With a Twist (18 page)

Later that night,
after filing a story about the body in the elevator shaft and another on the movie premiere, Quinn headed back to the Wild Hart. His mother was on him the minute he walked through the door.

“Let me guess,” Quinn said wearily. “You want to talk about Natalie.”

“I’m not sure about her, Quinn. I’m not sure she’s the right one for you.”

Quinn moved behind the bar, pulling himself a pint of Guinness. “And why’s that? Because she’s not religious?”

“She mocked our religion!”

“Mom, she did not.”

“She said meeting with a priest before marriage was ridiculous!”

Quinn took a sip of his beer. “It is.” He turned to Liam. “What do you think, Liam?”

“I’m keeping out of this one.”

“Coward.” Quinn turned back to his mother. “Why don’t you just admit it: you’re just looking for excuses not to like her.”

“She doesn’t fit in with us, son. With our family.”

“Funny, you seemed to act otherwise until the religious issue came up.”

“Well, I’m not sure she’s the right girl for you.”

“Oh, here it comes,” Quinn scoffed. “I need to find myself a nice Irish girl.”

“Is that so bad?”

Quinn scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. “Mom, it’s Natalie I care about, all right?”

“I’m still not sure she’s right for you,” his mother repeated obstinately.

“No offense, but you have no idea who’s right for me, okay?”

“A mother knows.”

“Are you listening to this?” Quinn asked his brother.

Quinn’s mother snorted. “Don’t look to him for backup! He’s just as bad as you!”

“What the hell does that mean?” Liam asked.

“You should have a nice girl by your side by now. But do you? No. Mr. Moody Bachelor. Any number of nice girls come in here. I see the way they look at you.”

“Yeah, and I’ve dated a number of them.”

“You need a steady.”

Liam shook his head disbelief. “I don’t want a steady.”

“Mary Clooney’s daughter just broke up with her boyfriend,” their mother murmured nonchalantly.

“Brenda?” Quinn snorted. “One-Brow Clooney?”

“Ma, she’s got a face like a horse!” said Liam. The two brothers looked at each other and broke up laughing.

“She’s a nice girl,” their mother huffed.

“She’s not a
girl
, Mom, just like Quinn and I aren’t boys,” said Liam. “We’re grown men who know what they want when it comes to dating, okay? So just leave it out.”

Their mother clucked her tongue in wonder. “You two are so alike sometimes it astounds me.”

This was the last thing Quinn expected to hear, and obviously Liam felt the same way, despite the laugh they’d just shared together. There was a split second of uncomfortable silence, and then Liam went to tend to a customer at the opposite end of the bar.

Quinn was about to add his two cents to what Liam had just said when there came the sound of an explosion and shattering glass out on the street. For a split second, no one moved. But then, as if on cue, everyone in the pub rushed outside.

Sweeney’s Hardware Store, another longtime fixture of the neighborhood, was engulfed in flames.

Quinn pulled out his notebook and began running up the street.

19

Everyone was gathered
watching Sweeney’s burn, the crackle and hiss of the fire as it licked its way through the store one of the worst sounds in the world. Smoke billowed out onto the street. By now, it wasn’t only the pub goers who crowded the sidewalks; tenants from surrounding buildings had also heard the explosion and were gathered outside.

“Someone better call Sweeney,” Quinn said. Adrenaline was pounding through him, one of his favorite feelings in the world. PJ, Franco’s . . . the story was getting juicier and juicier. His story.

His eyes cut to his parents; his mother was crying. Quinn walked over, putting an arm around her soft shoulders. “You okay?”

“God, what are Declan and Marianne going to do? What are they going to do?”

Quinn’s father squeezed his wife’s hand. “I’m sure they’ve got insurance, darlin’. They’ll open a new store.”

Everyone turned simultaneously to look down the street as the wail of the fire trucks grew closer and closer. As soon as the trucks arrived, the fire chief was flying out of his Bronco, barking at the bystanders to get the hell back. Quinn, who knew the chief well, ignored the edict, watching while the firefighters prepared to drag hose into the store.

“Jesus, O’Brien, you got here fast,” Chief Greenberg said when he finally spotted Quinn.

“I was four doors down at my folks’ pub.” He paused a moment. “Once the fire’s out, you think you’ll be able to tell what happened right away? Whether someone chucked a Molotov cocktail through the front window or something like that?”

“Probably.” The chief kept looking back and forth between his men and Quinn. “You know who owns the store?”

“A guy named Declan Sweeney. He’s lived here forever.”

“Right, right. The name is familiar. I think he donates to the FDNY Widows and Orphans Fund.
Poor bastard.”

“No shit.” Quinn looked around. He noticed that whenever there was a fire, bystanders were unable to tear themselves away. It was a drama, and like all dramas, they wanted to see how it played out. It was too late at night for the store to be open, thank God. He doubted anyone had been inside.

The sound of a woman wailing made everyone turn around. The Sweeneys had arrived. Marianne Sweeney was running toward the store, but Chief Greenberg grabbed her and pulled her back. “I need you to step back, ma’am.”

