Blow(48)

“Now!” he demanded.

“Talk to me first. Listen to what I have to say,” I pleaded.

His disposition didn’t change and his scowl remained.

Worried things would only get worse, I reasoned with him. “Please, this isn’t about your son. I’ll take care of him. He’ll be fine. I’m here because I need some advice. Some insight. Or innocent people are going to end up hurt or, worse, dead.”

Gramps reluctantly sat on the edge of his bed. “Go on.”

I told him everything that I knew that had taken place so far between Patrick, O’Shea, and Elle, which wasn’t much. Even about how much Elle looked like Emily. I kept my voice even, but it broke more than a few times. Finally, I shared my plan to bail out O’Shea out if I had to.

He listened intently. When I finished, he scratched his chin and seemed to think hard for a few moments before he spoke. “Let me get this straight. Someone has been funneling cocaine through the high-society circuit and when Patrick got wind of it, he went ballistic because he doesn’t own a piece of it; and then true to form, he put Tommy on it, who in turn questioned everyone, beat doors down, made threats, but whoever was running the ring remains a ghost on the street.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Makes me think he’s running more than just the small, wealthy circle.”

“I have to agree. This source is bigger than even Patrick thinks.”

I was certain he was right.

“And you think it could be this chick you mentioned?”

“Yeah, O’Shea’s wife. I’m not one hundred percent on that, but that’s what I’m told.”

He harrumphed, since his old-school beliefs meant a chick could never pull something like that off. “I don’t think so.”

“Gramps,” I started to say, but he cut me off.

“And O’Shea, he’s that Black Irish Mickey, the florist’s boy?”

I had to shake my head. No one used that term anymore but him. He had this thing about the Irish having dark hair. Some old wives’ tale that they had a little bit of the devil in them. “Yeah, that’s him. He’s an attorney.”

“Is he anything like his old man?”

“He has dark hair.” I smiled.

“You know what I mean, smart-ass.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know either of them, but in what way do you mean?”

“Devout Catholic. Never misses a Sunday Mass or a confession. Carries a rosary with him too. In fact, if I recall correctly, he had a delinquent son he shipped off to Ireland at a young age to prepare for seminary school years ago. That’s what a fanatic he was.”

“To each his own I guess, but like I said, I don’t know the father or the son. I do, however, think this son is a douche, but a devout Catholic, that I doubt.”

Gramps raised his brows. “You say,” he grinned, “this douche is claiming he isn’t involved with the drug ring at all?”

“That’s what he told Pop, but I’m not so sure.”

Gramps shook his head. “I’m with you. Not sure I’d believe him.”

The tiredness in the back of my eyes faded at the realization I might be right. “Why do you say that?”

Shifting on the bed, he brought his large frame to the head and settled back. “I can’t say, really. It’s a feeling based on what I know of his old man. When Mickey O’Shea was a teenager, he was a small-timer hoping to hit it big. Always doing stupid things. I warned your father to stay away from him in school. And it was a good thing I did. At nineteen, just after he got married, Mickey did a five-year stretch for hijacking a fleet of trucks. His first big job and he gets caught right out of the gate. Fucking idiot. When he got out, he started up his own gang with Patrick Flannigan as his number two. Some shit went down with his wife, and after that the gang folded. Lucky for him, his mother had passed and he took over her flower shop. I have to say, I was surprised that he gave up on making his fortune on the wrong side of the law and settled for domestic life.”

“So he dropped out just like that?”

He shrugged. “As far as I know. Then his wife was killed in some gang-related incident and honestly, I haven’t heard much about him since. But if the young O’Shea is anything like his old man was, he’s a dreamer hoping to hit it big the easy way.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Gramps. O’Shea seems to be doing well on his own. I asked around and he’s thinking of running for District Attorney next year.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t him.”

“He claims it was his wife who set up the drug ring with his friends.”

“Well, talk to her.”

“Can’t. She disappeared three months ago and from what I can piece together, no one knows where she is.”

“And you’re in love with her?”

“No, Gramps. I told you, I haven’t met his wife.”

His eyes narrowed on me. “I’m old, not senile. I’m not talking about the wife and you know it. I’m talking about the one that looks like Emily.”

Cringing, I paced around the room. “Gramps, I only told you that about Emily so you’d understand where my concern was coming from. I’m not in love at all. But last night someone slashed his sister-in-law’s tire and then later tried to break into Elle’s place.”