Vengeance in Death (In Death #6)(73)

She sat across from him, bounced her fingers on her knee. “So… are you going to take me on a tour of the favored locales from your misspent youth?”

He didn’t smile as she’d hoped, but he did shift his gaze from the window to her face. “They wouldn’t be particularly picturesque.”

“They may not be among the tourist hot spots, but it would be helpful to brush up with some of your former friends and companions.”

“Three of my former friends and companions are dead.”

“Roarke — “

“No.” Annoyed with himself, he held up a hand. “Brooding doesn’t help. I’ll take you to the Penny Pig.”

“The Penny Pig?” She straightened quickly. “Brennen’s wife said he used to go there. A bar, right?”

“A pub.” Now he did smile. “The social and cultural center of a race who goes from mother’s milk straight to stout. And you should see Grafton Street. I used to pluck pockets there. Then there are the narrow alleyways of South Dublin where I ran games of chance until I moved my portable casino into the back room of Jimmy O’Neal’s butcher shop.”

“Link sausage and loaded dice.”

“And more. Then there was the smuggling. An adventurous enterprise and the financial foundation for Roarke Industries.” He leaned forward, hooked her safety strap himself. “And even with all that experience, I had my heart stolen by a cop and had to mend my ways.”

“Some of them.”

He laughed and glancing out the window watched Dublin City rise toward them. “Some of them. There’s the River Liffey, and the bridges shine in the sun. A lovely place is Dublin Town of an evening.”

He was right, Eve decided when less than an hour later they were in the back of a limo and streaming along with traffic. She supposed she’d expected it to be more like New York, crowded and noisy and impatient. It certainly bustled, but there was a cheer beneath the pace.

Colorful doors brightened the buildings, arched bridges added charm. And though it was mid-November, flowers bloomed in abundance.

The hotel was a grand stone structure with arched windows and a castlelike air. She had only a glimpse of the lobby with its towering ceiling, regal furnishings, rich dark walls before they were whisked up to their suite.

Men like Roarke weren’t expected to fuss with such pesky details as check-in. All was ready for their arrival. Huge urns of fresh flowers, massive bowls of fruit, and a generous decanter of fine Irish whiskey awaited them.

And the tall windows gleamed with the last red lights of the setting sun.

“I thought you’d prefer facing the street, so you could watch the city go by.”

“I do.” She was already at the windows, hands tucked in her back pockets. “It’s pretty, like… I don’t know an animated painting. Did you see the glide-carts? Every one of them was shiny, the umbrellas stiff and bright. Even the gutters look like someone just swept them clean.”

“They still give tidy village awards in Ireland.”

She laughed at that, amused and touched. “Tidy village?”

“It’s a matter of pride, and a quality of life most are reluctant to give up. In the countryside you’ll still see stone fences and fields green enough to startle the eye. Cottages and cabins with thatched roofs. Peat fires and flowers in the yard. The Irish grip their traditions in a firm hand.”

“Why did you leave here?”

“Because my traditions were less attractive and more easily let go.” He drew a bright yellow daisy from an arrangement and handed it to her. “I want a shower, then I’ll show you.”

She turned back to the window, twirling the daisy absently by its stem. And she wondered how much more she would see of the man she’d married before the night was over.

There were parts of Dublin that weren’t so cheerful, where the alleys carried that universal smell of garbage gone over and thin cats slunk in shadows. Here she saw the underbelly of any city, men walking quickly, shoulders hunched, eyes shifting right and left. She heard harsh laughter with desperate undertones and the wail of a hungry baby.

She saw a group of boys, the oldest of them no more than ten. They walked casually, but Eve caught the cool. calculating gleam in their eyes. If she’d had her weapon, her hand would have been on it.

The street was their turf, and they knew it.

One bumped lightly into Roarke as they passed. “Beg pardon,” he began, then cursed ripely when Roarke grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“Mind the hands, boyo. I don’t care for any but my own in my pockets.”

“Turn me loose.” He swung, comically missed in a roundhouse as Roarke held him at arm’s length. “Bloody bastard, I never pinched nothing.”

“Only because you’ve thick hands. Christ, I was better than you when I was six.” He gave the boy a quick shake, more in exasperation of his clumsiness than in annoyance with the act itself. “A drunk tourist from the west counties would have felt that grope. And you were obvious as well.” He looked down into the boy’s furious face and shook his head. “You’d do better as the pass-off man than the pincher.”

“That’s great, Roarke, why don’t you give him a few lessons on thievery while you’re at it.”

At Eve’s words the boy’s eyes flickered and narrowed. He stopped struggling. “They tell tales of a Roarke who used to work these streets. Lived in the shanties and made himself a right fortune off quick fingers and nerves.”