“Erin, love! Over here!”
“Corky,” she said under her breath. He was at a booth by the window, accompanied by a pair of burly, scruffy-looking guys. James Corcoran waved her over.
She crossed the room. Corky stood up and made room for her next to him. The other two, less gentlemanly, remained seated and gave her an appreciative look.
“Lads, this is Erin O’Reilly,” he said, extending an arm. “She’s in with the toughest gang in the city, the boys in blue. Erin, this is Pat and Goat.”
“Pleased to meet you, boys,” Erin said. She sat down beside Corky, making sure to keep his hands in view. You never could tell with him.
“Well, aren’t you a fine ride,” Goat said with a grin and an Irish accent even thicker than Corky’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, lass. You’re a right feek and no mistake.”
Erin blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Cop on, lad,” Corky said. “Stop being a bloody gobshite.” To Erin, he added, “He’s a jackeen just over from the old country. Even I can’t understand him half the time. If he gives you trouble, just puck him one in the gob.”
“Corky,” she replied, “I don’t know half the words you just used either.”
He grinned. “It’s talking to these lads from back home gets me that way. A jackeen’s a fellow from Dublin.”
“So, you’re one of the Garda, like?” Goat asked. “I tell you, Corks, even the coppers are prettier over here. I bloody love America.”
Pat was looking at Rolf with interest. He offered his hand. Rolf, unimpressed, gave him a cursory sniff and a cool look. The Shepherd settled at Erin’s feet.
“Guinness, love, or something harder?” Corky asked.
“Guinness,” she said. Corky signaled Caitlin, holding up four fingers. Four pints of stout quickly appeared.
“So, what do you lads do?” Erin asked, taking a sip of her drink.
“Dockyards,” Goat said. “Loading the great ships, love. Me and my sham here,” he elbowed Pat, “we’re just over on a visit, seeing where the ships come in. Seems they all come to New York. Say, you sure you’re a Guard? You’re a right deadly beour, and I could stall you for bloody hours.”
“Goat,” Corky said, “those lines don’t even work on a lass who knows what the devil you’re talking about. Over here, you’ve no chance at all. Give it up, lad. You’re embarrassing yourself. Besides, she’s spoken for.”
“American colleens like a bit of Irish,” Goat protested.
Corky smiled. “Well, Erin? Do you like Goat?”
She gave it a minute, playing along, looking him over. Then she cocked an eyebrow and shook her head. Goat wiped away an imaginary tear and took a big gulp of Guinness.
“Carlyle isn’t back yet?” Erin asked Corky.
He shook his head. “He should be here soon. Something you’re needing him for?”
“I ran into a guy earlier this evening, thought he might know him.”
“Who was he?” Corky asked.
“An Italian. Called himself Vincenzo Moreno.”
“Oh, that’d be Vinnie the Oil Man,” Corky said, nodding.
“You know him?”
“Aye, we’ve run into each other time and again.”
“How big a fish is he?”
“You don’t worry about the size of the fish,” Corky said. “You worry about the size of its teeth. The blue whale’s the biggest bloody fish in the ocean, but it’s got no teeth at all and lives on wee shrimps and suchlike.”
“A whale’s not a fish, Corky,” she said.
He waved her objection away. “That’s not the point. Vinnie’s no fish either. He’s a squid.”
“Corky?”
“Aye, love?”
“How drunk are you?”
He gave her a charmingly lopsided smile. “I’ll be much drunker later.”
“How is Vinnie like a squid?”
“You know how they squirt a great cloud of ink on you when you scare them?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s like that. He’s all smooth manners and handshakes, then next thing you know, you’re left with nothing but a black, slimy cloud in the water and he’s gone. That’s why they call him the Oil Man. He’s slippery like you’d not believe.”
“Who’s he work for?”
“Acerbo.”
Erin recognized the name immediately. Vittorio Acerbo was head of the Lucarelli Family, one of the notorious Mafia clans of New York. Acerbo was in prison, had been for two solid decades, but was still nominally in charge of the family. “You mean he works directly for Acerbo, or are there layers?”
Corky shrugged. “You’d have to ask the Italians, love. But we’re not here for business tonight, Erin. I’m here to watch young lasses in skintight Spandex swing their hips on their way down the ski slopes.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
He grinned. “I hope so.” He slipped a hand under the table and squeezed her leg just above the knee.
Erin slapped his hand away. He didn’t mean anything by it. He’d stopped actively trying to seduce her when she’d gotten involved with Carlyle. Now it was just a game, and she knew the rules as well as he did. It was plain Corky didn’t want to talk more about the underworld, particularly in front of the two Irishmen, who were almost certainly smuggling contacts of the O’Malleys. She settled back and watched the skiing instead, trying not to be too impatient.
She was doing her best not to worry about Carlyle, but her heart jumped every time the door opened. Customers came and went. Time passed. She chatted with Corky and his two colleagues about things that didn’t matter. She had a second Guinness.
The door opened yet again, and Carlyle came in. He made his way to the bar, smiling at everyone, clapping a few of his lads on the shoulder as he went, but he looked tired to Erin. She saw the lines around his eyes and the rigidity in his posture. Whatever he’d been talking to O’Malley about, it hadn’t been an easy conversation.
“There’s your lad,” Corky said. “It’s been a rare treat, love. Do try to enjoy the rest of your evening.” He winked.
“I’ll do that,” she said, standing up. “Don’t get in more trouble than usual.”
“No promises.”
Carlyle had already seen Erin. He gave her a small nod. If he was surprised
