that again?”
“Yeah, and we’ll keep coming back to it until you tell me how you knew there’d be a murder attempt two nights ago.”
“I told you already. No matter how many times you ask the question the answer is going to be the same.”
Impressions and visions, she meant, probably with a little bit of Grandma thrown into the mix. Daniel would have rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t sure how to take her anymore. If she’d wanted him to believe her, she would have come up with a more convincing line than “the spirits told me,” because that sounded crazy, and she didn’t seem crazy—most of the time. But if she was crazy, she’d probably be hearing voices and think they were real when they told her he was about to be killed, and she’d be crazy enough to try to warn him. But that would mean she wasn’t crazy because the voices were right about the murder attempt . . .
“I’m sorry I asked,” he said, his head beginning to hurt from trying to squeeze an ounce of logic out of a sea of insanity.
“I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
“And I told you to go home, but you’re still hanging around. I’d say that makes us even.” He turned to find that the dragon at the door had switched to hostess mode. She was waiting patiently for him, a menu in her hand, new respect in her attitude. She probably wasn’t the only one in the place to have noted Joe Flynn’s warm greeting. And Daniel wasn’t above taking advantage of it—in a strictly limited capacity.
“Miss Hanlon is right this way, Mr. Pierce,” she said. “Will this young lady be joining you?”
“No.” Daniel took the menu from her, and added, “I can find my own way.”
“I guess I’ll need a table for one then,” Vivi said.
Daniel stopped, turning back to the hostess. “She’s Russian,” he said, and had the satisfaction of watching the dragon show her claws again, the Russian mob being even more hated by the Irish mob than the Italians.
By the time he made it to Patrice’s table, a quick but thorough check of the place showed him Vivi had been evicted. Something told him he hadn’t seen the last of her, and it wasn’t coming from the spirit world. Sure, there was a voice in his head, but it was the voice of experience. The really fatalistic voice of experience.
COHAN’S WASN’T VERY BIG, BUT THEN FEW OF THE REALLY good, family-owned pubs in South Boston were. The front wall of the place consisted of windows, clear glass, curtainless, unadorned by expensive hand-lettering. Why waste the money when it was only a matter of time before someone got tossed through them? The inside was just as lackluster, one big room with the bar and kitchen at one end and the restrooms at the other. In between were tables crowded almost on top of one another, all of them occupied, the bar two-deep in serious drinkers.
The atmosphere grew murky away from the windows, a stew of dim lighting and smoke haze, not to mention a cacophony consisting of music, televised baseball, and heated conversation that involved violence on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean.
Cohan’s served Irish food, Irish whiskey, and Irish politics. Before the uneasy peace on the Auld Sod, they’d have collected gun money for the IRA. Nowadays it was charity for the war orphans and widows left behind. It was the sort of place Daniel would’ve met an informant or chased a suspect into.
Patrice Hanlon was a paradox, at once clearly a member of this community with her auburn hair, creamy skin, and blue eyes. A closer study marked her as an outsider, clothing and shoes costing more than most of these people made in a week. She sat alone at a table for four, on the side with the banquette built against the wall. That left the seat across from her, or the seat beside her. Daniel hated having his back to the room. The alternative was worse than death.
“Patrice,” he said, bending to give her a kiss on the cheek before he sat opposite her.
She covered her
“Yeah, and we’ll keep coming back to it until you tell me how you knew there’d be a murder attempt two nights ago.”
“I told you already. No matter how many times you ask the question the answer is going to be the same.”
Impressions and visions, she meant, probably with a little bit of Grandma thrown into the mix. Daniel would have rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t sure how to take her anymore. If she’d wanted him to believe her, she would have come up with a more convincing line than “the spirits told me,” because that sounded crazy, and she didn’t seem crazy—most of the time. But if she was crazy, she’d probably be hearing voices and think they were real when they told her he was about to be killed, and she’d be crazy enough to try to warn him. But that would mean she wasn’t crazy because the voices were right about the murder attempt . . .
“I’m sorry I asked,” he said, his head beginning to hurt from trying to squeeze an ounce of logic out of a sea of insanity.
“I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
“And I told you to go home, but you’re still hanging around. I’d say that makes us even.” He turned to find that the dragon at the door had switched to hostess mode. She was waiting patiently for him, a menu in her hand, new respect in her attitude. She probably wasn’t the only one in the place to have noted Joe Flynn’s warm greeting. And Daniel wasn’t above taking advantage of it—in a strictly limited capacity.
“Miss Hanlon is right this way, Mr. Pierce,” she said. “Will this young lady be joining you?”
“No.” Daniel took the menu from her, and added, “I can find my own way.”
“I guess I’ll need a table for one then,” Vivi said.
Daniel stopped, turning back to the hostess. “She’s Russian,” he said, and had the satisfaction of watching the dragon show her claws again, the Russian mob being even more hated by the Irish mob than the Italians.
By the time he made it to Patrice’s table, a quick but thorough check of the place showed him Vivi had been evicted. Something told him he hadn’t seen the last of her, and it wasn’t coming from the spirit world. Sure, there was a voice in his head, but it was the voice of experience. The really fatalistic voice of experience.
COHAN’S WASN’T VERY BIG, BUT THEN FEW OF THE REALLY good, family-owned pubs in South Boston were. The front wall of the place consisted of windows, clear glass, curtainless, unadorned by expensive hand-lettering. Why waste the money when it was only a matter of time before someone got tossed through them? The inside was just as lackluster, one big room with the bar and kitchen at one end and the restrooms at the other. In between were tables crowded almost on top of one another, all of them occupied, the bar two-deep in serious drinkers.
The atmosphere grew murky away from the windows, a stew of dim lighting and smoke haze, not to mention a cacophony consisting of music, televised baseball, and heated conversation that involved violence on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean.
Cohan’s served Irish food, Irish whiskey, and Irish politics. Before the uneasy peace on the Auld Sod, they’d have collected gun money for the IRA. Nowadays it was charity for the war orphans and widows left behind. It was the sort of place Daniel would’ve met an informant or chased a suspect into.
Patrice Hanlon was a paradox, at once clearly a member of this community with her auburn hair, creamy skin, and blue eyes. A closer study marked her as an outsider, clothing and shoes costing more than most of these people made in a week. She sat alone at a table for four, on the side with the banquette built against the wall. That left the seat across from her, or the seat beside her. Daniel hated having his back to the room. The alternative was worse than death.
“Patrice,” he said, bending to give her a kiss on the cheek before he sat opposite her.
She covered her
Similar Books
