And I can’t stand the bastard. He had the nerve to come into Delaney’s about three years ago, order a Guinness, and tell me that he was proud of my brother. How he had proved he was strong for “the cause.”
Jimmy isn’t fighting for “the cause.”
I thought I was going to crack my teeth that day, wrestling down the urge to label Jimmy for what he really is out loud—a lowlife racketeer, twisting what my family—my da, my granddad, and many generations before him—fought for. But I kept my mouth shut because you don’t go up against a guy like Jimmy—a convicted felon himself and a snake if I ever saw one—and come out without a bullet in the back of the head.
I suck back the rest of my beer, the alcohol helping to numb my pain. “You could have blown yourself up, Aengus.” The walk from our house in Crumlin to the Green is a good forty minutes.
He shakes his head decisively. “It was solid.”
I roll my eyes. If my parents were ever asked to put their three sons into boxes based on characteristics, I’d bet my life that Aengus would fit neatly into the one marked “loyal, volatile idiot.” He’s not smart enough to question what really matters, and Jimmy feeds off of that. He’s just using him for his dirty work.
“Just a warning, like I said.”
I crush the empty beer can in my hand, hiding my shudder at the thought of how much worse it could have been. “For who, this time?” If it’s not one gang, it’s another.
He weighs me with a heavy gaze, his beer stalling at his lips for a long moment. “The Gypsy.”
Of course. Adrian Beznick, a true Romanian drifter who started out as a petty thief twenty years ago and is now one of Dublin’s main crime bosses. The media gifted him with that name—politically correct or not—and that’s how he’s best known in all circles. I remember Aengus pointing him out to me once, strolling along the sidewalk, a man of small stature and graceful moves. He didn’t look like much at all. “Isn’t he in jail?”
“One cell block over from where I was. Doesn’t stop him from selling heroin to kids. Gardai know and they aren’t doin’ a fucking thing about it.”
I pull a smoke from Aengus’s pack and light it up. “What’s wrong? Cutting into Jimmy’s income?”
“Fuck off!” He swats at the empty cans, scattering them. “You know we don’t sell drugs.”
And yet they’re profiting from it. Extorting the city’s drug dealers—threatening their lives and promising their safety through cooperation, all in the name of the IRA. Sure, the official stance is that Jimmy and his rabble of do-gooders relieve these scum of their funds and stop future illicit activities.
But none of them have stopped dealing. They’re just required to pay a tithe to Jimmy’s guys while they do it.
I don’t know how long Aengus is going to deny what we all know Jimmy is involved in. What Aengus, by rights, is involved in. But I may as well be holding a candle in outer space if I’m trying to make Aengus see the light.
“Let me guess—Jimmy tried to take a cut off Beznick and Beznick’s having none of that.” When the IRA comes knocking on some everyday drug dealer’s door with one hand opened, the other clenched around a gun or a hacksaw, there’s usually no issue. The dealer hands money to them with a please and thank you. But Beznick’s organization probably isn’t so easily swayed. They make the papers nearly as often as the IRA nowadays.
He hesitates, which tells me I’m right. “Beznick put a hit out on Jimmy.”
“That’s serious. And Jimmy can’t get to him on the inside?” I find that hard to believe.
“Tried. Beznick has friends protecting him.” Aengus breaks eye contact to look out the window. The nasty hooked scar by his left brow glows silver from a neighbor’s stray garden light. Two centimeters over and he would have lost his eye. I remember visiting him in prison just after that happened, not even three months before he was released.
“So what does the Green have to do with Beznick?”
“Jimmy wants to remind Beznick who he’s saying no to. Remind him of the fear and respect he should have when he’s dealing with us.”
“And . . .”
That left eye twitches, a sign that I’m not going to like hearing the answer.
“I kept innocent blood off your hands yesterday, Aengus,” I remind him, my tone biting. “Why the Green?”
“Because it’s where Beznick’s sister takes his niece and nephew every day.” When he sees my face—the rage about to explode—he quickly adds, “Later in the day, of course!”
My chair topples over as I push to my feet, the back slamming into the linoleum floor. “You’re going after kids now? Family? Innocent civilians?”
Aengus is on his feet right away, never one to sit when anyone hovers over him. “Like I said . . . it was just a warning to grab his attention.”
Threatening the family of a crime boss. Yeah, I’d say that’s going to earn his attention. “Jesus, Aengus! Jimmy really thought that would persuade Beznick to lift the hit? How much do they go for these days, anyway?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty thousand euro! The man will pay that much money to be rid of Jimmy—and you, surely—and Jimmy thinks trying to kill his family will make him back down? Is he completely daft?”
“We weren’t trying to kill them,” Aengus insists. “That’s why we took the right precautions and planned it out well. We taped off the area during the night. One of our guys opened the gates extra early, before people would ever expect the Green to be open. We made the pipe small. No glass or nails or anything. Just meant to scare.”
“Well, thank heavens for that or I might not be standing here now, would I?” I shake my head at him. “Why wouldn’t you just go after his fellas? Why not just wait outside one of their houses and put a bullet in them?”
“How many would we have to pick off before Beznick learns his lesson? How long would that take? Jimmy figured this was quicker, more impactful.”
Jimmy’s finally gone mad. “And if Beznick doesn’t call off the hit? Are you going to fill the next one with glass and nails and leave it on their doorstep for wee, little fingers to wrap around?” He shoves my hands away before I can grab hold of his shirt, standing to face me chest-to-chest. We’ve been the same height since I hit puberty and sprouted almost overnight. But years behind bars has made Aengus’s body stronger, harder.
His fighting dirtier.
I back away, knowing I’ll only end up on the ground with my stitches ripped open. I turn to face the window that looks out over the narrow garden behind us, on the stone wall dividing our property from the next. I can just make out the streaks of graffiti that someone—I’m guessing some punks in their teens—sprayed within the last few days. The little bastards must have hopped the fence and done it during the night. I haven’t had the time or energy to scrub it off yet, but it’ll have to go before the next showing.
Our granddad and nanny would be rolling in their graves if they knew that someone had defaced their lovely garden. But I’ve taken it in stride, because I remember Aengus and me doing that exact same thing, back when we did everything together, good or bad.