City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(22)

Nostalgic, Danny thinks, for a life we never led.

But the Gloc has been the headquarters of the Irish mob since the turn of the century, and it isn’t going to change, even though Dogtown is dying. Fewer of the Irish, the Jews, the Chinese; more Blacks, Puerto Ricans, Dominicans. In a way it’s a good thing, because more of the Irish have moved to the better parts of the city, or the suburbs. They left the docks and the factories to become doctors and lawyers and businessmen.

The old men, they hold on because the neighborhood is like an old chair they’ve grown used to. They’re sitting in the back room now, the inner sanctum where John Murphy holds court, him and his cronies, sipping their whiskey and plotting. Conspiracies that go nowhere, Danny thinks, dreams that are stillborn.

John Murphy is the king of an empire that died a long time ago.

The light of a long-dead star.

The old men crouch around that booth like leprechauns and advise that they have no choice now, there is no gray area now, this time they have to hit back.

Pat agrees.

His dad doesn’t.

“That’s what Moretti wants us to do,” John says. He taps the tips of his fingers against the side of his head. “Use your brains. Do you really think that Peter gives a damn about your brother stealing Paulie’s girlfriend? All he cares about is money—he’d sell his sisters to a Chinese cathouse if he thought there was a dollar in it. Your idiot brother just gave him an excuse, is all, for a provocation.”

“What do you mean?” Pat asks his father.

“As long as Pasco is the boss,” John says, “we’ll have peace. Unless you do something stupid, that is. But Pasco is moving on soon, and the Morettis are just looking for an excuse to start a war. You want to hand that to them, wrapped up in a pretty bow, do you?”

“They want the docks,” Bernie Hughes pipes up.

Tall, skinny, saturnine—hair as white and wispy as the cotton in an aspirin bottle—Bernie is an accountant, John’s money man, Marty’s before that. He sees nothing but the bottom line. “Peter wants to move up into Pasco’s empty chair, but to do that he needs to show he can be a big earner, make everybody a lot of money. But he’s maxed out on his own businesses—the vending machines, the protection, the gambling, the drugs—and needs a fresh source of income. That would be our source of income, Pat.”

“That Peter is smart,” John says. “And Chris Palumbo is smarter. If we give them a war, they’ll take the docks. We can’t stop them. They have too many men and too much money. They’d have done it already—it’s only Pasco holding them back. If we answer for Handrigan, Pasco will have no choice but to bring his entire family against us. He’ll bring in Boston, if he has to, and Hartford. Maybe even New York.”

“So we have to just take this?” Pat says.

Bernie Hughes says what John doesn’t want to. “Look, we all know it should have been Liam who got shot. Pasco Ferri stayed Paulie’s hand from that, but had to give him something, so they let him do Handrigan. It can end there.”

“Fuck that,” Danny says. “I’m telling the cops what I saw.”

Brendan’s blood is still spattered on his shirt.

“That’s not our way,” John says.

“Fuck that omerta bullshit,” Danny says. “I don’t owe those wops nothing.”

“What do you owe us?” John asks.

The question hangs there.

Finally Pat says, “You’re family, Danny.”

“Am I?” Danny asks.

“How many times have you broken bread at my table?” John asks. “How many times did I put food in your mouth when your own father—”

“Enough, Dad,” Pat says.

“I gave you my daughter, for Chrissakes!” John thunders. “My daughter!”

And this is the first time, Danny thinks, the first time you’ve brought me into the back room to sit with the men, with the family.

But he don’t say that.



That night, two Providence homicide detectives bring Danny into the interrogation room. It stinks of cigarette smoke and fear. They sit him down at the table and start in.

“You were with Handrigan when he got shot,” O’Neill says. He’s your classic veteran Irish cop—broad face, nose splintered with red veins, cheeks going to fat, dead eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Who shot him?”

“Didn’t see.”

“Shit,” Viola says. “You got his blood all over you, I heard.”

Viola’s the younger partner—thinner, darker, black hair slicked straight back, a nose like a ferret.

“Didn’t see anything,” Danny says.

Danny knows they’re just going through the motions, and the last thing in the world they want is for him to speak the name Paulie Moretti.

The fix is in.

They do the dance for an hour and then kick him out.

Danny goes home, Terri is waiting.

“What did you tell them?” she asks.

He looks at her like she’s a total fucking idiot. She’s John Murphy’s daughter, she knows what he told them.





Ten


John Murphy drives down to the shore and meets Pasco in the parking lot of Stop & Shop. He gets out of his own car and slides into Pasco’s.