The associate, p.6
The Associate, page 6
Conor sat, quiet, while Patrick summarized his conversation with the potential buyer, an entity called The SSG Group. A shell company, Conor guessed. All through his talk, he noticed Mona’s body language. She seemed stiff and distracted, nodding by rote and glancing around the room as though looking for something.
No, Conor thought, maybe someone. His mother gave off paranoid vibes. He then remembered his abbreviated talk with her yesterday, and how neither of his parents wanted Patrick involved with the future of the pub.
“These people came to you directly?” he asked, interrupting Patrick. “How recent was this? And did they come of their own accord, or did you start making phone calls the moment my da collapsed?”
Mona nudged him, looking horrified. “Conor!”
“I’m sorry, Mam, but just last evening you sat with me in the front room and said you promised Da not to involve Patrick in any dealings with the pub. So why is he bringing you bids?” Conor glared at his cousin. “Are you even aware of this?” he asked Patrick, all the while forming another, more urgent question in his head.
Had either of his parents given Patrick power of attorney? No, he thought. That wouldn’t make sense after his talk with Mona last night.
If Patrick was affronted by Mona’s dismissal of his counsel, he hid it as he faced Conor and Mona with a bland expression. “Aunt Mona, I’ve told you before it isn’t necessary for you to shoulder all the responsibility,” he said. “You’re not doing yourself or Uncle Hugh any favors by refusing my help.”
“My parents operated Lonnegan’s for decades without lawyers,” Conor cut in. “Surely they can find a proper buyer without your interference.”
“It’s not that simple, Con.” Patrick shook his head, speaking again to Mona. “You could have asked me to step in before it came to this.”
Mona pinched her eyes shut and her whole face tightened. Conor sensed something off about the conversation. Debts, he guessed, desperate tactics to keep the lights on and the taps running. Conor could only guess that Patrick acted as an intermediary with some bank to liquidate the bar before it was seized.
What a mess if true. Every time Conor had called home and asked about Lonnegan’s, he received the same answer. Everything’s good, busy as always. His parents weren’t the type to fib for the sake of comforting their son, but damned if they were drowning and chose not to throw out a distress signal.
“What’s really going on? What are you two not telling me?” Conor demanded, his glare hard on Patrick. Mona now buried her face in her hands and heaved quiet sobs. He hated secrets, and knowing his parents kept bad news from him boiled his blood. “Out with it, you’re both scaring me.”
Mona sniffed, wiping away her tears. “Con, we never wanted you to find out,” she said. “We didn’t think it would get so out of hand.” She touched Conor’s wrist—he felt the moisture. “Your father’s health problems have been going on for a while, longer than we’ve let on. Our savings took a fair hit as a result.”
“So, what? You took out another mortgage on the house, or the pub building?” Conor asked. He aimed his glare at Patrick, seething. “I know we’re not close, but I’m not inaccessible. You didn’t think to loop me in on my own father’s failing health?”
Patrick turned up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I’m just learning this part of the story myself. To answer your other questions, I haven’t gone behind Aunt Mona’s back looking for buyers. The SSG people contacted me through their lawyer on this offer.” He shoved papers at Conor, who held them away from Mona when she attempted to intercept.
“Why do I get the feeling these ‘SSG people’ aren’t reputable businessmen?” He brought out his phone. “If I search them, what am I going to find?”
“Nothing, I imagine,” Patrick said. He glanced at Mona, who widened her eyes in an obvious silent beg to stay quiet, and defied her. “Salvatore San Gaetano. That name will yield all the info you need.”
Conor let his phone fall asleep. Nice, a predatory land developer. “Whoever he is, the offer is laughable,” Conor said on seeing the low-balled number blaring out in bold black ink like an insult. How disgusting to take advantage of a grieving, vulnerable woman. “I may not live here, but I know the property is worth way more than that. Tell him to fuck off.”
Mona gave a low wail and bolted from her chair. She excused herself and left the dining room, and Patrick grabbed for Conor as he tried to go after her.
