With a Twist (29 page)

“I’m sure he’s
on his way,
cherie
. You’ve said he tends to be late.”

Natalie put her best smile on as she tried to believe Vi-vi’s assurance. All around her, people were having a great time at her surprise party. All the regulars were there: Mrs. Colgan, PJ, and Joey. Quinn’s sister, Maggie, was there, too, with her husband Brendan. Quinn’s sister Sinead was tied up at her office, but she’d sent her apologies with Maggie. Even Anthony and his sister-in-law Theresa were there. Michael Dante had a hockey game but said he’d try to stop by afterward.

It seemed like everyone was there but Quinn.

She never suspected a surprise party. She and Vivi were going shopping for her bridesmaid’s dress in the city. When Vivi expressed curiosity about visiting the Wild Hart since she’d never been there, Natalie decided there would be no harm in bringing her over.

She’d nearly leapt out of her skin with shock when she walked through the door of the Hart and heard the loud, enthusiastic shouts of “Surprise!” Above the bar hung a hand-painted banner that said, “Happy Birthday, Natalie!” She quickly scanned the cluster of faces gathered in front of her. No Quinn. Maybe Vivi was right. Maybe he was just running late. But Natalie couldn’t help but notice Quinn’s mother glancing at her watch every ten minutes.

Her first thought when she’d walked through the door was that the party was Quinn’s idea, but it wasn’t. She soon realized it was all Quinn’s mother’s doing. At first Natalie was incredulous. Then she understood it was Quinn’s mother’s way of showing her that she was now part of the family. That meant more to her than any gift. When she went to thank Quinn’s mother, she found herself crying tears of happiness.

Natalie chatted with her sister for a bit before Vivi moved off to talk to Quinn’s mother (about cooking, no doubt), and Anthony took her place, nodding approvingly as he looked around the pub. “Nice place. Not as small as it looks from the outside. The dining room goes far back.”

“Yes.”

“They play Irish music here?”

“All the time.”

Anthony screwed up his face. “Too maudlin for me. All those songs about ghosts and the pipes calling and lovers away over the sea leaving the other one behind to dig potatoes and all that crap. I can’t stand it.”

“Oh, and songs about the moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie are better?” Natalie challenged.

“Hey, watch it,” Anthony warned, playfully wagging his index finger at her. “That’s my heritage you’re talking about there.”

“Yes, well, Irish music is their heritage. I don’t mind the harp music. Up front in the bar, they play more rock music. U2 and things like that.”

“I bet. They don’t want everyone crying into their beers.” He leaned in to her confidentially. “Just so you know,” he murmured, “I told Vivi she didn’t need anyone to stand up for her but you.
And
she picked out the flowers.
And
the invitations. And where we’re going on our honeymoon.”

“Yes, she told me when we were shopping. She’s very happy. She’s especially thrilled about going to Hawaii.”

“Yeah, me, too. I’ve never been. That’s where Mikey went on his honeymoon. He said it’s fantastic.”

Anthony moved off to talk to Quinn’s father, giving PJ the opening to come up over to Natalie to give her a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek. They were only an hour into the celebrations, and he was already drunk. “Marry me,” he slurred.

“Can’t. I’ve already got a boyfriend.”

PJ looked around. “Don’t see him here.”

“He’s running a little late,” Natalie said with a weak smile.

She was relieved when PJ staggered away, but the relief evaporated when Joey Evans immediately came to take his place. She was beginning to feel like a queen receiving visitors at court. “Birthdays are milestones,” he began solemnly. “They are a way for us to measure the progress of our lives. A means for every man and woman to—”

“Can you please not run your mouth for one day? Just one?”

Natalie peered past Joey’s shoulder, relieved, as Liam approached. Joey looked offended. “I was merely trying to offer young Natalie here some important advice.”

“She doesn’t need advice, Joey,” said Liam. “She needs to have a good time. Why don’t you go join Mrs. Colgan at the bar? She’s crying over Rudy again.”

Natalie glanced with trepidation in the direction of the bar. Mrs. Colgan was cradling the urn holding the dead parrot’s ashes.

Flashing Liam a dirty look, Joey went to the bar to console his friend.

Liam leaned over and kissed her cheek, touching Natalie immensely. “He’ll be here.”

Natalie felt a lump form in her throat.

“He’ll be here,” Liam repeated. “I talked to him yesterday. He’ll be here.”

“Yes, I know. It’s just hard sometimes.” She scoured Liam’s face with concern. “Are you feeling better? Your mother said you were sick last night, and that’s why you missed work.”

“I’m fine,” Liam replied somewhat gruffly. “Just a little twenty-four-hour bug.” He changed the subject. “You got some nice presents.”

