Page 91 of Her Irish Savage

I’ll take it all to the dumpster down the street tomorrow. Toss it into the bin behind the Chinese restaurant. Let it get buried beneath cabbage leaves and moldy pork.

For now, I pull on my oldest pair of yoga pants. I find an ancient cami, a plain one without lace. I go into the bathroom and scrub my makeup from my face. And when I’m done, when I’m clean, when I’m nothing like the woman who faced down the Corman Gala and my uncle’s trained kidnappers, I grab a bottle of vodka and climb into bed.

I down shots like medicine. Two off the bat, then one more every thirty minutes. In between, I scan my phone, looking for news about murders on the golf course.

I pass out before the story breaks.

36

PATRICK

Imake it to Philly before sunrise. Part of me knows I should report to my boss, tell Kelly I’m ready and willing to take on whatever work he needs done. But more of me knows my second-in-command is doing an excellent job managing the Fishtown Boys’ enforcers without me.

It wouldn’t be fair to Rory O’Hare to show up without warning. To take over the reins like I’ve never been gone. To act like the last two months never happened.

So I convince myself it’s a good idea to check into a hotel. And I know myself well enough that I don’t go for some luxury high-rise downtown. I’m going to be here for a while.

I stay close to the freeway, far north of town. I choose the place at random—Embassy Garden or Holiday Suites, whatever—and check into a sterile, white room with a black-and-white photo of the L-O-V-E sculpture in downtown Philly. Luck finally breaks my way—they have a room. I don’t have to wait for an afternoon check-in.

My eyelids are lined with sandpaper. My knees ache, and I’m second-guessing my decision to drive straight through without stopping. My stomach says it’s going on strike if I don’t get something to eat within the hour.

But the brain squirrels are on overdrive. At the hotel’s complimentary breakfast bar, my first slice of toast pops up in ten seconds because I forget to set the heat level. The second one turns to charcoal when I get distracted by the coffee machine.

All I want is a caffeine IV, but I have to page through three computer screens, past lattes and cappuccinos and something called a feckin’ Mocha Mist. Across the room, a kid is pounding his table with his fist, demanding that his father get him frosted flakes.

“Long night?” the beaten-down father asks, as he approaches the milk dispenser.

It takes me too long to realize he’s nodding toward my tuxedo. No wonder the front desk clerk stared at me oddly. They’d both go ape-shit if they knew I still have Kevin Joyce’s Ruger in my pocket. At least my Magnum’s back in the glove box.

I press the button on the coffee machine, and a thick stream of something that looks like motor oil spurts straight into the drain. I forgot to put a cup beneath the spout.

“Fuck,” I say, louder than I should, because Frosted Flakes Boy starts shouting, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” between spoonfuls of poison. His father gives me a dirty look.

I pull a hand down my face in a desperate effort to focus. I finally get a cup of coffee, a packaged Danish, and a banana from a bowl.

Part of me knows I should reach out to Doc Kelleher, the sawbones kept on call by the Fishtown Boys. He can set me up with a new scrip, get me my meds.

But for now, I need my brain working overtime. I need to figure out what went wrong in Boston. I need to make sure noone’s traced me down here to Philly. I need to get out of this goddamn tuxedo.

And I need to ditch the Land Rover.

Stopping at a Target on my way downtown, I throw things into the red plastic cart—jeans, a package of T-shirts, a bag of boxer briefs, runners, and socks. I grab a toothbrush and toothpaste, a razor, and shaving cream. On the way to checkout, I toss in a box of protein bars, even though I know the brain squirrels will have a field day with the sugar. I make it past the beer and wine without clearing the shelves.

My life should fill more than two plastic bags.

I change clothes in the jacks at the store. I can’t leave the Ruger tucked into the small of my back, grip showing above my belt, so I bury it in one of the bags, between my satin-striped pants and my pleated white shirt. I try to ignore the feeling that the guy collecting carts in the parking lot has X-ray vision.

There’s a chop shop I know, down by the docks. It takes time to get there, threading my way through morning rush hour traffic. There’s a crash near one of the exits that backs up traffic for three and a half miles. I spin my fidget ring until I finally get past the cops’ flashing blue lights.

I feel like my red-and-white Massachusetts plates are set on strobe. I wonder if anyone’s reported the switches I made back in Boston.

The brain squirrels want me to pull off the road. They chitter that I’ll be better off on surface streets. I can put the Land Rover in a garage. Back into a space and take off the Massachusetts plate on the front. Leave the car there for days. Maybe weeks. A month?

It’s a stupid plan, leaving too much to chance. The sort of grand scheme the brain squirrels feed me when they’re acting the maggot, screwing around for the sheer joy of driving me mad.

I bite my tongue, hard enough to force me to focus. I wind my way through the warehouse district. I empty out the glovebox—the Magnum, a pair of throwing knives, and a retractable baton—and I hand over the keys.

It takes a little negotiating, but I have Ramirez’s guy drop me at a used car lot out by the airport. The place is the size of a postage stamp; it’s mainly a front for selling drugs. But I’m carrying enough cash for a ten-year-old Chevy Trax, and that will keep me going for a while.

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