“Con, you have to listen,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “You don’t want to mess with the San Gaetanos. They’re a…” Patrick paused, showing his stress. “Damn it, Con, we’re talking about the mob.”
“What?” Conor pulled away from Patrick’s touch, as though stung. How in the hell had his parents gotten tangled in Mafia dealings? Surely they hadn’t gone to some loan shark to cover Hugh’s medical bills.
He listened as Patrick laid out the Malloys’ predicament. “There’s always been a mob presence in the city, Con. You were probably too young or naive to see it. A number of businesses here are fronts. Not Lonnegan’s, of course, but like any other hard-working business owner, your father was paying protection fees.”
“Christ,” Conor muttered. Memories of his summers bussing tables resurfaced, this time with special attention paid to details that once seemed innocuous. Burly men, neither regular customers nor familiar vendors, would saunter into Lonnegan’s. Hugh would disappear in the back with them for a minute or so, then return to business as usual. Conor never asked about those exchanges because, in all truth, he’d focused more on his plans for the tips and wages.
“Their lawyer advised me that Uncle Hugh had fallen behind on the payment schedule,” Patrick was saying. “I’ve no doubt what’s put him in hospice is a result of the stress he’s carried because of it, compounded with his health issues.” He brought his fist down on the table. “His damned Irish pride.”
“Right.” It angered Conor that his parents felt obliged to succumb to bribery to protect their livelihood and their clientele, more so that the San Gaetanos showed no sympathy for an ailing man. They may as well have killed his da. “This farce of an offer is meant to forgive the debt, then?” he asked. “Why offer any money at all? Why not send some goon over and force my parents to sign over the building outright?”
Patrick took the paperwork. “A gesture of good faith, I imagine. They know your father’s in home hospice, Con. This money’s for your mother, for when he dies. It shows they’re not entirely heartless.”
Some gesture. Assuming there were no further debts on the home, Mona would retire and claim her Social Security. With the mob’s pittance and nothing else of value to sell, she’d still struggle.
“Con,” Patrick said, drawing his attention. “Don’t be mad at them. The mob, they lean on everybody here.”
“And they get away with it.” Conor fumed. “Has nobody called the police?”
Patrick sputtered out a laugh. “You are naive, huh? They have enough officers in their pocket. Why waste energy?”
Of fucking course. “They expecting an answer today?” Conor asked.
“Soon as I’m done here.”
Conor scraped his chair backward, standing. “I want you to do two things for me, Pat,” he said. “First, you tell Mr. San Gaetano no deal. How much money do my parents owe, did they say?”
Patrick, his face paled, shuffled through the paperwork with shaking fingers. Conor hated that he planted the responsibility of messenger on his cousin, and he figured his mam had excluded him to protect Tess and the kids. “You can tell them this is all my doing,” he added.
“The total’s right here,” Patrick said.
Conor took the paper from him, his head throbbing at the number.
“Next,” he told Patrick, “I want you to help me get power of attorney over my parents. Call me when you have it figured out. Mam will give you my number.” He dropped the paper and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” His cousin sounded weak. “Con, please act reasonably. Your parents need you. These people…they aren’t ones to mess around.”
Well, his parents had him, for as long as it took to dig them out of this mess. Ireland and his job could wait. Conor twisted to regard Patrick. “I’m off to get Da’s keys,” he said. “I have to open the pub. You tell the San Gaetano mob once I’ve earned the back protection payments, then we can talk sale for what the pub is actually worth.”
Chapter Five
The common wall separating Gio’s apartment from the outside hallway vibrated, rousing him from the couch. He’d landed there upon his return from JT’s, too exhausted to walk the dozen or so steps to his bedroom. Better to pass out in post-orgasmic bliss on his sectional with the memory of Conor Jacob’s plush lips pursed around his cock fresh enough to carry into his dreams.
We should have fucked, Gio thought, mourning the missed opportunity. He tested twice a year to negative results, and he had an inkling Conor would have barebacked him if persuaded. At the very least, Gio regretted letting Conor leave before he could sample the Irishman’s peachy ass. Oh, how they filled out the man’s jeans. Several JT’s regulars had noticed, for certain.
