Twisted River (10 page)

“What kind of
bother
?” Kate asked. Her eyes were wide, searching.

“The Bolgers want Spike to let their guy into the club. A dealer. Hard stuff—not weed or E or any of that stuff. Serious stuff.”

“Like heroin?”

“I dunno exactly. Yeah, heroin, I guess. Crack cocaine, crystal meth . . .”

Kate looked stunned.
Shit—he'd miscalculated!
Maybe this was too much. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“I take it he's refused?” said Kate.

“So far.”

“Out of conscience?” She sounded derisory now.

“Jesus, Kate. Of course out of conscience. What do you think he is?”

“He wouldn't just turn a blind eye?”

“I really don't think that's an option, Kate. He turns a blind eye to the softer stuff. But heroin—he could lose his license. Be put away himself.”

“Tell me
why
, Mannix. Tell me
why
the Bolgers are asking Spike to do this. There are other nightclubs in town. Why pick on
Spike's
?”

He'd hoped she wouldn't ask him that. He really had. A forlorn hope. His wife always asked the incisive questions. The questions other people missed. He'd thought he was prepared for this. Sitting on the plane, he'd played the scene out in his head. It was one secret less if he told her. The last few months, all the secrets had made him feel isolated and lonely. But there was a price to pay for everything.

“They're calling in a debt,” he said.

Her blue eyes looked almost black in the half-light.

“At least that's the way the Bolgers see it,” he said. “They think they did Spike a favor, you see . . .” He looked away, unable to hold her gaze. “They helped him find a buyer for some stuff, helped him shift it. Put it through the right channels.”

“What stuff?”

“PCBs—printed circuit boards—you know, computer circuitry.”

“I don't get any of this, Mannix. What would Spike be doing with printed circuit boards?”

Here it was. The moment of truth. It was here. He dug his nails into his fist.

“Spike was doing it for me, Kate. For us. This was a good while ago. Two years ago. In my last place. You remember . . . before we sold the beach house. Before you went back to Art College. The bank was hassling me, phoning me all the time. It was that time we got the enormous bill for Fergus's assessment and they threatened to cut off our electricity supply . . . remember that?”

Kate sat in stunned silence. She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. She leaned back against the chair instead. Mannix looked out through the big windows to the twinkling lights of the skyscrapers across the river.

“Other guys had done it. I knew that. Some of the whackos on the manufacturing floor had tried it. Some got caught. Some didn't, and made a bit of money. But I figured out a way. A way not to get caught. The other chancers—you see, they all involved someone else. I didn't.
Kept my mouth shut.” He remembered how smugly guilty he'd felt at the time. Sealing the boards in watertight ziplock freezer bags and stashing them two at a time over in the quieter toilet cubicles in Zone F. It was stealing. Of course it was. But as a plan, it was neat and simple.

His throat was dry. He didn't dare look at her but could hear her breathing softly a few feet away.

“There were a few of us randomly chosen from QA to do spot checks on the lines. The night shift—everyone's a bit more relaxed, less cautious. I only took two or three at a time. Hid them in the cistern of a toilet at work. No CCTV in the cubicles—obviously.” He stole a glance in her direction. She was listening intently, her fingers stroking the stem of the wineglass.

“So, then I . . .”

“You stole PCBs from your last job?” Kate interrupted. She sat forward now, her eyes wide and probing.

“Yes. I guess I did.”

“So, Mannix. Just let me get this straight. You stole valuable equipment from your employer which you then off-loaded to Spike who used the Bolgers to sell it on? Through their
channels
. Through their
contacts
.”

Her anger was controlled and quiet. He felt nervous.

“Yes.”

“You—Mannix O'Brien, with a decent job, a wife and family—invited the Bolgers into our lives? The Bolgers—a gang who'd eat their own young? What the hell is the matter with you?” She spoke as if she were afraid she might explode into rage.

And there it was again. That look of disappointment.

His heart sank. It had seemed like a way out at the time. An opportunity presented itself and he had taken it. He'd had no way of knowing the Bolgers would end up in the mix. There had never been any mention of them. The contacts that Spike had dealt with initially never mentioned any involvement with the Bolgers. He supposed he was naïve. And Spike too, for all his street smarts. He too had been taken by
surprise. But it was a small city. Of course the Bolgers were going to want a slice of anything that was going on.

