Chapter Thirty-Three
“You’re fulla shit, Griffin,” Louie growled. “You ain’t got no goddamned straight.”
Jamie shrugged. “It’ll cost you five bucks to find out, Lombardi.”
It was the following Friday. While it was actually the second Friday of January, the monthly poker game had been delayed one week due to the New Year’s Day events and the immediate aftermath. Timmy and Cal were glaring absences, but Louie had joined the group. In addition to the three regular Griffin brothers, Frank Griffin played this month. In fact, he was hosting the game. Ruarc O’Riley, Bob Sullivan, and Eileen’s father, Ed Kelly, rounded out the group, after dropping Ruth off at Jamie’s house. Nuala had wisely escaped the stench of cigars and aroma of Jameson’s that filled the house and fled to Jamie’s house with Eileen and the two younger girls. Brigid was back at Notre Dame. Jamie had invited the twins to the game, but Daphné said that despite her brave front, Darcelle was still a little too self-conscious about the eye patch for playing poker, so they had joined the hen party at Jamie’s house instead.
“Shit or get offa da pot, Louie.” Kelly, a retired engineer from the MTBA, was a New York born Irish-Catholic who could drink, smoke, and swear with the best of them.
“Keep your pants, on, Kelly,” Louie replied, slowly spreading his cards in his huge, gnarled hands.
Frank looked at his sons through the haze of the Stradivarius Churchills he sprung for in honor of the first game he hosted in years. Paddy, Jamie, Johnny, and Conán were carrying on an easy banter. Sully caught Frank’s eye and nodded. While the shitstorm from the aftermath of the Raisin Killer case was still in full force, it felt good to have the case wrapped up, even if the task force was likely to drag on for several months. Frank hadn’t admitted it to anyone, not even himself, but it also felt good to be back on good terms with his second son. While the Griffin men often argued, it rarely lasted, and the discord of the past months had unsettled Frank. “Man, if organized crime took this long to do stuff, we’d have it made,” Frank said, piling on to the good-natured shit Louie was taking.
“Call, okay, you dumb Irish testa di cazzos?”
“Hey,” Ruarc shot back. “Who you callin’ a dickhead, you stupid Wop?”
Louie looked back in surprise. “Sumbitch. I didn’t think any of you Micks knew God’s language.”
“Whaddya mean?” Paddy Griffin said with a smirk. “Several of us speak Gaelic.”
Jamie looked around the room and felt warm satisfaction flood through him. The evening had been great so far, spending time with his Da, his father-in-law, his brothers, and friends.
Before coming to the game, Louie and the twins had arrived at Jamie’s house for a brief conference before the “menfolk” walked to Frank Griffin’s house. It might still be January, but the weather had taken a patented unpredictable New England U-turn into unseasonably warm weather, melting all the snow and ice and making for comfortable days. Consequently, the four had held their meeting on the front porch, with the fading warmth of the setting sun streaming to their sides, the shadow of the porch casting a preview of the evening cold over them.
“So, Mick,” Louie had begun. “The three of us been talkin’ over your proposition.”
“Yeah?” Jamie had replied.
“Yeah,” Darcelle replied. “You apparently think quite a lot of yourself for your name to be the only one on the masthead.”
“Nope,” Jamie replied. “I put that name out there as an idea, especially if I’m the only investor.”
“Who says you’re gonna be the only investor?” Louie asked.
“Yeah, what if we want a piece of the action?” Daphné demanded.
“Then I guess we’d have to come up with another name,” Jamie said. “Any ideas?”
“Well, we arm-wrestled on our way over and I won—” Louie began.
“In your dreams, old man,” Darcelle interrupted.
“As we discussed on the way over,” Daphné continued. “If we’re going to be equal partners in this venture, then the name has to reflect that.”
“Who said anything about equal partners?” Jamie objected. “I’m the only one qualified to be a licensed private investigator.”
“Maybe so, but like you said,” Louie replied, “you can’t do this by yourself.”
