“Don’t we want the guineas off our blocks?” Marvin asks.
“We can do it ourselves.”
“We can do it quicker with the Irish,” Marvin says. “And we need their protection. They got judges, state senators, some cops. We have none of that.”
“You trust Old Man Murphy?”
“He’s not running things anymore,” Marvin says. “Ryan is. Let me tell you about him, cousin—that motherfucker wants out. I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t want any part of dope, he doesn’t want any part of the rackets. We get the Italians out of the way, Danny Ryan will leave us alone. Let him have his unions, his docks—chicken feed compared to dope.”
“I know, I just hate honkies.”
“So let’s go kill us a few.”
At first, Peter Moretti thinks that the alliance between Marvin Jones and the Dogtown Irish is hysterical.
It’s open mic night at the American Vending office when the rumors start coming in about it, the guys are firing off so many lines about “black Irish,” John Murphy growing a ’fro, the Irish finally getting some dicks worth the name.
Peter thinks it’s so fucking funny he has a load of watermelons dumped outside the Gloc and a crate of potatoes delivered to Marvin’s club and they all get a good laugh out of that until one of the comedians, a heroin dealer, is found dead slumped over the wheel of his Lincoln. And Marvin’s witticism, “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an Eye-talian,” makes the rounds.
The boys at American Vending don’t find that amusing.
Peter sends Sal and Frankie out to do some “coon-hunting” and they do a drive-by on one of Marvin’s dealers on Cranston Street.
Marvin responds by killing one of Sal’s guys outside his gumar’s apartment.
The papers love it.
Now they have a three-way war to write about.
Life is good.
At Danny’s house, it’s more like okay. With less and less money coming in, it’s harder to buy diapers, formula, car seats, all the expensive shit that comes with having a kid, and Terri is feeling the pinch, plus she’s getting a little stir-crazy being at home with a baby all day. And she knows that Danny has gotten a bump in his responsibilities, she doesn’t understand why he hasn’t gotten the bump in earnings to go with it.
“I have half a mind to talk to my father about it,” she says one night when Danny comes home.
“Use the other half of your mind,” Danny says. Last thing that would get him a move up is his wife fighting his battles for him.
“But you’re the one who put this thing with Marvin Jones together,” Terri says, trying to force a spoonful of some vegetable shit into Ian’s unwilling mouth.
“You’re not supposed to know about that.”
“It’s all over the neighborhood,” Terri says. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Fish that don’t open their mouths don’t get caught.”
“What does that even mean?” Terri asks, frustrated with him and her son, who dodges with his head and thinks this is some sort of really fun game. “Fish? What? All I’m saying is that with . . . Pat gone . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I don’t, either,” Terri says. “But someone’s making that money—it isn’t all going to Sheila, let me tell you, she’s struggling. So who? Liam? And what’s he doing for it?”
“Liam’s been around.”
Danny wonders why he’s defending Liam, fucking Liam, to his own sister. Yeah, Liam’s been around, but all he’s been doing is muttering about getting revenge for Pat, but then he doesn’t do shit.
Terri says, “All I’m saying is, my father owes you, and he knows it.”
Yeah, maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t, Danny thinks. If John does, he also does a good job of feigning ignorance when Danny brings it up to him.
“And Pat not cold in his grave,” John says.
“All respect,” Danny answers, “Pat’s been gone over a year . . . and I’ve been picking up a lot of the slack.”
“For the family.”
“I know that,” Danny says. “But I have a family to think about, too.”
Like your daughter, John? Your grandson? But Terri was never one of your pets, not like Cassie. Terri is that dutiful middle child, like Danny read about in the book that Terri got, who doesn’t get the attention because she just does the right thing.