“Very nice,” Natalie agreed.

It was odd: she’d found it hard being the center of attention as she opened them, feeling like she didn’t deserve them somehow. Vivi had given her a beautiful brocade blazer, while Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien had given her a gorgeous midnight blue shawl from Ireland. Maggie gave her a gift certificate for a massage, while Liam gave her a pair of dangly silver earrings she was certain Maggie had picked out. The regulars had pooled their resources and given her a hideous fluorescent pink scarf.

She mingled and chatted, all the while feigning happiness while trying not to watch the door.

It never opened, because Quinn never showed up.

29

Quinn knew he
was cutting it close, but he had thought he’d make Nat’s surprise party in the nick of time. He’d been at the
Sent
a bit longer than he’d planned, finishing up a piece on a shooting spree that had taken place in Harlem in the early morning hours. Six people had been killed, three wounded. It was believed the shooter was a twenty-three-year-old man taking revenge for being beaten up the day before. After visiting the crime scene, Quinn had spoken to the three survivors in the hospital before heading down to Police Plaza to see if there were any final details. He hated stories that involved people winding up dead. Still, something like this was better than a story involving a child being tortured or beaten.

He was hustling down Forty-third Street when a black limo pulled up beside him. The black-tinted back window rolled down, and a man with a giant head and ruddy face poked his head out.
“Get in.”

Quinn just laughed. “Kiss my Irish ass,” he said as he continued walking. Seconds later, he heard the car door open, and a big, beefy hand gripped his shoulder. “Whitey Connors wants to talk to you,” said Ruddy Face. “Get in the fucking car.”

Quinn halted, glancing down at his watch. Shit . . . the party . . . but Whitey wanting to talk to him . . . this was a reporter’s dream. Maybe he wouldn’t be there long. He might be
late
to the party, but at least he’d get there. Natalie knew how important this article was to him; she’d understand. The limo sat there idling, Ruddy Face glaring down at him in what Quinn assumed was supposed to be an expression of intimidation. Too bad it had no effect on him.

He followed Ruddy Face back to the limo, sliding into the plush leather backseat. Natalie would understand, he told himself again. Ruddy Face blindfolded him as the limo slowly pulled away from the curb.

The ride took about half an hour, with Quinn the only one talking. “How you guys doin’?” he cheerily asked Ruddy Face and the driver. “Enjoying this beautiful Sunday?” He couldn’t help himself. The whole situation seemed absurd, as though he were guest starring in an episode of
The Sopranos
. Neither man responded.

When they finally guided him out of the car and took off his blindfold, Quinn found himself inside a dark, shabby bar, almost a seedy version of the Hart. There were tattered posters of Ireland scattered on the walls, and a huge Irish flag hung behind the bar. Quinn could have done without the shamrock and leprechaun lights strung from the ceiling, but to each his tacky own.

Ruddy Face locked the door behind them, his expression deadly serious. Quinn stifled a laugh, wondering if he was supposed to be scared. He wasn’t. He was excited. A one-on-one chat with Whitey Connors.

Predictably, Whitey sat waiting for him at a back table, the farthest from the door. Were Whitey Italian, Quinn was certain he would be sipping from a tiny cup of espresso. Instead, he had what looked to be a regular cup of coffee in front of him.

As always, Whitey was impeccably dressed in a dapper suit and tie, his gleaming white hair brushed back off his pale, craggy face. Quinn started toward him but was stopped by Ruddy Face and another man who had quickly slipped out from behind the bar. Quinn recognized him from around the neighborhood: Mickey “Shoes” McCourt, so nicknamed because of his passion for expensive, handmade Italian shoes. Quinn glanced down at Mickey’s feet: they were shod in alligator loafers polished to a high sheen. They had to cost a mint.

“Hold up your arms,” Mickey commanded.

“What?” Quinn was momentarily confused. But when Mickey began patting him down, Quinn couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You think I walk around with a gun? I’m a reporter, for chrissakes.”

“We still have to check.”

When Mickey was through, he told Quinn to hand over his backpack. He rifled through it, pulling out his digital voice recorder. Fuck. Hopefully the idiot wouldn’t think to listen to it. As far as Quinn knew, his chat with Carmine Porco was still on it.

Mickey pocketed the voice recorder and demanded that Quinn hand over his cell phone as well, which he turned off. “Go on.” He jerked his head in Whitey’s direction. “And don’t worry; you can have your toys back when you’re done.”

Quinn surreptitiously checked his watch. Natalie’s party must have started by now. He tried to imagine what her expression was when she walked in and everyone shouted, “Surprise!” He wished he were there to see it. He wondered what she made of his not being there. She was probably hurt. Or furious. Or both. He didn’t even want to think about how his mother had to be reacting to his absence.