Jamie looked at them and nodded. “Okay. What name did you come up with?”
“How does ‘Griffin, Lombardi & Lopes’ sound?” Darcelle asked.
Jamie rolled it around in his head for a moment, and then said, “Well, more like a law firm than an investigative agency, but that might not be all bad. How did Louie rate second billing?”
“He didn’t,” Daphné said, “but we all agreed that Griffin would come first, and he correctly pointed out that after that, alphabetically made the most sense.”
“Meh,” Darcelle, waving a hand side-to-side. “I’m not sold.”
Louie and Daphné blew raspberries at her. While Daphné was definitely watching out for her twin, she wasn’t about to coddle her either. After a moment, Daphné asked, “So, whaddya think, Unc?”
Jamie had looked at the three with a newfound feeling of affection and respect. “I think it sounds great.” He reached out and shook the hand of his new partners. Now, several hours, two cigars, and several glasses of Jameson’s later, Jamie felt even better about the outcome than he had when standing on his porch. He was down at least $20, but he felt as if he was way ahead of the game. The friendly banter and betting receded as Jamie took another slug of his Jameson’s and drew deeply on the last of his cigar.
“You know, Jamie,” Sully said in a slightly slurred voice. “Even Lenny is warming up to you since you’ve been helping the task force wade through the mountain of shit O’Neill dumped in our laps.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jamie replied, in a voice only slightly less slurred than Sully’s.
“Yeah. I know, I know,” Sully said, making a shushing gesture with his hand toward Frank, who had started to object. “Departmental affairs, blah, blah, blah. I think we can probably trust Kelly, Ruarc, and your other boys with this much—Len’s been eatin’ a lotta crow about how much grief he gave Jamie over stickin’ with this case. There’s a bunch of guys down at District C-11 who think they owe you an apology, Jamie.”
“Nah, no apologies needed,” Jamie said. “Except maybe from Lenny.” Everyone laughed at that, especially the cops. “What I had was pretty thin to start with. Even Cal argued with me about it.” At the mention of Cal, everyone grew somber, and Jamie raised his glass. “To Cal Cushing—the best partner I ever had,” Jamie said, and everyone joined him in downing the rest of their drinks.
Frank Griffin refilled his glass and passed the bottle around the table. Of the group, only Johnny passed. “I have an early morning meeting tomorrow, courtesy of Monsignor McMahon.”
“Ah, a parochial vicar’s work is never done, eh, Johnny,” Frank said without any real sympathy.
“Be that as it may,” Jamie said, pouring a small amount into his younger brother’s glass. “You need a touch more for one, final toast.” Johnny looked at his brother with suspicion. Jamie wasn’t above trying to slip extra drinks to his younger brother. When everyone’s glasses were filled, Jamie held up his glass again. “I just want to tell everyone how much I appreciate your support.” He grew serious. “I’ve come through dark times. While I know I’m not completely through them, I also know I’ve got people who love and support me. I know I don’t have to do this alone. I realize I can be a stubborn arsehole—”
“Hear, hear,” Paddy began, before silenced by a stern look from his father.
“Eventually, I do learn.” Jamie raised his glass even higher. “To family and friends—especially those who are no longer here with us.”
“Hear, hear,” everyone said, draining their glasses.
The game went on for another hour, and by the time Jamie staggered back to his house with Louie, he knew he had managed to overtax himself yet another day. He had been good about resting earlier in the week, but he’d probably balance the weekend by staying in bed or on the sectional with Finn MacCool and letting Eileen, Caitlin, and Riona mother him. Maybe some planning with Louie and the twins once their heads returned somewhere close to normal size.
It’s not the life I imagined, Jamie thought, sobering up a miniscule amount in the early morning cold. It can be a good life nonetheless. Get busy living, or get busy dying. Guess it’s time I get busy living.
Jamie prepared himself for lectures as they reached the door to his house and realized that with, all things considered, he was a very lucky man.
