gold.”
“Don’t fuck it up,” Danny says.
He walks back to his car.
Turns the floor blower on high.
Good to get his feet warm.
Seventeen
Jimmy Mac likes the Dodge Charger because it has a V8 engine and good, heavy doors, some muscle and some metal, to get you out of trouble fast or at least give you a little protection. He flips a toggle switch rigged below the steering wheel and says to Danny, “This kills the interior lights. And check this out—”
He points to a different toggle switch. “I put in another oil pan and connected it to the tailpipe. Flip this switch and it leaves a cloud of black smoke behind. Real James Bond shit, huh?”
“Does it have an ejection seat?”
“You want to give me a couple days,” Jimmy says. “I step on the gas, this thing is going to go, son. We do the thing, you jump in, we’re in Vermont before your balls come back down from your throat.”
Jimmy’s trying to reassure himself because this thing is risky. Danny’s basically going out as bait, trolling for Steve Giordo, and Jimmy don’t like it. He thinks Liam should go himself, but Old Man Murphy ain’t havin’ it.
Actually it was Danny talked them into it being him.
“I’m about Liam’s height,” he said. “I’ll wear a hoodie, get out of his car in front of Madigan’s building, it’s dark, they won’t know the difference.”
“I can’t let you do this,” Pat said.
“Just make sure the shooter is good,” Danny said.
Thursday night they drive up to Pawtucket to pick up the shooter.
The Murphys have him stored in a second-floor efficiency in the back of a building. They went out and bought him some tea and cans of condensed milk that he wanted, and some eggs, sausages, and bread so he could do a “proper fry-up.”
The shooter is from a Provisional IRA brigade in Armagh.
Danny isn’t a believer in the Cause. Thinks the maudlin “patriotism” for a country they’ve never seen is bullshit. Couldn’t care less if the Six Counties stay British or become part of Ireland or Iceland, for that matter.