Kieran was Sean’s oldest friend from Russell Street, and his best friend left. He had the size Sean lacked, a little over six-two and 20 pounds heavier than when he’d played football-call it 240 now, but still all brick, no mortar. “Walsh says they got suckered. Says the guy rammed them in an alley.”
“What does McCudden say?”
“He ain’t talking yet. Still doped up. Took two pretty good shots.”
“From a Canadian.”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus,” Sean said, shaking his head. “What have I been saying since I started this, Kieran? What’s the one thing I repeated over and fucking over?”
“We need the right guys …”
“Thank you. The right guys. Not a lot of guys. I don’t need an army. Just pros. That’s all I need to get on top of this thing and stay there is solid pros. No showboats. Strong silent types. Last names don’t count, where you came from don’t count. Look at the Italians, they’re all softies coasting on family names. Classic third-generation business failures. But we Irish, Kieran, we’ve got the same fierce genes we always had, we’re still bred for the street in our little packs. We’re still fucking desperate. I know the right guys are out there.”
“They are. McCudden and Walsh are exceptions.”
“No,” Sean said, “they’re examples. Bad luck, trouble, they brought it all. Take care of it, man.”
“Got it.”
“And I want them found.”
“Any particular message?”
“They didn’t talk, so leave their tongues alone.”
“Okay.”
“What says fuck-up best?” Sean asked.
“Two in the head?”
“A classic,” Sean said. “Nice call. Now about these Canadians, what do we know?”
“I’m told they’re PIs from Toronto.”
“And they take out two guys from Southie? Christ. We got names?”
“Jonah Geller and Jenn Raudsepp.”
“What kind of names are those?”
“Raudsepp, who knows. Swedish? She’s tall and blonde, Walsh said.”
“And Jonah Geller?”
“Sounds Jewish to me.”
“Another Jew? What am I, surrounded all of a sudden? Is it National Hebe Week?”
“My mother used to say one of them’s a cheat, two makes a con.”
“Where they’re staying?”
“The Sam Adams.”
“Who have they talked to?”
“The Brookline cops.”
“Who know dick. Who else?”
“They been to the hospital a couple of times. And Geller went out to Somerville.”
“Somerville? Fuck. I’ll show them Somerville. Show them my fucking garage.”
“You serious? You want me to pick them up?”
Sean thought for a moment, swirling around the ice in his drink, and said, “Not yet. We still have our wandering Jew out there. If these PIs are so good they can take out two of our guys, no sweat, maybe they’ll find him for us.”
“We got eyes on them.”
“Good. One last thing now, then I’m out of here. I want to sleep at home with my wife tonight. I spoke to the congressman in the Eighth District, McConnell. He’s all set.”
“He met your price?”
“They all meet my price.”
“Jesus, half a mil. And you don’t leave the house.”
“That’s the beauty of it. The other guy, the Greek. Is he confirmed?”
“He’s in.”
“He’s sure?”
“He’s sure.”
“He can’t not show.”
“He’ll show. He’s eager. He’s a degenerate fucking gambler, needs money like we need air.”
“I told you this thing was going to pan out.”
“You did.”
“We’ll clear over five million the first year. We got no competition, controllable expenses. Very little risk across the board.”
“You did it, pal.”
“I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m saying no more fuck-ups. I want Walsh and McCudden gone. And as soon as these PIs find their fellow Jew, I want them gone. No one left standing.”
“And if they don’t find him?”
“Kill them.”
“Any message there?”
“No. Just make them disappear.”
“Same way as the others?”
“Sure,” Sean said. “Go with what you know.”
CHAPTER 13
Americans like two things in their politicians: height and hair. Marc McConnell had both. In the photos posted on his website, he generally looked two or three inches taller than the other men around him. His hair was thick and smartly combed, grey at the temples, the rest dark brown with strands of grey threaded through like filigree.
According to his biography, he was forty-two, born and raised in Boston. A triple eagle, having gone to Boston College High School, Boston College itself and then BC law school in Newton.
“What kind of lawyer?” I asked Jenn.
“Human rights and international justice.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need him. What else does it say?”
“Married his high school sweetheart, the former Lesley Austin-Smith, fifteen years ago.”
“Just once, I’d like to read about a politician who married a slut he picked up in a bar.”
“Oh, and look, she’s an heiress too. Lucky girl, her father was-honest to God, they use this phrase-a shipping magnate. They still have magnates?”
“I think George Steinbrenner was one.”
“Wait,” Jenn said. “Maybe not so lucky.”
“Why?”
“I just Googled her separately and this one old article … one sec. Oh God.”
“What?”
“Cystic fibrosis. It runs in her family. Two out of three kids got it, she and her sister. The brother didn’t for some reason. The sister died at twenty. But Lesley was four years younger and as she was getting critical, medicine had advanced to the point where she could get a double-lung transplant. She was nineteen years old.”
“So if they were high school sweethearts, he was with her through all that.”
“Yes. She was only the third to survive the procedure in Massachusetts, it says.”
“You live in Boston, you have the money, you’re bound to get the best care. How long ago was this?”
“She’s forty now, so twenty-one years, which is amazing. It defies a lot of the stats I read. Not that many are
