50

O’Leary stood in the unlit hall that led to his office and watched as Winter began to close the bar. Two men strode through the door, and they did not have to wear signs for him to know what they were—either cops or hired muscle. He stood still and watched them until they took seats at the bar. The older of the two—at least his gray hair indicated he was oldest—flashed a badge at Winter. “O’Leary in the back?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Mind if we take a look?”

“You got a warrant?” Winter asked.

“No, but we can get one.”

“Then you better get it.”

“You are aware that he’s up to his ass in alligators—and they’re snapping?”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that when I see him. You guys drinking or bullshitting?”

The younger cop gave him a hard look. When his partner nudged him on the arm, they slid off the bar stools. “We’ll be back with a warrant.”

“I’ll be waiting with unbridled anticipation.”

Once the cops were gone, O’Leary walked out of the darkness.

“You heard?” Winter asked.

“Yeah, they’ll be back.”

“You think they got probable cause for a warrant?”

“Nope. But it won’t matter. There’re at least six judges listed in that ledger—they’ll have a warrant in an hour.”

“So what we gonna do?”

O’Leary lit a cigarette.

“Smokin’ in a public place is against the law,” Winter said, knowing his boss couldn’t care less.

“Then lock the door. As of now this is a private club.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

A cloud of smoke surrounded O’Leary’s head. “We go on the offensive.”

“I wondered when you were gonna start kicking ass and taking names.”

“We already got the names,” O’Leary said with a sardonic smile. “Now we’re gonna kick some ass.”

_________________

O’Leary had just finished locking the door as he turned away from the building and Winter said, “We got company.”

Three men walked out of the darkness and into the glow of the streetlights. O’Leary immediately took a pistol from within his jacket. Winter already had his out and pointed in the direction of the men. When they were a quarter of the way down the block, the three split, making it difficult for two guns to cover them. When the one who had remained on the sidewalk stopped walking and raised his hands, showing he had no weapon, O’Leary recognized him. “What brings you to Southie, Carl?”

“Take it easy,” Carl Konovalov answered, “we’re here to talk.” He spoke with a heavy Russian accent.

“It takes three of you to talk?”

“Jimmy, Jimmy, your reputation precedes you. They’re merely a precaution—not much different than your man.” He half-turned and said something in Russian. His two companions stopped their approach, one standing on the empty street and the other on the opposite sidewalk.

“You okay, boss?” Winter asked.

“Yeah, I can handle this guy if it comes down to that.”

“I’ll be right over there.” Winter stepped back several paces and then positioned himself between two parked cars, where he could watch the gunmen in the street and on the sidewalk.

O’Leary motioned for Konovalov to approach. “When I learned that Gorky was involved in this, I knew you were too,” O’Leary said.

“That is part of what we must speak about.”

“I don’t think we should discuss business on the street.” O’Leary put his pistol away, turned, and unlocked the door to the Claddagh Pub. “You can bring your muscle in with you . . . or you can come in alone.”

Konovalov motioned for his companions to follow them inside.

Once inside, Winter deactivated the alarm system, walked behind the bar, and carefully placed his pistol on it. O’Leary nodded at him and then turned to the Russian mobster. “You want to sit at a table or will the bar do?”

Konovalov seated himself on a bar stool, and his henchmen separated once again—one standing by the door and the other to his right about twenty feet away.

O’Leary took a seat on Konovalov’s immediate left, keeping the Russian between him and his men. “You want a drink, Carl? It’s on me.”

The Russian turned his head and said to Winter, “Vodka.”

“Neat?” Winter asked.

“What is this . . . neat?”

“Straight up, no ice, no chaser.”

Konovalov nodded.

Winter turned and took a bottle from the bar back.

“None of your American swill—the good vodka.”

O’Leary nodded his approval, and Winter replaced the bottle of bar brand, picked up a bottle of Stolichnaya, and poured a shot. He pushed the glass toward the Russian. “This do?” he asked.

Konovalov nodded again.

“Okay, Carl,” O’Leary said, “you called this meeting. What’s on your mind?”

“You have caused a major disruption in our revenue stream.”

“Revenue stream? You an accountant now?”

“Every business needs a good accountant.”

“Okay, suppose you get to the point? If you haven’t noticed, it’s getting late.”

“You have taken our property and . . . taken away two of my valued employees—”

“Cut the bullshit, Carl. This place ain’t bugged. I gather that you’re upset because I killed Halsey, Gorky, and Adriana.”

“Replacing the women will be easy, Gorky not so easy, but we have other vessels to carry our cargo. The madam is a minor inconvenience, and the lawyer was no loss—them I can buy for . . . how is that American saying? A dime a dozen? Yes, that’s the expression. I can get lawyers for a dime a dozen.”

“Still,” O’Leary said, “it’s the cargo you’re after.”

“I said it was easy to replace the women, I didn’t say it was cheap. I have a considerable amount of money invested in them.”

“I get the feeling that isn’t all you want.”

“What else is there?”

“The laptop.”

The Russian waved his hand in front of his face as if he were shooing a fly away, and O’Leary was surprised by his answer. “Pshh, that’s of no consequence, merely a client list.”

“You sayin’ that the names on that computer aren’t part of running this business?”

“Other than I have to pay them for certain services, no.”

O’Leary thought about what he had heard. It made sense; the Russian mob had a long history of infiltrating and using corrupt government officials in their kryshas. “But,” O’Leary said, “they’re still covered by your krysha?”

“Yes.”

“Well, here’s the problem I got with this, Carl. I don’t like the fact that you’ve brought kids—virtual babies—and placed them in your fancy whorehouses. Adults who understand what they may be getting into are one thing . . . kids are another.”

Konovalov’s expression turned hard. “Since we are being blunt, I want my property back.”

“There’s a problem with that, I don’t have them,” O’Leary said.

“Who’s bullshitting now?” Konovalov stood, picked up the shot glass, drank the vodka in a single mouthful, and banged the glass down. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, “One day—that’s all I will give you to return my property to me. One day, not a minute more.” He nodded to his men, and they left the bar.

Once the door closed after the mobsters, Winter picked up the shot glass and threw it in the trash. “You gonna do it?” he asked.

“Fuck no! How long you think we’d last if we gave in to a bunch of foreign goons?”

“That your only reason?”

“You know better. There’s no way I’ll ever return those women to him.”

Winter nodded. “Okay, I’ll make sure the boys are ready. What in hell is a krysha?”

“It’s Russian for roof. All their businesses and corrupt officials are sheltered under the krysha—it’s like a mafia family.”

“Okay, how we gonna handle this?”

“We got to make them come after us. . . . Is Chaney still in town?”

Winter looked at O’Leary. “Are you sure you want him involved in this?”

“As much as I hate it, he’s got some special skills we can use. After all, he owes me, and who else is there?”

“Mike.”

“Naw, he’s got his hands full chasing that psycho up in Butt Fuck, Maine. Besides, there’s still a lot of cop left in Mike. We’ll go with Chaney.”