“But we had—have so many debts. I know my job was decent. But it wasn't enough. All the mortgages . . . the bills . . .”

Mannix suddenly began to experience a feeling of disassociation. He started to feel light-headed. As if he were dreaming this confession. Imagining himself telling her about how he got into this mess at some point in the future.

“You know what, Mannix? And I thought I'd never hear myself say this. But for the first time in my life I almost feel sorry for Spike. He's the one in the firing line here.”

It was true. What Mannix had done had put his brother in jeopardy. But he didn't want to think about that now.

“That's why he was staying with us—because of the Bolgers?”

“He just wants to lie low for a while. Juggle his routine a bit.”

“They're threatening him, I take it.”

Mannix wasn't going to tell her they'd threatened to burn him out.

“It's all talk. Posturing. Being the big man. Spike is sorting it out.”

“Posturing?”

Okay, a poor choice of words. The Bolgers didn't posture. They followed through.

There was silence for a moment or two. The sound of snoring was coming from one of the bedrooms. One of them was asleep, at least. Mannix had a deep and sudden craving to lie down and curl up in a ball. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the lights twinkling in the distance.

“At least I know we're out of harm's way for the week at least,” Kate said eventually.

“Oh, Kate, don't worry. There's no way any of this is linked to
us
.”

“Don't be stupid, Mannix. Everyone knows you and Spike are as thick as thieves.” Kate laughed at the irony. “One more thing, just so we're clear on this . . .” She sat bolt upright.

He held his breath. He hoped that the holiday could be salvaged somehow.

“You did NOT do this in our name. Not for me or for the kids. You did not do this for us. You never asked me if I wanted to be involved. You did this all on your own. For the thrill of it. Because you thought you could get away with it. I know you, Mannix O'Brien, so don't lay that one on me.”

She was right, of course. But still, Mannix couldn't help but feel hard done by. He'd been up the walls. Everyone was screaming for money. Everyone wanted a piece of him. He adopted his best hangdog expression. This was going slightly better than he might have imagined. Only slightly.

Kate leaned forward as if to get up. Almost immediately she sat back down again, as if something had occurred to her.

“This was about the time you were made redundant?”

“About that time.”

“Tell me the truth.” She stared at him hard. “Were you made redundant? Or were you fired?”

That was a tricky one to answer. It depended on what way you looked at it, he guessed. In the weeks and months that followed his departure, he'd wrestled with that question. Looked at it from every angle. There had been downsizing rumors for months but he'd always thought himself safe. Then about that time his name was gradually dropped from the lists of invitees to planning meetings, strategy meetings, even the quarterly review. He'd turn up at conference rooms and suddenly everyone would look embarrassed until he'd realized his mistake—he wasn't invited. And yet there was no way anyone could have known about the PCBs. He'd made sure of that.

“I was made redundant, Kate. I got a redundancy package, didn't I?”

And so he had, paltry though it was.

She got up this time and smoothed her hands over her thighs.

“I'm going to leave it to you, Mannix. As far as I'm concerned, we're in New York. This is a once-in-a-lifetime holiday I want the kids to remember. This is about Fergus and Izzy. And nothing is going to stand in the way of that. So what I propose is that you do not allow what's going on with Spike to affect this holiday. This is about us as
a family. For this week, at least, I'd like not to think about this whole disgusting episode.”

He couldn't believe his ears.

“I'm with you on that. Absolutely no problem with that. Agreed.”

He couldn't believe he was about to get off this lightly. But was there a sting in the tail?

“Can you turn off the lights here?” Kate looked at him. “I'm dead on my feet.”

“Sure, of course. You head off to bed.”

He let out his breath. The bollocking he'd expected was not forthcoming.

“Jesus, Mannix . . .” She stopped in the doorway, shaking her head, maybe he wasn't safe yet. “Really, what were you thinking of? Don't you think we had enough on our plates with Frankie Flynn? Wasn't hassle from one criminal family not enough for you? Of all people—
the Bolgers . . .
”

“I know . . .” He shrugged.

He couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell her that. Could he?
How could he tell her that the Flynns and the Bolgers were related? She was ready to put things on ice at least for a week. No. No, he decided. Kate didn't need to know that the two criminal families were connected. She didn't need to know that Martin Flynn and Gerard Bolger were first cousins. Best to keep his mouth shut.

A few minutes later he followed Kate to bed. Already she was burrowed under the duvet, way over on her side of the bed—asleep or at least pretending to be. He hoped that sleep would come to him too, in any guise. Deep, fitful, or uneasy. He'd take whatever came. He was weary to the bone.

OCTOBER

“S
orry about the choice of wine, sir. Your hot meal will be along immediately after the drinks service.” The stewardess was flushed now, harangued by Oscar's precise line of questioning. “I'm not sure about low-fat options and I'll certainly check at the back if we have any dry white wine. I suspect all we have on board tonight is a German Riesling.”

With lacquered nails, she handed him a half-full plastic tumbler and a small bottle of Riesling.

“See what you can do, I'd appreciate that,” Oscar said, nodding earnestly, crystal-blue eyes commanding a follow-up.

“And the children, sir?” The stewardess was double-checking now, realizing the importance of getting it absolutely right. “What was it you said, Coke or Seven-Up?”

“Diet soda. It must be diet. Whatever you got.” Oscar sniffed the offending wine as if to reinforce his displeasure, and with a sigh went back to his magazine, dismissing the stewardess.

“The woman is doing her best, Oscar.” Hazel forced her eyes open, no longer pretending to snooze. She didn't bother to look at him but stared unseeing at the headrest in front.

“It's her job, Hazel. You know, hon, you don't always have to make excuses for everyone.” He rubbed her hand and then squeezed it. A little too hard.

“Oscar,” said Hazel as gently as she could. “We're on holiday, couldn't you let the diet stuff slide . . .”

His look was cold. Icy cold. She was warned. She was the one who should let it go.

“Those two seem to be getting on okay.” Oscar jerked his head in the kids' direction.

Hazel craned her neck to catch sight of Jess and Elliot three rows back. Her neck felt the strain and she raised a hand to soothe the ache. Weeks later, it was still sore.

“It seems so, for now. I guess this way Jess can pretend she's not with us at all. In fact, I think the seating arrangement suits her just fine. Poor Elliot.” Hazel shook her head.

Jess could really crank up the temperature when she wanted, deliberately flicking her long brown hair straight into Elliot's face. Hazel had been dismayed at first to learn that they weren't all sitting together. But she'd been so distracted booking the flights that she'd paid scant attention to the seating plan. In fact, with the way she'd been feeling, she could scarcely believe that she'd managed to organize this trip at all.

Strapped in at 30,000 feet between Oscar and the padded lining of the cabin, she had another sudden rush of panic. Instead of abating, the attacks were becoming more frequent. She wondered what she was doing here. What was this journey all about, really? She'd positioned it as that long promised trip to Ireland for the kids—to show them where she had grown up, the country that had formed her. Why was she really doing it? She wasn't sure. But she had a suspicion that if she could go back to where she'd set out from, maybe she could find her way again. Retrace her steps. Reinforce those values that she knew in her heart to be good and true. It had felt like the right thing to do, to book this trip. She wasn't running away from any of her problems, away from the bogeyman, for they were coming on this journey with her too.

The last month or so, she'd spent hours at a time in the dog run
on Riverside Drive. It wasn't that she wanted a dog, even though the kids nagged and whined for one. Oscar certainly didn't want one. She wasn't even sure that he really liked them. What she wanted was to be in company but not in company that could tax her, demand anything of her. She wanted the comfort of people around her but not to feel obliged in any way to engage with them.

Each day she alternated the park bench she sat on, lest she become part of someone else's routine and be forced into conversation. She brought a periodical with her—
Time
or the
Economist. S
he found herself unable to devote long spans of attention to a novel. Her mind would not stay the course. In the park, she felt seen and safely alone in the company of strangers.

Helen was more excited than anyone about the trip to Ireland. Hazel suspected she'd jump at the chance to be invited along. Single and lonely, she was a third parent to Jess and Elliot. Hazel had made a habit of including her in as much of their lives as possible. But Oscar could stomach his sister only in small doses. Anything beyond their weekly dinner together was likely to provoke a sullen tension and often unkind and pointed jibes—these jibes normally directed at Helen's weight.