Gio envisioned Conor on a plane to Dublin, if not now then soon, reclined in a tight seat with a goofy-ass grin creasing his face.
“Gio, svegliati!” Pound, pound, pound. Vic must be using both fists, Gio realized. “Open the damned door already!”
“In a second!”
The heavy knocking fell quiet, but the noise didn’t cease. Through the thin walls surrounding him, Gio heard a dog’s barks, a child’s cry, and a few muted adult voices all chorusing their disapproval at the unwanted alarm. Gio sat up and waited for his equilibrium to settle before admitting Vic into his home. While no stranger to summonses at odd hours, weekends were usually quiet for the family. It made sense for Vic to take out his frustration on Gio’s door.
He swung it open just as Vic aimed the heel of his hand for another round. Gio groused at him. “So who needs whacking at what-the-fuck o’clock?” he demanded.
“What do you mean? It’s after ten.” Vic shouldered past and hovered in Gio’s space. “You’re not answering your phone. Aldo called me to make sure you weren’t dead.”
“Far from it.” Gio scanned every surface of his compact living room, from the far arm of the couch to the pass-through counter leading to the galley kitchen in search of his phone. He suspected it might still be in his car, but Vic seemed to read his mind.
“I looked through the windows and didn’t see it,” Vic said as Gio lifted the couch cushions. “You still got yesterday’s clothes on. Did you just come home and crash?”
Gio snatched his phone, tucked into a crevice, and discovered several missed calls from the same number. Shit. “Pretty much,” he said. Friday night, and Conor, remained his business alone. “I took some of that, what do you call it, the cold medicine that makes you sleep. Knocked me the fuck out.” He side-eyed Vic, thinking he could say pretty much anything and the dimwit wouldn’t question him.
“Was the call urgent?” he asked Vic. Aldo never left voicemails, or texts. Even mobile calls posed a risk. If Aldo was reaching out to him now, Gio knew he’d eventually have to check in at the Bertinelli homestead. He wanted a shower and change first. Vic’s body language, to Gio’s relief, suggested there was time.
“Get your ass to Aldo’s, is all he said.” Hunching his shoulders, Vic loped over to the couch and flopped down in the middle. Gio read the move loud and clear—Aldo had poked Vic to poke Gio, not necessarily to bring him back. A weight settled in his chest. Whatever was about to go down involved more than collecting protection fees in Chinese takeaway containers.
Gio mumbled that he wanted to wash off last night. Vic uttered a “sure” and switched on the TV.
Stepping under the warm, eye-opening spray, Gio soaped up his chest and abs and considered the possibilities. He’d performed guard duty in the past for his capo and other higher-ups. Why anybody needed him on a Saturday baffled him, however. He then remembered the ten bucks he’d passed on to young Aggie last night. Maybe Gloria and the girls planned a shopping trip and Aldo insisted on an escort. How about Gio?
Gio took his time in toweling off and selecting fresh clothes. All the while, he pondered the third possibility. Since joining the family, Gio had knocked around the occasional deadbeat loanee but his kill tally stayed at zero. The mall chauffeur scenario seemed most likely, but what if Aldo wanted to meet with him about a sanctioned hit?
He dressed nice to suit any task given him today—cream-colored polo, dark-gray trousers and matching blazer. It was important to make up for last night’s too-casual appearance before the don. For this trip, he used his shoulder holster, which the suit coat hid well.
“You mind if I hang here for a while?” Vic asked as he hunted for his keys. Sometime during his shower, Vic had raided Gio’s kitchen. His friend pulled long on a beer bottle, and wedged a bag of chips between his thighs. “I got nowhere to be, and if I go home Ma will find something for me to fix or force me to run errands or some bullshit. I need a break.”
Whatever. Plenty of places for Vic to go to escape responsibility, but Gio wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Lock it up when you go, and leave no trace.” Gio pointed to the chips and left. His luck if Vic didn’t empty his pantry altogether today.
