Page 73 of Her Irish Savage

“What does that even mean? I guess if I was old, like you, I’d know about writing checks. Want some help setting up payment options on your phone?”

“Careful, little girl.”

“Or what? You’ll send me to bed without any supper?”

“I’ll dosomethingwith you in bed.”

Before I can think of another smart-ass comment, he scoopsme up, folding me over his shoulder. Pounding on his back, I try to kick my way free, but he tosses me on the bed like I’m a rag doll.

An hour later, I remember how to speak. “What the fuck was that?” I ask, resting my cheek on his shoulder.

His laugh rumbles through my body. “Just a little trick from the Old Man’s Manual.”

“Jesus,” I gasp, almost catching my breath. “You could be a menace.”

He steals a quick kiss. “Let’s get to the library,Scáthach.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what that means?”

“Are you ever going to show me what’s in the cigar box?”

Ignoring him, I cross to the closet, surprised and grateful that I’m steady on my feet. I don’t want anyone paying attention to the conversation Q and I will have so for once, I dress like a nun. If a nun wore blue jeans. And a Boston Red Sox T-shirt. And beat-up old Nikes that look like they’ve been through a washing machine a hundred times.

Patrick and I get to the library half an hour early. He sits next to me in the reading room, both of us on the same side of one long wooden table, facing a green-shaded lamp. He fiddles with the titanium ring on his middle finger. I watch the door, fighting the urge to stand every time a new person walks into the room.

Libraries aren’t the sort of silent temples they used to be ages ago, when Patrick was a kid. One librarian is talking to a patron two tables over, using a normal speaking voice. Two women are looking at some sort of catalog, debating whether or not to make a purchase. A man speaks into his cell phone, checking on the status of a court filing.

I’m confident Q and I can meet safely here. We just have to watch what we say.

Three o’clock comes and goes. 3:15, and I take out my phone, in case I missed Q’s call. 3:30, and I fight the urge to phone him.

At 3:42, Q finally rushes into the room. He collapses into a seat across from us, slipping two fingers into the collar of his dress shirt and pulling like he can’t get enough air. His hair is damp and sweat beads on his upper lip. I catch an acrid whiff rising off him, the gritty stench of a rained-out campfire.

“You were supposed to be here at three,” I say. Once I’m his captain, he’ll obey my commands to the letter.

“I thought I was being followed.” Q half-turns to the door. Patrick leans across the table, as if he’s prepared to use Quentin O’Roark as a human shield. When Q turns back to me, he gives a visible start.

“I need your help,” I say, once Q gets over his surprise. “I need a washing machine that works. The ones I’m looking at don’t have enough power.”

Q’s quick nod proves he understands we’re talking about money laundering. But then he asks, “Why aren’t you watering the tree?”

I glance at Patrick, but he only shrugs. So I ask Q, “What the fuck does that mean?”

“The Christmas tree.”

I take a closer look at him. He’s nervous. And he’s out of breath. But he doesn’tlooklike anyone hit him on the head.

“You don’t know,” Q finally realizes. He takes a small spiral notebook out of his breast pocket, the kind that’s bound across the top with a battered wire. He produces a pen, too, and slips off its well-chewed cap. Flipping past several pages covered in tiny, precise writing, Q finally draws a circle on a blank sheet. Inside, he writes the lettersKI.

He looks at me, and I nod. That symbol represents my father.

Below that circle, he draws three more. One gets labeled FI—that must be me. Another gets labeled KI, LLC—a corporation owned by my father. The third is “my” corporation, FI, LLC.

When I nod again, Q goes to town, with more drawing andlabeling. These get combination names: KI and FI; KI and KI, LLC; KI and FI, LLC. The corporations share circles. The combined entities share circles.

By the time Q gets to the bottom of the page, there are two dozen labeled blobs, arranged in tiers, like a Christmas tree. He looks up at me and says, “And so on.”

I nod one more time.

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