“That’s our store,” she sobbed.

“I know that. But you need to step back for now.”

Greenberg gently handed Marianne Sweeney over to Quinn, who steered her back toward her husband. “C’mon. Let’s do as Chief Greenberg says, okay?” The devastation and shock on Declan Sweeney’s face was painful to see. He was looking through Quinn as if he wasn’t even there.

“I’ve been here for twenty-five years,” he said dazedly to no one in particular.

“I know,” said Quinn quietly. It was the only hardware store in the area. If something went wrong in the pub that needed fixing, Sweeney’s was where his parents went. He remembered the Sweeneys giving free nails to Liam and Tommy when they got the crazy idea to build a go-cart when they were ten. They were good people, part of the tight-knit community that was the neighborhood.

Quinn stood with the devastated couple, watching as the firemen doused the flames. Because the store was fairly small, they were able to put out the fire in a matter of minutes.

Quinn continued to hang back a moment, watching as the firefighters emerged and went over to talk to Greenberg. He was nodding and then glanced over at the Sweeneys. Quinn felt his pulse pick up as the chief walked over to the distraught couple who’d poured their guts into making their business a success. All ashes now. All gone.

The chief doffed his helmet. “I’m very sorry about your store.”

The Sweeneys nodded numbly.

“Look, I’m not supposed to say anything, but it looks like someone torched the place.”

Quinn felt that pinch inside that he always got when one of his hunches turned out to be right. The minute he’d seen the fire, he had a good idea of who might have set it.

“You got any idea who might do something like this?” Quinn asked.

Declan Sweeney glanced away. “None,” he said in a dead voice.

He’s lying,
Quinn thought. He’d been a reporter for too many years not to be able to read people’s faces. Chief Greenberg explained to the Sweeneys that his comments were totally unofficial. There would be a formal arson investigation conducted by the department, but he’d do his best to keep them unofficially informed of what was going on. The Sweeneys looked like zombies as the crowd slowly dispersed. Quinn pulled the chief aside as he made his way back to his Bronco.

“You willing to go on record about it being suspicious?”

“You know I can’t do that, Quinn,” he said with an air of exasperation. “On background I can tell you it was definitely arson, done by someone who’s a pro at this kind of work. It was a firebomb, just big enough to get the job done but not so big that it would damage neighboring buildings.”

Quinn nodded.

Part of Quinn’s
job was trying to pry info from people on what was possibly the worst day of their lives, and the Sweeneys were no exception. As soon as the fire trucks left and the crowd slowly dispersed, Quinn approached the defeated couple, who seemed unable to tear their eyes from the burned-out shell of their store. He was hopeful that because they knew him, they might be more willing to talk.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney?”

They turned, and Quinn experienced a brief moment of awkwardness. They’d known him since he was a child, but once he reached adulthood, they’d insisted he call them Declan and Marianne. But he never did; in his mind, they were forever Mrs. and Mrs. Sweeney. They always looked amused when he still addressed them that way. But not tonight. Nothing could amuse them tonight.

“Hello, Quinn.”

Quinn squeezed Mr. Sweeney’s shoulder. “Jesus, I’m really sorry about the store.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Sweeney.

“Look,” Quinn said carefully, “would you mind if I asked you a few questions? It won’t take long.”

Mr. Sweeney looked wary. “What kind of questions?”

“About the fire.”

“I’m tired,” said Mrs. Sweeney. “I’m just going to wait in the car.”

Quinn watched her go, her shoulders sunken in defeat, and then turned back to Mr. Sweeney. “Mr. Sweeney—”

“Declan—”

“Declan. You know what I do for a living. I’ve been doing some digging into the gentrification that’s going on here, and I’ve got a feeling what happened tonight is somehow connected to what happened to PJ Leary and Franco’s.”

“Mmm.”

“Is it?”

Mr. Sweeney said nothing.

“It would be very helpful to me if you could tell me anything—
anything
—about who you think might have torched your store.”

Mr. Sweeney retained his silence.

“Anything,” Quinn repeated. “Totally off the record. Nothing that would put you in danger.”

Mr. Sweeney looked away.

“Please,” said Quinn. “Did someone threaten you?”

Mr. Sweeney sighed heavily. “Quinn, look, Marianne and I are very tired. We’ve been through a terrible shock. Our livelihood has been destroyed. Can’t you see that?”

“Of course I do,” said Quinn. “But the more information you give me, the greater the odds that whoever did this can be brought to justice.” He paused. “Please.”

Declan Sweeney looked at his burned-out store and then back to Quinn. He turned away for a moment and then looked back. “Quinn, I want to tell you something about your brother Liam.”

Quinn felt sick to his stomach.

“I know Liam’s a good man,” Declan continued.

Quinn’s nausea started to pass.

“Tell Liam there’s an old saying that while a man can’t choose his family, he can choose his friends. I’ll be going to look after the missus now. Good night.”