Corky’s habitual smile had vanished. “You bloody gobshite,” he spat. “Your mum didn’t teach you manners, so I guess I have to.”
Carlyle put up a hand. “Easy, Corks. This isn’t your affair.”
Corky smiled again, but no one would have confused it with a friendly expression. “Is this a private fight, then? Because I’m perfectly willing to pitch in.”
“Anytime, pencil-dick,” Mickey growled. He levered himself to his feet.
Several things happened simultaneously. Carlyle and Evan both started to speak. Veronica settled back in her chair and licked her lips, an expression of anticipation on her face. Erin dropped a hand toward her ankle holster.
Corky moved faster than any of them. Erin knew he had incredible reflexes. She’d seen him snatch a falling beer-glass out of midair, and interrupt a bomb between trigger and detonation, so she should’ve been expecting it, but she still didn’t see his hand move. One moment he was seated across the table from Mickey. The next instant, a knife was quivering in the green baize tabletop, the blade planted squarely between the third and fourth fingers of Mickey’s right hand. Corky was standing now.
“Still fancy your chances, big fella?” Corky asked.
“Nice trick,” Mickey said. He plucked the blade out of the table with his left hand. “Except now I’ve got your knife.”
Corky chuckled. “You really think I only brought the one?”
“That’s enough, Mr. Connor, Mr. Corcoran,” Evan said quietly.
Mickey slipped his right hand into his pocket. His fingers curled around something. Erin tensed and got ready to pull her piece.
“I said, that’s enough, both of you,” Evan repeated, ice in his voice. “We’re not having this.”
Mickey scowled. “Sure,” he grumbled and resumed his seat. Corky held out his hands in a gesture indicating he’d never wanted trouble.
“I apologize, Miss O’Reilly,” Evan said. “Mr. Connor was out of line. He forgot his manners. It won’t happen again, I’m certain.”
Erin fought the urge to moisten her dry lips. She met Evan’s eyes and saw no softness at all. It was purely practical considerations that had made him intervene. Otherwise, he’d have happily watched the two men kill each other.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“And I’ll be having my blade back,” Corky said to Mickey.
Mickey looked down at his left hand. “You want your blade?” He took his other hand out of his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the blade. He flexed, without apparent effort. There was a sharp, metallic snapping sound. He tossed the blade, minus its handle, across the table. “There ya go.”
“That’s a thousand-dollar knife,” Corky said, but he grinned while he said it. “I guess I’ve no choice now but to take all your chips by way of compensation. Fortunately, I’d already planned to do that. I think it’s my bet, Maggie?”
Maggie hadn’t participated in the confrontation at all. She gave Corky a slight nod, her eyes very large and alarmed.
“Then I’ll raise the full fifty,” Corky said.
And just like that, the game went on, as if nothing had happened. Erin took a gulp of her beer and wished she’d ordered something stronger. It looked like being a long evening.
* * *
Corky was true to his word. He buckled down to the serious business of cleaning out Mickey’s chips. He did it methodically and competently, so much so that Erin wondered just how good a gambler the Irishman could be if he put his mind to it. Inside half an hour, Mickey’s last chip went into the pot, which Corky won with three jacks. Mickey scowled, but didn’t say anything. Apparently he’d decided not to pick any more fights that night. He didn’t leave, but pushed his chair back against the wall and concentrated on drinking Carlyle’s good top-shelf whiskey and glaring.
Erin’s luck ran out soon after, most of her chips winding up as part of Finnegan’s stack, or as collateral damage in Corky’s crusade.
“I guess I’m out,” she said ruefully.
“You put up a good show,” Carlyle said with a smile. “My first game with these lads, I lost my shirt inside of an hour.”
“I don’t remember my first game,” Corky said. “I’d rather a lot to drink, I suppose. Found myself riding the subway to Brooklyn with empty pockets and a sore head.”
“He won,” Carlyle said to Erin in an undertone. “And he was reasonably sober when he left the game. What he did after that, I’ve no idea.”
Erin was actually glad to be out of the game. It let her watch the others more closely. She noticed something interesting. Evan O’Malley somehow managed to neither win nor lose big. His chip total hovered around the starting two thousand dollars, no matter what. He didn’t even seem to be trying very hard. His cold blue eyes roved around the room, never resting very long on any single person, but she was sure he was aware of everything that was happening.
Mickey was watching Erin, and she didn’t like it. She was used to being eyeballed by sleazy thugs. It came with wearing the shield and being a woman. But the way he was looking at her was more than simple male lust. She saw anger, bordering on hate. She could feel the man’s barely-contained violence. She tried to keep acting the part of a lovestruck woman, paying most of her attention to Carlyle, but it was hard with that vicious presence on the other side of the table. What she really wanted to do was pull out her ankle gun and slap cuffs on him. If her handcuffs would even fit around those enormous wrists.
“I think that’s enough for one night,” Evan finally said at eleven. The game wasn’t over; Veronica was hanging on to a couple hundred bucks, and Finnegan was basically broke. Evan had his starting two thousand, plus an extra fifty. Carlyle had more than doubled his stake, and Corky had everything else.
“Good night for you, Corks,” Carlyle observed.
“Night’s not over,” Corky said with a grin. “We’ll see if my luck lasts till morning.”
The various O’Malleys were getting
