All of the Lights (8 page)

My mom's got that beautifully victorious grin on her face as she sweeps some of her long blonde hair behind her shoulder. So, in the end, landing somewhere in between playing into her game and setting her straight was worth it. She settles back in her chair and sips from her coffee mug as her eyes flick between my dad and me. These are the kind of moments she lived for, she'd told me once. The rare, quiet moments where everything else just gets shut out, where we can focus on the things that are really important: family and food.

I throw my mom a quick grin before turning my attention to the shuffling papers across from me.

"How'd we make out for the week, Pop?"

He sighs and shoves his reading glasses up to his forehead so he can rub his eyes. "It's hard to say. I still need to figure out all the insurance bullshit for the damages. It's a good thing we were able to open this afternoon for the Sox game though."

"We gonna be okay?"

"Ah," he shrugs as he scribbles a figure on the papers spread out in front of him. "We just gotta make up for it this weekend."

He didn't need to delve into the dirty details—the front of our building wasn't the only thing that had taken a hit Friday night. Depending on who was fighting that week, those Fridays and Saturdays are what we live and die on and having to shut down so we could open our doors to the PD wasn't exactly in my dad's business plan, in more ways than one.

A loud scrape echoes through the kitchen as my mom shoves her chair backward.

"I'll let you boys talk business," she tells us, leaning down just enough to brush her lips across my cheek before leaving the room.

My dad's eyes follow her carefully and when she's cleared the room, his gaze falls back on me, his plate of pie long-forgotten. Now that we're actually going to get down to some real business, I shovel the last of my pie in my mouth to gear up.

After one last glance down on the hallway, I ask quietly, "Any word yet?"

He rubs his eyes one more time before blowing out a deep breath. "Brody and the boys are on it. We'll know something for sure soon."

I nod, but that's still not enough. "It had to be the Gianottis, right? I mean, that's the only thing that makes sense."

He just lifts a shoulder and pushes the bar's ledger at me. In one swift motion, he jabs his finger down at a figure inked in red and as soon as the number registers, my eyes jolt open wide.

"Wha—"

"That's what we're down for the week," he nods to me tightly. "Hitting us where it hurts, threatening our incomes, intimidating us...and the election's still six months away. He's just getting started."

Silence wades in between everything that's left unsaid. I'd always thought Val Moretti's connection to the Gianotti brothers was just an urban legend, some kind of fable to teach all of us a twisted, ill-gotten lesson. Something that was just sort of assumed, but never proven.

The Gianotti brothers are the longest-running sharks in the city—bets, loans, muscle—whatever they need to do to keep their status and their money, they do it and get away with it, too. And the only explanation, at least here in Southie, is because Moretti pulls strings for them. Evidence magically disappearing, witnesses changing their stories, key players suddenly showing up in Europe...it all reeks of some serious underhanded, back-alley dealings between Moretti, the Gianottis, and the PD.

And anytime there might even be a whiff of a connection between them, it's squashed with all traces of its existence wiped from the collective memory. At the same time, the only way Moretti seems to have inexplicably stayed in power as long as he has is because he's got two muscle-men to intimidate, manhandle, and let's face it, probably kill for him if he asked.

Of course, those are all rumors, but those rumors have never completely faded away either.

"What are you gonna do, Pop?"

"We stay the course," he reaffirms what I already know from across the table. "We keep fighting. We keep protesting. We're not gonna let them take our lives out from under us. Not anymore."

"So the fundraiser at the parish—"

"Will go on as planned. And so will the protest next month. They're not stopping us—we just have to get Brennan into office first."

I fold my hands on top of the table and nod, more to myself than anything. Stay the course. That's exactly what we have to do. The last thing Brennan, or any of us in Southie, needs is for Moretti to think he has an advantage, even if he's had exactly that for the last 15 years.

"It's ballsy," I shake my head and lift my eyes up to the ceiling in thought. "What does he think will happen anyway? Brennan will get scared and drop out? That's sure as shit not happening."

My dad meets my eyes from across the table. "It was a warning."

And even though he released a statement earlier Saturday morning about "unnecessary violence running rampant in our city", Moretti isn't fooling anyone here. We know better. We know exactly what he's capable of.

I bet he didn't plan on either of his precious daughters showing up for the fireworks though.

Just the thought of...heat simmers through my chest and I have to push it down. It's not worth it.
She's
not worth it.

Now I just need to change the subject.

"
Sean looked good today," I tell him and cast him a quick glance out of the corner of my eye.

His gaze falls back to the paperwork splayed out at the table and he picks up his pen. This is supposed to be my signal to back the hell off, but at some point, something has to give. At some point, he has to acknowledge what happened to his son.

"He talked a lot about the Sox and I guess he finally beat that guy from Dorchester at chess."

I wait for some sort of reaction, but I get nothing.

"Sean wants to see you," I offer diplomatically. "I know he does...and I'm sure Ma would appreciate not havin' to go up there all by herself on Saturdays."
 

We'd worked out an easy schedule to make sure Sean always has a visitor when he can. My mom takes the trip on Saturdays so I can focus on my fights and I sneak out of mass a little early on Sundays so my mom doesn't have to. Brennan comes along when he can, but the last year or so has been almost entirely eaten up by this election.

And every single time, my dad stays home.

"He still has three years before—" I try again, but his clipped voice cuts me off.

"I know how much time Sean has left. You don't need to remind me."

We stare each other down for a long moment and even though he's become worn and grey through the years—no doubt from the hand our family got dealt seven years ago—he could probably still take me if he really wanted to. It's just as well that the doorbell rings and puts an end to our pseudo-standoff.