On their last family meal at an expensive restaurant near Columbus Circle, which Helen insisted on paying for, it was Hazel who'd been niggly and argumentative. Normally she let things slide, but from memory it was Elliot's T-shirt that had done it that night. For some reason she just saw red. She put it down to the pent-up fear and tension.

Hazel had been the last to arrive at the restaurant. “Mission accomplished?” Helen had asked as Hazel slid the J.Crew shopping bags under the table. Helen loved to shop with Hazel, to ask her advice in a sisterly fashion. But no matter what Helen tried on, she somehow managed to look matronly.

Hazel had been keeping up the pretense of teaching, both to Helen and to the kids, for now. Her principal had been understanding. She was signed off for another month. Then she'd have to make a decision. A permanent decision.

“You've lost weight, Hazel.” Helen was looking at her enviously. “You'll have to share the secret.”

“Secret? It's not rocket science, Helen. Keeping your mouth shut should work.” Oscar said, perusing the menu.

Elliot sniggered. Helen looked hurt. And once again Hazel let it go. This had gone on for years.

“Let's just order, shall we, Oscar?” said Hazel, wearily.

Like Oscar, Helen had grown up in the dispassionate and clinical Harvey home. Hazel suspected that it had been a home of few hugs and little outward display of affection. A Vassar graduate, Helen was currently funded on a research project to investigate the increasing levels of sarcoidosis in New York since 9/11.

“So, you guys are all off next week.” Helen rubbed her hands. “I must say, I'm feeling jealous. I don't know if I ever told you kids but I had an Irish boyfriend once—here in the city on an internship with Merrill Lynch.”

Jess had raised her eyebrows and Elliot was sniggering again. Both obviously finding it hard to imagine their large aunt Helen ever having a boyfriend. Just as Hazel was about to reprimand them both, she was distracted.

“Elliot!” she said sharply.

“Mom!” He jumped to attention, mocking her.

“Where did that T-shirt come from?”

“This? I borrowed it. Mine got wet with the water pistols . . .”

“Whose is it?”

“It's Luke's. I was at Luke's today, remember? His mom gave it me.” Elliot was looking puzzled.

“What's up, Hazel?” asked Oscar.

“I don't care, Oscar. I'm not having it. I'm not having that propaganda. Look at what the T-shirt says.”

“‘Legalize Freedom.' Yeah, so?” drawled Jess. “What's up with that? You can't seriously have any objection to that, Mom.”

“‘Legalize Freedom' is a slogan for the libertarian movement, Jess, for the Tea Party movement!”

“Oh, please. Spare us the politics today, Hazel.” Oscar sat back in his chair and threw his eyes to heaven. “It's only a T-shirt, for Christ's sake.”

“Don't you see what they're trying to do? They're trying to hoodwink ordinary people with all their talk of civil freedoms and free markets and less government. What these oligarchs at the top of all these huge corporations want is the freedom to do as they will and pay no taxes all at the expense of the little man. My child is not going to be a puppet in their hands!”

“Our child,” said Oscar calmly. “Are you really going to do this now?”

The kids had gone quiet and Helen looked uncomfortable, embarrassed. Oscar was right, of course, but this thing was just too important to let go. For too long Hazel had sensed the creeping insidious acceptance of some of the more abhorrent values of capitalist politics. It plain stuck in her craw.

“You're right.” She tried to mute the frustration in her voice. “But I cannot have Elliot wearing a T-shirt that advocates the virtues of individualism over collectivism. An ideology that derides the notion of health care for all, that heaps scorn on the very notion of social security.”

“Gee, Mom. It says all that? I can only see two little words,” said Elliot, chin down, examining the writing.

Oscar guffawed with laughter.

Reluctantly, she'd decided to let it go. She wished it didn't matter. She really did.

“My clever little wife has just read Ayn Rand”—Oscar had looked at Helen—“and has now taken it upon herself to be a one-woman propaganda machine against the libertarian movement.”

“Ayn Rand?” Helen raised an eyebrow.

“That's right—
Atlas Shrugged
,” Hazel explained, “acts as a type of handbook for the Libertarians.”

