Page 88 of Arranged Addiction
On the sixth day of our new life together, he takes me into a Bronx neighborhood I’m not familiar with. We park outside of an old, rundown-looking Irish bar with faded Celtic crosses on the front and a chipped red door.
“Is this one of yours?” I ask, stepping out of the BMW and adjusting my notebook.
He frowns at the facade. “Not mine.”
I follow him inside and he doesn’t bother elaborating.
The interior is as worn as the front. The booth tables are scratched and marked. The booths are held together with tape. An old man tends the bar and nods as we enter. Two Whelan associates are seated in the far corner. One is Donnell and the other I don’t recognize.
Declan approaches them and shakes hands with the stranger first. “Glad you came, Finbar,” he says.
Finbar grunts awkwardly and glances at Donnell before answering. “Well, it wasn’t my idea, I’ll tell you that.”
“You’re here. That’s all I care about.” Declan nods to Donnell. “Should we get started?”
The men sit in the booth. I go to the bar and ask for three good whiskies while they go through the formalities. That gives me a chance to study Finbar.
I don’t know anything about him, but he instantly gives me a bad feeling. He’s thin and shifty, always moving like he can’t sit still. His clothes are too big, and his hair’s shaved on the sides with it shaggy on top. It’s that goofy broccoli cut that’s so popular these days. Except he’s not young. I’d guess he’s in his forties at least. There’s something off about his vibe, and I just can’t put my finger on it.
I return to the table with the drinks. Declan puts a hand on my thigh possessively when I sit beside him like he always does. I’ve learned to ignore it and force myself to at least seem professional. When I open the notebook, Declan shakes his head quickly. “No writing this time,” he murmurs, and I quickly snap it shut.
They start discussing territories and payments. I gather Finbar is an important member of a street crew that’s been working with the Whelans for a while but hasn’t been happy with the deal as of late. Donnell acts as the go-between and negotiator, smoothing things over when Finbar gets agitated.
I keep looking around the bar as they talk. If I’m not taking notes, sometimes I get distracted. And this place feels strange. It’s not our usual meeting place, and parts of it seem almost familiar. Like that jukebox in the corner and the dirty Irish flaghanging over the bar. I frown to myself and vaguely remember my mother talking about a flag just like that, brought over from the old world, a flag used during the Easter Rising or something like that. But it can’t be the same one.
“It’s always money, Whelan.” Finbar shoves his way out of the booth with a sneer at the conclusion of their meeting. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tense and rounded. “You just uphold your end of the bargain.”
“It’s only money.” Declan stands and offers his hand.
Finbar scowls and storms off without shaking.
“I’ll make sure everything’s settled.” Donnell nods to Declan and hurries to follow after Finbar.
Declan watches the men go with a stern look. He doesn’t speak for a moment until he turns and looks at me. His face relaxes slightly, and he sinks down beside me again.
“What do you think of our new friend?”
“It was hard to get a read on him. What’s his story?”
“Meth dealer. One of the biggest. But with great drugs comes huge fucking egos.” He sighs and stretches his back. He sips some whiskey and tugs me against him. “You don’t have to worry though. I’ve got it handled.”
“I know you do.” I lean my head on his shoulder. I like these moments after the meetings where he can be more himself again without worrying about anything else.
He wraps an arm around me and tugs me closer. He’s warm, and after a minute of quiet like that, he seems to calm down and getcentered again. His lips brush my hair, and when I look up, he’s smiling.
“Can you guess why we’re meeting in here?”
“I assumed Finbar picked it out.”
He makes an amused face. “No, this was my choice. I picked it for you, actually.”
I frown a little and lean back to see him better. “Why for me?”
But before he answers, I get that feeling. The overwhelming sense of familiarity. The flag behind the bar. The teal seat covers. Even the dirty old floor.
Declan brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “This was your family place back before your parents died.”
It hits me like a wave.That’s actually the flag.It’s the same flag my father used to talk about.
