“You just cost me twenty dollars, love,” he said.
“How’d I do that?”
“I bet Cars you’d not be caught dead with this sorry lot of gurriers.”
“Corky,” she said, “I don’t even know what that word means.”
“It’s a bit of Irish slang,” Carlyle explained. “It means a lad operating outside the law.”
“Come, love,” Corky said, walking around the table to sit on the other side of Erin from Carlyle. “Let’s have a kiss.”
She let him give her a quick peck on the cheek. He was the friendliest man in the Mob, a hopeless womanizer who’d only stopped trying to get her in bed when he’d learned she was involved with his best friend.
“How’s business, Corky?” she asked.
“Oh, grand. Is this lad treating you right?”
She nodded. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Oh aye, that he is,” Corky laughed. “But a gentleman’s not always what a lass needs. If you’re ever looking for a lad who’s a bit livelier, promise you’ll look me up.”
“You’ll be my first call,” Erin said with a straight face.
The door opened again and a man and woman entered. Erin knew their faces. She’d told Carlyle the truth; she’d been through the O’Malley files at Precinct 8 beforehand. Liam McIntyre was a little guy with a face like a weasel and a few too many gold chains. He was a narcotics guy, and looked like he got high on his own supply. Veronica Blackburn was a tall blonde with the best body money could buy. She gave Erin a thin, challenging smile and guided Liam to a chair. She sat between him and Corky.
“Hello, Corks,” Veronica said in a throaty purr. “I’ve been wondering when I’d see you again. You never call me back.”
“Pressures of work, Vicky,” Corky said. “You know how it is.”
“Well, if you’re looking to let off some of that pressure,” she said, “I’m sure I can help you with that.”
Up close, Erin saw the lines Veronica had tried to hide under the liberal application of cosmetics. According to her file, Veronica was forty-two, a former street hustler turned madam. To Erin’s surprise, Corky seemed a little uncomfortable sitting next to the ex-hooker. He was being friendly, but with none of the flirtiness he usually deployed. Those two had a history.
Carlyle politely acknowledged Liam, who returned the nod and rubbed bloodshot eyes. Carlyle and Veronica scarcely exchanged a look.
The door swung open again, rebounding from the wall. Mickey Connor filled the doorway. Erin had always thought Vic Neshenko was a big guy who worked out a lot. Mickey had two inches and at least forty pounds on Vic. He was, quite simply, the most physically intimidating man Erin had ever seen. His face was heavy-jawed, scarred, unpleasant. He’d put on weight since his boxing days, but under the fat he was still light on his feet. She saw the muscles moving under his tight T-shirt and knew he was every bit as dangerous as Carlyle had said. His pale eyes scanned the room. When he saw Erin, his brows came down.
“So you’re Carlyle’s new pet,” he said with a thick Brooklyn accent.
Erin bristled inwardly, but kept her face impassive. She wasn’t here to pick a fight, particularly not with a man with fists the size of grapefruits.
“Watch yourself, Mickey,” Corky said. “She’s liable to bite.”
Mickey snorted. “What’s it to you, Corcoran? You tapping her, too?”
Corky put his hands on the tabletop. To Erin’s surprise, she saw the tension in his arms and neck. When he spoke, though, he had the same free and easy manner she was accustomed to.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mick. I know you thought I was saving myself for you.”
“Just keep talking,” Mickey said. “Every time I hear your voice, I look forward to shutting you up.”
Corky smiled a cold, midwinter smile. “Any time you want dancing lessons, big fella, I’ll clear my card for you.”
Holy shit, Erin thought. Those two guys absolutely hated one another. She glanced at Carlyle to see how he was taking this. He was watching carefully, but saying nothing.
Mickey paused, considering the much smaller man opposite him. Then he shrugged, as if Corky wasn’t worth the trouble, and sat down next to Liam. A few seconds later, the door opened once more and the last three guests came in. Maggie Callahan was a little, mousy woman who didn’t make eye contact. She immediately sat down next to Carlyle, picked up a deck of cards, and started shuffling. Erin, taking Carlyle’s advice, didn’t pay much attention to her, though she was curious. Maggie was the only person in the room who didn’t have a file with the NYPD.
But Erin didn’t have time to worry about her. Kyle Finnegan and Evan O’Malley had come in together, and they demanded her attention. It would’ve been hard to put two more different men next to one another. Evan was the perfect image of an old-school gangster, from his fresh-shined black shoes to his neatly combed hair. He had eyes like chips of dark blue ice. Finnegan looked more like an out-of-work professor, a little unkempt with an unfocused expression.
“Evening, ladies, lads,” Evan said. “Thank you for coming. I understand we’ve a new arrival among us.”
“Aye,” Carlyle said, standing and, indicating with a slight nod for Erin to follow suit. “This is Erin O’Reilly. You’ve all heard of her.”
Everyone around the table except Maggie nodded.
“Excellent,” Evan said. He didn’t offer to shake hands, but nodded politely. He took his seat to Mickey’s left. Finnegan took the final chair, between his employer and Maggie. Erin and Carlyle resumed their seats. “Are you a card player, Miss O’Reilly?” Evan asked.
Erin remembered what Carlyle had said. Evan’s game had just begun. “I’m not much of a gambler,” she said. “But I know how to play cards. What’s the game?”
“Texas hold ‘em,” Maggie said, looking at the tabletop. She set the cards aside and started counting out piles of chips. “Two thousand dollars, fifty-dollar ante, bets and raises limited to fifty dollars.”