“Quinn O’Brien. Good to see you again.” Whitey, as polite as ever, rose to shake Quinn’s hand. Quinn noticed he was wearing a gold Claddagh ring with a ruby heart in the middle in addition to a simple gold wedding band. Quinn knew nothing about his missus—nothing at all, really, about Whitey’s personal life, apart from the fact that he supposedly lived in a pretty plush mansion on Long Island’s North Shore. Obviously the “customer” whose stuff Liam and Tommy moved was part of Whitey’s circle. It pained Quinn to think that right up until Tommy screwed him, Liam still trusted his friend, holding on to the belief that somewhere deep within Tommy there existed a shred of decency. Stupid Irish loyalty, Quinn thought. He really felt for his brother.

Whitey gestured at the chair across from him. “Sit. Please.”

Quinn sat.

“You’re looking well,” Whitey observed.

“I’m feeling well. You?”

“Fit as a fiddle. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t be here long enough to drink a cup of coffee.”

“You might, you might not. Why don’t you let Mickey make you an Irish coffee?”

“Fine.”

Whitey barked out his order, Mickey delivered the coffee, and then Whitey began to make small talk—lots of it. Quinn soon realized that Whitey was dragging things out on purpose, showing him he was the one controlling things after Quinn’s comment about not wanting to be here long. Quinn had no choice but to go along with it. It wasn’t as if he could say, “Could you cut to the chase?” though he was tempted. Tempted but not stupid. A memory flashed through his mind of his mother once warning him, “That mouth of yours will get you in trouble one day.” It already had on numerous occasions, but this wasn’t going to be one of them.

“So.” Whitey splayed his veiny hands on the nicked wooden table in front of him. “I hear you’ve been asking a lot of questions around the neighborhood.” His tone was amused, almost nonchalant.

“That’s right.”

“Just out of curiosity, what are you hoping to find?”

Quinn smiled enigmatically. “The one big story behind the little stories.”

“And what stories would those be?”

“You know: the beatings, the torchings, the building renovations by the Shields Brothers . . .”

Whitey chuckled derisively as he withdrew his hands, his expression thoughtful as he raised his coffee cup to his lips. “And you think they’re all connected somehow, do you?”

Quinn’s gaze pinned his. “I know they are.”

“Hmm.” Whitey’s thoughtful expression turned unsmiling. “Son, take a word of advice from me: this will lead to no good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes people, good people, get caught up in webs they don’t understand and can’t control. It’s always been that way. It’ll always be that way. Sometimes other people, who think they’re doing their jobs, overreact, trying to impress. Often, it’s best to let those who understand what’s going on handle things.”

“Can you be a bit more specific?” Quinn pressed.

“If things progress the way they should, those who’ve been harmed by excessive zeal will find recompense.”

Christ, Quinn thought, he talks like a cross between Yoda and a leprechaun.

Whitey cocked his head inquisitively, his smile reptilian. “Tell your brother that I’m grateful he hasn’t kicked Tommy Dolan’s ass. They’re both good boys, and no one wants to see them have any troubles.”

Whitey was staring at him, waiting for a reaction to his comment about Liam, but there was no way in hell Quinn was going to give him one. It took every ounce of self-control Quinn possessed not to lean across the table, grab the old bastard by his turkey-wattled throat, and throttle him.
You hurt my brother and you die,
he wanted to growl.
Instead, he just stared Whitey down.

Whitey’s smile broadened, and he stood. “I know you said you were under some time pressure, but please, feel free to stay until you’ve finished your coffee. Give my best to your ma and da.” He squeezed Quinn’s shoulder on his way out the door.

Quinn tilted his head back, finished his coffee, and then went over to Mickey, who was watching him like a hawk from behind the bar.

“Give me my fuckin’ voice recorder. And my phone.”

“Of course.” Mickey was a study in politeness as he handed both over to Quinn. Then he pulled out the silk scarf that had been used to blindfold Quinn. “Time to go home now.”

Quinn rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be blindfolded and led back to the limo by Ruddy Face, whose name, apparently was Dennis.

“Where we taking you?” Dennis grunted.

“The Wild Hart. I need to get there fast.”

The driver sniggered. “You get there when you get there.
Right, Dennis?”

“Oh yeah. In fact, I feel like driving around a bit.”

“Me, too. Nice day for a drive.”

Shit, thought Quinn. What kind of a moron tells mob guys what to do? He knew now that by the time they delivered him to the Hart, Natalie’s party would be over. Maybe she’d still be there, upstairs with his parents. He just hoped she’d forgive him.
Again.