Chasing River

“I’m sorry this is happening to you, but you need to go to the gardai.” As much as I hate saying that. But Francis is good people. They generally try to help good people. They didn’t do much to help us the year some ballsy thugs broke into Delaney’s at night and stole cash. It was a lot of cash, too. We usually make several deposits each week, always in the mornings. But on that particular day, I didn’t have a chance and figured it would be fine locked in the safe for one more night. Gardai never figured out who did it; the two bastards who came to take my statement even suggested it might be a scam on my part.

“That’s what Cheryl wants to do. But they said they’d break all our legs if any gardai show up at their doorstep with questions. What am I supposed to do?” His shoulders hang. “I can’t believe it’s come to this. See ya, River.”

“Yeah. See ya.” I watch him shuffle away with a deep frown on my forehead, my spirits dampened. Forget Jimmy . . . if Aengus has anything to do with this, I’ll have him put back behind bars myself.

But even as I think that, I know I won’t. Besides, Aengus doesn’t have any republican tattoos on his stomach or scars across his forehead. And Francis knows Aengus. When we were little and visited our nanny on weekends, we’d sit on the front steps of Francis’s nearby store, stuffing our faces with chips.

“River!” Rowen catches my attention and I think he’s about to give me grief for slowing down. But he only juts his chin toward the other side of the bar.

To where the devil himself stands, filling a pint.

“Well, fuck,” I mutter as I pass Rowen. I knew it was only a matter of time.

“Aengus.”

He drains a third of his pint before setting it down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “How’s your back?”

The longtime regulars know enough about our family and the black sheep son to be watching closely. They’re probably bracing for a brawl. No doubt it would be an ugly one, as most of ours tend to get these days. “Grand,” I force through gritted teeth, grabbing an order for Nuala. “You know you’re not supposed to be helping yourself to the taps.”

He snorts. “What are you gonna do, throw me out?”

“Da didn’t say you couldn’t come in.” Though if he knew what happened at the Green, I’m sure the ban would extend to Delaney’s as a whole. “So why don’t you grab a seat and I’ll bring it to you.”

He pulls his shoulders back and takes a step forward, until his chest is nearly butting against mine. “And what happens when Da’s in the ground? You think you’re gonna run things?”

The smell of beer on his breath tells me that Aengus has been sitting in a hole somewhere, drinking all day, and as much as I want to punch him in the face for talking about our dad being dead, or enlighten him to the fact that our parents had a will drawn up that specifically leaves the pub to me—against the Delaney tradition that the eldest gets proprietary rights—now’s not the time to get ballsy with him. “We’re just trying to work here. It’s busy. Grab a stool. In fact, here . . .” I reach down and take the one and only stool tucked away behind the bar and bring it around to the side. “Look at that. One just became available.”

After a long moment, Aengus relents, dropping onto the stool and pulling out his phone. “Don’t push him. His fuse is short,” I warn Rowen as we pass each other and get back to work, hoping that’s the end of trouble with our big brother for the night.

But when Jimmy Conlon strolls through our front door, I know that isn’t the case.

I watch with disdain as he weaves through the crowd with the arrogance of a guy unafraid of anything. Like there isn’t a warrant out for his arrest and a hit on his head right now.

To any unsuspecting person, he’s just a regular coming in for a pint. He’s average looking, with a few more gray hairs peppering the black since the last time I saw him. His nose hasn’t straightened out any. In fact I think it bends slightly more to the right now. I’m sure whoever hit him was left in worse-off shape. Jimmy may be short, but he’s built like an ox.

What the fuck is he doing in here? Aengus knows better. I would think Jimmy does, too. I’m not the only one who recognizes Jimmy around here. Several wary eyes, keen on the city’s politics and known criminals, trail him as he approaches Aengus. With a glance over his shoulder and a few quick words, Aengus climbs off his stool and rounds the bar, heading through the kitchen door that leads to the office without hesitation. Jimmy follows as if he owns the place, catching my glare and tossing a salute back.

A vice latches onto my forearm. “Why the fuck is he here?” Rowen mutters. He knows who Jimmy is.

“I don’t know. Just keep pouring. And don’t say a word to Da.” This is exactly the kind of news that will give him another heart attack.

I last all of five minutes out front, and then my Irish blood is boiling in my ears and I decide I’ve given those assholes more than enough time back there. While I don’t think Aengus would steal from us, I’m relieved that Rowen emptied the safe yesterday morning.

It takes everything in me to bang on the door three times by way of announcement before throwing it open. Jimmy sits in the office chair like he belongs there, while Aengus paces the cramped space like a caged bear.

“Bring a pint for Jimmy,” Aengus demands.

I ignore him. “Time to go. You know this place gets watched. I figure you’ve got,” I glance at my watch, “twenty minutes before gardai start sniffing around.”

“You sound like you’re expecting them,” Jimmy says in that calm, too soft voice that always sends chills down my spine.

I level a warning glare at Aengus. “Never can tell when someone will ring them.”

Aengus isn’t smart but he hears my threat—though empty—loud and clear. He kicks a box of coasters out of his way, reaching out to throttle me.

“Aengus, enough!” Jimmy snaps, and my brother freezes, though his stance stays rigid. “Have they come around in the last three days, River?”

He means, since the bombing happened. My eyes lock on my brother. Did he tell Jimmy I was there? That I know what happened? That I’m the Irish “jogger” who the gardai could connect to the crime, who could tie Aengus—and possibly, Jimmy—to it, should I want to avoid jail time? Because I wouldn’t put it past a guy like Jimmy to put a bullet in my head, just to make sure I don’t have a chance to talk. “No. They haven’t.”

“That’s good.” Jimmy twirls a pen between his fingers, his attention somewhere beyond the palpable tension in this cramped office. Scribbling a number down on a piece of paper, he pats it twice. “You’ll ring me here if they do?”

“Aengus will be the first to know.” And I’ll burn that number the second this cocksucker is gone.

“Cheers, brothers.” He exits the office quietly. I watch his back until it disappears through the door in the rear, and then I kick our office door shut and shove Aengus into the wall with all my strength.

Even though I’m ready for the blowback, I’m not strong enough to withstand it. Aengus sends me flying into the filing cabinet, the corner of it jamming perfectly against the wound in my lower back. I cry out as a sharp spasm of pain radiates, my knees weakening from the intensity, ready to puke up Ma’s stew. That doesn’t stop Aengus from pinning me with a forearm against my throat, his fist yanking at my shirt hard enough to rip the collar.