“A con?” he asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A confidence man, as the Americans would call it. A grifter. A swindler.”
Murphy raised his drink. “I did not swindle young Mr. Garvey out of anything he did not want to give me, Brigid.”
“You managed to scare the shite out of Andrew Garvey about taking illegal cigarettes and ensure protection payments from him for the foreseeable future. All the while making him feel grateful you were letting him keep a contract you had no intention of pursuing in the first place.”
He let the smile grow. “I did do that, didn’t I?”
“Admit it, you’re a con artist.”
Murphy grinned. “Of course I am.” He clinked the side of her glass and took another breath, this time to relax. “Impressed?”
“Jesus.” Brigid couldn’t hold back the smile. “You are a bastard, aren’t you?”
“Both literally and figuratively. Does your former priest of a husband know you’re taking the Lord’s name in vain like that, young lady?”
She couldn’t stop the low rumble of laughter. It almost made Murphy sad she’d turned down an alliance with him.
Brigid Connor would have been a perfect romantic partner on paper, but she was hardly his type personally. Most of the time, Brigid looked like a very angry pixie with an acerbic sense of humor, a short temper, and a fondness for hair dye. This month, her dark cap of hair had a distinctly purple cast. The month before, it had been blue.
No, not his type at all, though she made a truly excellent friend and a half-decent drinking partner. She preferred soccer to boxing, but no one was perfect.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you? You’re the same way with the human girls, though they like to think it’s charming. Is everything a con to you?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?” He set down his drink and spread his hands. “There are two sides to every job, and the best jobs end with everyone walking away smiling. Just like young Andrew. He’ll be more careful of what he allows on his boats, and with my protection behind him, those who want to move things more… discreetly will have greater confidence in his operation. I’m happy. He’s happy.”
“And you’ll get a cut from all of it.”
He raised his glass. “Naturally.”
“Why did he try it?”
Murphy shrugged. “They always do. The younger humans—the ones who haven’t been involved in the quieter aspects of things—will take over for their mam or dad. And they see…” He motioned to the elegant suit his tailor had finished only last week. “This. The suits and the haircut. The manicure and the manners.”
“Don’t forget the season tickets to the symphony.”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
Brigid smiled. “How scary could he be? He’s a modern vampire. Not a monster at all.”
He sipped his drink as Brigid continued.
“They push a little, and you let them. They push a little more…”
“It’s only to be expected,” Murphy said, letting a smile touch his lips. “After all, I’m not a monster.”
“Until they push a little too far. Get just a bit over their head. And then you pounce.”
A door slammed somewhere in the building and they both fell silent.
“Are you judging me, Brigid?”
She took a deep breath and crossed her arms, staring at him. “No,” she finally said. “Everyone has to learn how the real world works eventually. You’re hardly the worst teacher out there.”
“Now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings.”
“But you are a right bastard.”
Murphy grinned. “And you’re still drinking with me.”
“I suppose you’ve lured me in like the others. Does anyone really know you, Patrick Murphy, or do they only see the charm?”
“Ah, Brigid.” He resisted the urge to glance at the seascape hanging opposite his desk. The oil painting had captured the sun bouncing off the water of the inlet on Galway Bay. “Don’t you know? The charm is me.”
“Liar.”
He shrugged and decided to steer the subject away from introspection. “Want to join me and the boys at the club?”
Brigid finished her glass and stood. “I may drink with you, but I’m not one of your slags. Besides”—she winked at him—“my man is back from London tonight, and I have far better things to do than watch you boys beat each other bloody.”
“Such a good girl you are.”
“Far better than you could get,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Such a shame you’re committing mortal sins with the good Father.”
The gun was pointed at his face before he could start laughing.
“Don’t make me shoot you again, Murphy.”
Declan slipped in as Brigid walked out.
“Hi, Brig. Bye, Brig.” Declan turned to him. “What’d you do to piss her off? Ask her if she’d made her confession again?”
“Tell Carwyn I said hello,” Murphy shouted after her.
“Oh, you like to live dangerously, boss.” Declan picked up a glass and helped himself to a whiskey. “Started without me, did you?”
His second-in-command and second-oldest child had an eager look on his face, far from the somber visage he presented to most of Murphy’s crew. To the outside world, Patrick Murphy carried the charm and sophistication in the operation, Declan O’Malley held the razor-sharp mind, and Tom Dargin was the muscle. Only the three of them knew it wasn’t as clear-cut as all that.