Page 65 of Her Irish Savage

Fuck.

The brain squirrels pelt me with a shitload of memories, all of them bad. Twenty-five years ago, Barbieri was a kid fresh out of the FBI Academy. If there was a rulebook, he had it memorized. If there was a risk, he’d jump in arse-first.

He was the agent who turned my father. I first saw Barbieri at the back of a bar, buying Da rounds of Guinness that no man with cirrhosis should ever have touched, Irishman or no. I saw Barbieri in the power tools aisle at Lucky’s Hardware, pretending to buy a nail gun as my father coughed up facts about Kieran Ingram. I saw him under an umbrella outside St. Brigid’s after a priest told lies about Da’s saved soul.

Barbieri must be forty pounds heavier than he was back then; his neck swells over his collar. He’s lost most of the thick black hair he used to wear slicked back like a Wall Street banker. He’s drinking Starbucks coffee, instead of Dunkin’ like a proper Boston boy.

Courtesy of the brain squirrels, I clock all of that as theLand Rover shoots across the intersection. It takes me another block to realize I’ve already seen him on this trip to Boston. He was Other Guy, sitting across from Dowd in the Back Bay Dunkin’.

The feds are surveilling thedún—not just Ingram’s wake, but daily operations. They had enough leverage on Dowd to force him to a meeting outside of Southie. They’re running him, same as they ran my da.

Fiona’s swearing from the floor. I gather she’s broken a motherfucking nail, and Dowd’s a cocksucker if he thinks she’ll give him the Crew just because he says he’ll put a ring on her goddamn finger, and if he tries, she’ll shove it up his jizz-stained arse.

She’s creative, that one. Colorful, too. And I figure I better let her off the floor after my third stop at a traffic light, or she’ll turn some of her rage on me.

The Bell’s a constant jingle as Fiona settles back in her seat. I manage to sound neutral as I ask, “Dowd thinks he’ll marry you?”

She lets loose with another stream of profanity, all adding up to the fact that Dowd says he’ll drag her to the altar. As Fiona goes through a show of yanking her corset and twitching her trousers, I realize the steering wheel is cutting into my palms.

Aran Dowd has finally gone too far.

He’s talking to the feds, the very thing that put my da in thedún’sbasement twenty-five years ago. Dowd didn’t make my father turn traitor; I’ve always known that. I never tried to get revenge against the man—not for Da, not for Jenn or Athawn, and not for my poor mam.

But now? The gobshite’s singing to the FBI. The clan must have its due. And I’ll get my revenge too, because that fat fuck was stupid enough to go after my little girl.

All I have to do is prove Dowd’s sold out to Barbieri.

For now, though, I need to figure out where to take Fiona—someplace Dowd will never think to look. Somewhere she can relax and forget the shitehawk mauled her.

I don’t know if Mary’s Place is still standing. Jenn’s been gone for two and a half decades, and she was always one of their best customers. But I’m already heading north and west of downtown, and if it’s not still there, I’ll find something else.

The neighborhood is a lot more built up. Entire blocks of old frame houses have been replaced by modern mansions. But just as I’m thinking I’ll have to come up with Plan B, there’s a change to the buildings. Houses give way to a run of small stores—baby clothes covered with dinosaurs, a bakery for dogs, another for humans with a sign in the window that says they have four dozen flavors of cupcakes.

And there, at the end of the next block, is Mary’s Place. The little parking lot still stretches on the side, ten angled spaces. The front room is filled with the “curiosities” Jenn loved—antique coffee tins and silver serving spoons and mugs shaped like animals. The back room is an old-fashioned soda fountain—black-and-white tile, a counter lined with red-leather stools, and five matching booths.

At the counter, a harried mother asks for extra jimmies on her kid’s double scoop of chocolate. Two teen-age boys are sampling every one of the thirteen flavors in the ice cream case. Everyone gapes as Fiona enters in front of me, staring at the leather laces barely keeping her corset from bursting open, at the trousers so tight I know she had to lie on the bed to zip them.

I lead Fiona to the last booth. She sits with her back to the door. I keep an eye on things, just in case.

“What is this place?” she asks.

I pluck the menu from the side of the display that shows all the songs on the jukebox. At first glance, it’s the same list as the one Jenn ordered from twenty-five years ago. Ice cream, shakes, and malts on the front. Boozy versions of the same on the back.

But things have changed. The prices are ten times what they used to be. And the jukebox takes credit cards, one dollar a play.

“Figure out what you want,” I tell her. “I’ll order at the counter.”

She doesn’t want to give in that easy. “You’ve been here before?”

I give her a look. There’s no way in hell I just happened to drive to this old-fashioned little storefront by accident, on this quiet street, in this particular suburb. “What do you want?” I ask, pushing the menu toward her again.

She barely glances at the laminated page. “A Millionaire Malt,” she says.

My girl has good taste. It’s twice the price of anything else on the menu, made with eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich.

I wait until the counter’s clear before I place our order. One Millionaire for Fiona. A bowl of vanilla ice cream for me.

Back at the table, I make a show of choosing music. The options are old— even for me—big band and barbershop and crooners my gran used to love. I punch in codes for a Rat Pack serenade—Dean Martin’s “The Lady is a Tramp,” Frank singing “You’re Nobody till Somebody Loves You,” Sammy Davis Jr. going after “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

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