Gio lucked out with a spot in front of the Bertinellis’ house. Aldo ushered him straight into the den, unsmiling and uninterested in small talk. “Gloria took the kids bowling,” he said, gruff. Gio nodded, understanding the context. Aldo got the family out of the house to talk some serious business. The air surrounding them grew heavy along with the holstered gun pressed to Gio’s side. The idea that he might use it today sent his pulse racing.
“The Malloys’ lawyer reached out to us earlier this morning. Their son intends to manage the pub on his own.” Aldo twined his fingers. “He turned down the don’s generous offer. Not a wise move but, as I understand it, he’s not from around here.”
Gio stayed quiet. Better to listen than blurt out the obvious and earn a withering glance. The son—Malloy, Junior or whatever he called himself—was either holding out for a better price or intended to pay back his father’s debts. Once Salvatore San Gaetano decided upon a course of action to benefit the family, nobody underneath him—much less an outsider—questioned the choices.
“What’s my job here?” Gio asked.
Aldo tilted his head and shrugged. “Pay the man a visit. Convince him that it’s in his best interest to sell to the family.” He nodded at the slight warping of Gio’s blazer which clued him into the gun’s presence. “If you have to get rough with him, fine, especially if he strikes first. Don’t kill him.”
Gio gave his silent assurance of that. Inwardly, he relaxed. This was a test, of course. The higher-ups wanted proof of Gio’s negotiation skills and sparing his trigger finger. An effective member of the family asserted authority through persuasive tactics. Some resorted to physical harm and worse when necessary, but killing for the sake of killing attracted attention. Cooperation with law enforcement on the take only went so far.
“Patrick Keagan, that’s the Malloys’ nephew, says the kid’s opening Lonnegan’s today.” He huffed out a mirthless laugh. “More power to him. I heard Malloy’s people ain’t coming back to work after the old man dropped.”
“They knew the score,” Gio said. Shame, though. For his lack of experience in running a bar, he would have welcomed an established staff. “Maybe that’ll work in our favor. Junior gets so overwhelmed that he takes the deal.”
He stood and Aldo followed. They shook hands and the older man smiled. “I’ll leave it to you to tip the scale in our favor,” he said, then turned serious. Gio saw the implications in Aldo’s eyes—if he accomplished this task, he earned his sponsorship.
Made within the month. Sweet.
* * * *
Conor first reached out to Deb, Da’s waitress, through the pub’s landline. Previous calls from his mobile rang to a dead end, and Conor soon realized the woman was screening incoming IDs. He guessed she saw the long string of numbers and assumed some cold caller hoped to scam her out of her bank routing number.
When she didn’t answer from the pub phone, same as Brian when Conor tried him, Conor’s suspicions steered toward darker thoughts. He wanted to believe the waitress and the bartender had left town for separate vacations, visiting distant relatives or fulfilling bucket list trips before returning to either new management or Hugh Malloy’s funeral. He feared the same mobsters who’d spent decades fleecing Lonnegan’s out of hard-earned profits had bumped off those dear people as a warning to Conor’s parents. Pay up, play ball, or else. When it occurred to check their social profiles, Conor was relieved to see both had posted public messages in the last twenty-four hours. He left comments on their feeds to contact him at their earliest convenience.
“All in vain, Con,” he murmured to himself. Perhaps it was best that Deb and Brian stayed away. Their absence equated to their safety. Besides, if they came for their usual shifts Conor would have to pay them, and he needed every cent of profit to pay off what his da owed the mob.
Owed. Heh. Extortion, that was the correct word in this case. Whether the bad guys barreled through the front door of Lonnegan’s in ski masks or strode in wearing sharkskin suits and toting briefcases, they gave off the same stench. Glorified thugs, and they had no right coming for two elderly people whose only dream was to share their Irish heritage and hospitality with their adopted community.
Conor performed the opening procedures by memory. He expected to forget a few minor details, but he was grateful his father hadn’t upgraded his trusty cash register to some online-driven point of sale system that required passwords to access. If the pub filled to maximum capacity today—fingers crossed—he’d ask people to come up to the bar to order.
