Page 37 of Her Irish Savage

I slip out of line. I head back to the door, moving slow and steady, like I’ve already got my coffee and a donut. It’s not until I’m back in the Land Rover that I hear Kimi’s voice, echoing loud in the brain squirrels’ scrambled nest:What’s your plan?

I don’t have one.

I want to find out what Dowd is doing in a donut shop.

I want to remember who the guy is, sitting across from him.

I want to get back to Philadelphia, to my captain, to the clan that adopted me a quarter of a century ago.

But most of all, I want to drive back to the Beacon Street apartment, order Fiona to call me Daddy, and fuck her until neither of us can move.

She’s younger than my niece. Younger than my son would be, if I’d ever had a son.

She’s vital and she’s smart and she’s strong—the opposite of me in every way. Is that why I itch for her? Am I too old, too tired to keep doing the job I’ve done since before she was born?

What’s your plan?

It’s time to feckin’ get one.

13

FIONA

I’m balancing a shrimp on my chopsticks when my phone rings, so I don’t bother to answer. The only person in the world I want to talk to is Aunt S, and she’s never using a cell phone again.

I ordered all her favorites from the Chinese restaurant around the corner. Pan-fried crab dumplings. Mu shu pork with extra pancakes. Hunan broccoli with brown rice. Eight treasures lo mein.

I don’t care that it’s enough food for a small army. Aunt S would do the same in my memory, if I’d been the one to kick off first.

Plus, I thought Moran might be hungry when he got back from his errands.

He said he’d be back by the middle of the afternoon. He lied.

It’s five minutes after seven now. I waited half an hour after dinner was delivered to put the food on the coffee table. I tookout two bowls. Four lacquered chopsticks. I only started eating ten minutes ago.

I didnotspend the extra time skimming through local news stories on my phone, looking for news of gangland warfare erupting in Southie. I just wanted to see if anyone was talking about Da, if his death is being discussed by people outside the Crew.

And I didn’t check the traffic report to see if a Land Rover was involved in a major crash that was snarling all the roadways. I only wondered if the roads are clear from Logan, so anyone flying in for Saturday’s funeral has an easy time getting in from the airport.

And I definitely didn’t search for reports of a desk clerk being assaulted at a downtown Hyatt, or Hilton, or whatever-the-hell type of hotel. I’m merely curious about how hard it is to find lodging, in case funeral visitors need some help.

My phone rings again. It’s on silent mode, so it rattles against the granite counter in the kitchen, jittering close to the edge like it’s trying to commit suicide. Ignoring it, I catch some broccoli with my chopsticks.

The ringing stops but immediately starts again. Annoyed, I drop my chopsticks onto my plate. Whoever’s calling has won themselves a lifetime block.

The call is fromPatrick.

For two full rings, I don’t recognize the name. Then, the connection finally clicks. It’s Moran. He entered his first name when he added his information to my phone. I don’t know why that tugs at something in my chest, but it does.

I consider letting the call go to voicemail again. It’s what he deserves, when I expected him hours ago. But I don’t want him to know I was worried.

I answer on speaker. “You’re late.”

“Throw down a key.”

“What?”

I cross back to the three tall windows at the front of theapartment. Sure enough, the Land Rover is parked across the street, in front of a fire hydrant.

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