“Heavy-duty shit,” said Elliot, making a paper plane of the menu.

“Hard-core shit,” agreed Jess, looking bored to tears.

Hazel really was going to have to take her kids to task. She'd let too many things go this year. Exhausted by the demanding days at school, her own parenting skills had been put on the back burner.

As she recalled, the rest of the meal went by without incident. Almost like the weekly meals before all of this had happened. They'd chatted about the impending trip.

“Where exactly are you going?” Helen had asked.

“Limerick. The house is next to the Curragower Falls in Limerick. Just over the bridge from where I grew up.”

“This is another home exchange, right? Like North Carolina?” asked Helen.

“That's right,” Hazel said.

“I like the idea,” said Helen. “I should do that. Stay in someone's home. Makes the experience much more real, I'm sure.”

“It's that, all right . . .” muttered Oscar.

What Helen didn't understand or even know was that the home exchange had materialized out of necessity. In the past, there'd been the five-star Marriott resorts, the luxury condos with daily maid service and cook. Oscar's choice, not hers, but she'd fallen in with his holiday plans. All of that was before Susan. The settlement with Susan had put paid to all of that. But Helen knew nothing of Susan. They'd kept it between the three of them—four of them if you included the lawyer. Harry's friend. Reputation was everything. Hazel understood that. Especially in Oscar's profession. Who was going to attend a dentist accused of sexual harassment?

Susan had been Oscar's partner in the practice. Susan was a flirt—there'd been no denying that. But because the flirting was conducted in the open, for everyone's supposed amusement, Hazel had never worried. If she'd worried about anything when Oscar took Susan on, it was Susan's competence as a dentist. She seemed skittish, with big doe eyes and stiletto heels. Still, Hazel told herself, appearances could be deceptive. Just because she embraced her femininity didn't mean she couldn't do the job. Hazel didn't subscribe to the notion that a woman should look genderless to be taken seriously. And yet when the day arrived that Oscar told her Susan had accused him of forcing her onto the reclining chair and groping her breasts, could Hazel say that she was all that surprised?

Hazel stayed out of it, confident that Oscar's network of old school buddies would magic up some arrangement. But it cost considerably more than she thought it would. What really galled her was that the lawyer got nearly as much as Susan. He certainly knew the value of preserving a reputation.

They'd put the grubby episode behind them. Oscar couldn't afford to take on a new dentist and had decided to go it alone for a few years. Hazel too had severed all ties with Susan, swapping the dance class that she and Elizabeth had attended with Susan in favor of the dance studio closer to home on Broadway.

“Thank you for dinner, Helen. You're too generous.” Hazel had thanked Helen in the washroom.

“Oh, honey, you're so welcome. You know I'd do anything for you, Oscar, and the kids.” Helen looked at her with a sincerity that made Hazel want to go back out to the restaurant and have a go at Oscar for all his nasty jibes.

“I'm sorry about Oscar,” Hazel had apologized. “He's sharp sometimes . . .”

“I don't take notice of all those silly comments. It's hard for Oscar today. You do know what day it is, don't you, Hazel?”

And with a start, Hazel realized that this was the very first time she'd forgotten. She always made sure that she trod more gently at this time of year.

“The anniversary, right?”

Helen nodded.

Birgitte. Oscar's first wife. Today was the anniversary of her death.

“The saddest funeral ever—only four of us. We never thought Oscar would take the plunge again. Until you came along . . . He adores you, you know.” Helen squeezed her arm affectionately as they'd struggled through the doorway together.

 • • • 

“You know what? Even after all this time, it feels the same.” Hazel braced against the rear seat belt to talk to their driver up front. “Like an old pair of slippers . . .”

“I dunno about that, Hazel. Wait till you see,” their driver replied. “There's been a lot of change in the last fifteen years.” He flashed a smile at Oscar, who sat up front next to him.

Hazel was in the back with the kids. It felt odd to be looking at the driver on the right-hand side of the car. He was certainly friendly enough, this guy Spike. Perhaps a touch overfriendly. He'd scanned her up and down in the arrivals hall. Hazel was surprised to see him wearing what looked like motorbike leathers. He seemed somewhat unkempt, with an unshaven face and tousled hair. But he and Oscar had hit it off straightaway.