The whole point was to sell the idea that she was head-over-heels for Carlyle. That meant she needed to dress for him, not for the others. Or, at least, to dress so the others thought she was dressing for Carlyle. With that in mind, she went over her wardrobe again and settled on a tight-fitting red blouse and figure-hugging slacks. She made sure to leave an extra button unfastened. Then, after doing her hair, she went to her cosmetics and picked out a more daring shade of red lipstick than she’d ever wear to work. By the time her makeup was done, it was half past seven. She’d have to go if she wanted to get there early, and she ought to touch base with Carlyle before the others arrived. Erin left her Glock behind, but she strapped her backup gun to her ankle, just in case.
“Be good, Rolf,” she told him on her way to the door.
He gave her a look that could have meant, “Right back at you.” Then he settled his chin on his paws, digging in for a long wait.
Chapter 6
Carlyle had suggested Erin use the Barley Corner’s back door for this event, rather than coming in the front. It made sense; she didn’t exactly want to advertise that she was meeting with the leadership of a major criminal organization. She walked up to the heavy steel door and waved at the security camera. After a few moments, the door was opened by a lean, tough-looking young man with a military-style buzz cut.
“Evening, ma’am,” he said.
“Evening, Ian,” she said, smiling at him. Ian Thompson, former Marine Scout Sniper, was one of Carlyle’s most trusted guys. He’d helped her out of trouble on more than one occasion. He was the most polite man in the Irish Mob and, according to Carlyle, the most dangerous. If he was here, it was a good sign Carlyle was taking his security seriously tonight.
“Come on in,” he said.
“I’m looking for your boss,” she said, stepping into the back hallway. She could hear a faint buzz of loud conversation and cheering from the bar.
“First door on the left, ma’am.” He pointed. His sport coat opened briefly, and she saw the Beretta tucked in his shoulder holster.
“Thanks.” She walked past him and through the indicated door.
The Corner’s back room was small, the round card table and chairs making it feel even smaller. A single light fixture in the center of the ceiling shone dimly through an amber lampshade. Two decks of cards and a box of poker chips lay on the green baize tabletop. Carlyle was the only person there.
He immediately stood when he saw her. “Erin, thanks for coming,” he said.
She entered and closed the door behind her. “Didn’t have a lot of choice,” she said.
He smiled wryly. “I’m grateful all the same. You’re looking well.”
“You, too.” He always looked sharp. His suits were well-tailored and expensive. The only time she’d seen him publicly disheveled, it’d taken a gunshot wound to make him lose his composure. “So, who’s gonna be here?”
“The usual suspects,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve not read the files on the O’Malleys.”
“Just what we’ve got at the Eightball.”
“It’ll be a fairly full house,” Carlyle said, ticking off names on his fingers. “There’s Evan O’Malley, naturally; your old friend Corky; Mickey Connor; Kyle Finnegan; Liam McIntyre; and two colleens, Veronica Blackburn and Maggie Callahan. Together with yourself and me, that makes nine.”
“It’ll be crowded,” she said, glancing around the room. “What do I need to know?”
“You already know Corky and me. You needn’t worry yourself about Maggie, she’s harmless. And you needn’t take particular notice of Liam or Veronica. Finnegan’s all right, as long as you understand he’s insane.”
“Come again?”
“He was in a misunderstanding with a couple of UAW lads outside Detroit a few years back,” Carlyle explained. “One of them put a tire iron into his skull. Finnegan was always a mite odd, and the blow scrambled him. You’d not know it most of the time, but it’s best not to provoke the lad. Oh, and don’t mention cats to him.”
“Cats,” Erin repeated, sure now that Carlyle was making a joke.
“Aye. He hates them.” Carlyle wasn’t smiling.
“Okay, don’t pick a fight with the crazy cat-hating Irishman,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Evan and Mickey are the ones to watch,” he replied. “Evan’s smart, he’s sharp, and he’s a right ruthless bastard. He has these get-togethers to keep an eye on the rest of us. Some of the folks in this room will be playing cards. For Evan, the game happens around the table, not on top of it. He’ll not miss much, and if you make a mistake, he’ll notice. Don’t promise him anything you’re not prepared to deliver, and don’t lie to him if you can help it.”
“And Mickey?”
“Mickey’s a murderous thug,” Carlyle said. “Most lads need a reason to kill. Mickey only needs a place. He’s a former prizefighter. You’d think a lad his size would be slow. He’s not. He’s fast, he’s strong, and he’d not think twice about hitting a woman.”
“Nice friends you’ve got here,” she said dryly.
He shook his head. “This isn’t about friendship,” he said. “It’s a business meeting. Present company excepted, Corky’s the only friend I’ll have in this room. Any of the rest, except Maggie, would have me killed without a second thought. Most of them would do it themselves. On average, everyone in the room has killed more than once.”
Erin took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I don’t suppose I could just arrest everyone in the room?”
He did smile then. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
* * *
The guests began to arrive a few minutes before eight. James Corcoran was the
