Page 18 of Player
“If you say so.” A compliment? From a man who could hand me my arse on his worst day? “My being Irish has nothing to do with it?”
No answer. Not that I need one.
“So, it’s just me?”
He’s quiet.
My eyebrows punch up.
“Do what you like so long as you connect with O’Brien. I’ve established myself on the dark web as a potential buyer with deep pockets. Let’s see if he takes the bait. Report in when you have news.”
I feel a grin form. Did I hear him correctly? Do whatever I damned well like? My operation. My call. This is the best feckin’ thing to happen since the Irish Footballers qualified for the 2012 Euro finals.
“Don’t fuck up again,” are his parting words.
“Buck up, Finn-boyo,” I say to no one in particular, yet wanting to hear the words aloud. “Yer back in the game.”