The front door opens, some murmuring echoes from the hallway, and that's exactly how I know this is my cue to get moving.

"Better head to the bar now. Make sure everything's in order, alright?" my dad tells me softly, but I can't really look him in the eye right now.

For a man with so much integrity, so much stubborn pride in doing what's right, and a man I have so much goddamn respect for, he flirts with cowardice a little more than he probably should. Still, I have to remind myself that the man's only human and he's allowed a moment of weakness or two in the face of so much personal tragedy.

So, I sweep up my empty plate, put it in the sink so my mom doesn't give me hell later, and head for the hallway. On my way out, I pass our visitor, who reaches for my hand before I even have a chance to get a word in.

"Good luck to yah on Friday, Jack," Father Lindsay nods to me with that thick, familiar hybrid of Irish-Boston brogue. "I'll get there as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Father," I clap him on the shoulder.

I might have a good head of height on him, but his presence seems to take up most of the hallway all on its own. With just a black button-up with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his collar, and black dress pants, he doesn't give off the air of high superiority that you might expect from a priest. He just looks like a normal guy from Southie, minus the collar. Instead, it's his wisdom and his good sense that draws you in and makes you feel like everything will be okay even when it won't.

"Your da would be proud of you, yah know," he smiles sadly and it takes me a moment to sort through which father he's talking about: my biological one or my adopted one. "The way you fight, so fierce, so Irish—he's gotta be up in heaven with the angels, whistlin' and cheerin' along with the rest of us."

I do my best to press an appreciative grin on my face. "I like to think he's got a beer with him, too."

"Right," Father Lindsay laughs and shakes his head. "That too."

"You and Pop got a long night ahead of yah?"

He just waves a hand in the air. "Nah. Your brother pretty much attracts a crowd on his own. Doesn't take much planning on our part to bring the people in. I guess it runs in the family, huh?"

"Somethin' like that," I huff out a laugh and run a hand through my messy hair. "Hey, Father, I gotta head to the bar now, so I'll catch yah later, alright?"

"Right, right," he waves me away again.

I kiss my mom's cheek, thank her for dinner, and head out the door. The skyline is smattered with the remnants of the day—hues of red, purple, and orange fill the sky—and I dig my hands in my coat pockets to sink into a little more warmth. It's only April, but it feels like we'll never actually see spring again.

At least I've got Southie to comfort me in all it's familiar, worn-in glory. Every building, every house, every street corner...there's life here. There's purpose here. The concrete practically exhales when you step on it and that's okay. That's all we have right now. That's what we're fighting for right now.

And so, as I walk through the neighborhood I've lived in my entire life, I don't look over my shoulder. I don't think about what might be coming next. All I can do is exactly what my dad has always raised me to do: look straight ahead and keep soldiering on.

"NOW, IF RAMIREZ is having shoulder issues again, the Sox have a real problem in the middle of their lineup..."

I shake my head at the 50-inch TV screen mounted on the opposite wall and tip my chin to my lone customer at the bar.

"You heard enough of this shit, Cal?"

Cal grunts as he brings his glass up to his lips, so I flip the channel. The last thing I want to hear right now is even a whiff of a doubt in the Sox. You just have to keep the faith. That's all it is. Blind, ignorant faith. So, I flip through the channels until I settle on something a little less soul-crushing:
Seinfeld.

We pass the next hour in an easy routine, a by-product of a few too many Sundays spent this way. Cal nurses a whiskey for a little while and when he's ready, I pour him a beer. I know better than to refill his tumbler at this time of night. We've been down this road together before and I've learned through trial and error that the best way to cut him off is just to ease it in. After Cal's settled in with his lager and I've subtly stolen his whiskey glass right out from under him, I wipe down the bar and unload the last of the glasses from our power-washer.

There's not much else I can do after that other than to lean back against the wall and try to make small talk with Cal, the epitome of friendly conversation.

"How're the grandkids, Cal?"

He raises his eyes up from his glass. "Hmmpf."

Alright. That answers that.

"Nice talkin' to yah, Cal. You're a real charmer as usual."

"Hmmpf."

I slap a bar towel over my shoulder and cock a grin his way. He may be an ornery old shit, but he's still good shit all the same. Just as I lean in with both hands splayed out on the bar top, the door opens and hell might as well have broken loose. Because as much as I've tried to push Friday night down to the deepest, darkest recesses of my memory where I'll never have to worry about it again, it's back with a vengeance.

Or, rather,
she's
back with a fiery vengeance if her hair is any indication.

Her green eyes sweep around the bar and, considering there's just two other people in it, those eyes find what they're looking for quickly. There's a determination in them that scares me a little more than it should—I should be the one breathing fire, not her.
She's
the one treading on my space and yet, I'm the one ready to run and hide.

And then my memory clears. She played me Friday night, good and hard. Had me right where she wanted me, eating out of the palm of her damn hand, practically begging her to throw me a bone, to give me her number, and all for...what? So she could turn around and brag to all her friends that she conned Jack Flynn on Callahan turf?

It was probably all bullshit anyway. She probably went home to her boyfriend in Back Bay and laughed about me in bed all night long.

Now I react accordingly. Heat rises up from my feet and shoots right up to my chest. I want her the hell out of my bar. I want her the hell out of my sight.

Still, my body is frozen right where I stand as she crosses the short distance between us and tentatively rests her palms against the bar. My lips press into a firm, grim line and animosity pours off me in waves, filling the few feet between us. There's no good reason for her to be here right now, or
ever
, and before she finds her way out the door, we need to clear something up first.