With a Twist (28 page)

“Might I have
a word with my eldest son?”

Quinn had been sitting at the bar politely listening to PJ Leary talk about his tedious leprechaun chronicle when his mother snuck up behind him.

“Hey, Ma.” He kissed her cheek. “What’s up?”

“I need a word with you. In private.”

Quinn slid off the stool, trying to ignore Mason Clement at his usual seat at the end of the bar where he appeared to have gotten somewhat chummy with the Mouth. Of course, the bastard still spent half his time watching Natalie. The fact that he’d told her about his supposed editing gig—info that wasn’t his to tell—made Quinn despise him all the more.

He followed his mother into the kitchen, lightly brushing Natalie’s arm as he walked by where she stood tallying up a bill. He was trying to be less self-absorbed, more tuned in to small, simple gestures like this that seemed to let her know he cared.

He had a feeling that his mother was going to give him her “All work and no play will leave Quinn a lonely man” speech, and girded himself. Instead, she looked excited.

“I’m planning a surprise party for Natalie.”

Quinn was confused. “What?”

“I overheard her on the phone with her sister the other night during a break. Her birthday is in three weeks. I want to have a wee party for her here that Sunday afternoon. Nothing huge, mind.”

Quinn nodded cautiously. “Sounds good.”

His mother pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line. “You had no idea it was her birthday, did you?”

“How would I?” Quinn retorted. “She hasn’t said a word to me!”

“Maybe she did, and someone wasn’t paying attention.”

“You don’t think I’d remember if my own girlfriend told me her birthday?”

“No, I do not.”

She folded her arms across her chest. That’s when Quinn noticed her frosty pink fingernails. He tapped a shimmery index finger. “Well, well, what have we here?”

Quinn’s mother flushed, looking defensive. “Natalie took me for a manicure.”

“I see.” Quinn couldn’t resist a good tease. “I seem to remember you telling me that you thought manicures were frivolous. A waste. Especially in your line of work.”

“Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind.” She held out her hands in front of her admiringly. “Looks nice, no?”

“Very nice.”

She lowered her arms. “It’ll chip off in no time, but no matter.”

So, Natalie had bought him a shirt, and she’d taken his mother for a manicure. She seemed to be getting very generous.

He glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”

“Upstairs watching the Mets game, lying on the couch like a lummox,” his mother said affectionately. “He hurt his back.”

Quinn sighed heavily. His father’s back had been bothering him more and more, and it concerned him. His parents were getting on in years, yet they showed no signs of cutting back on the time they spent at work. Even when they were exhausted or under the weather, they soldiered on, spouting that “the devil makes work for idle hands.” Well, apparently the devil could also throw your back out.

“He should see a doctor.”

“Who’ll do what? Tell him to rest it the way he is right now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, and so does your father. Waste of money.”

Quinn gave up. This was an argument he couldn’t win.

He squeezed his mother’s arm affectionately. “I’m really touched you want to throw Natalie a party, Ma. That’s very sweet.”

“Well, I like her.” She held up a hand to stay him. “I know I didn’t at first; you needn’t remind me. But all in all, she’s a lovely girl, and she genuinely seems to love your sorry arse, which is all a mother could hope for. That and grandchildren.”

Quinn groaned. “Talk to Maggie and Brendan about that, okay?”

“You’re not getting any younger,” his mother reminded him.

“Neither are they. Let’s get back to the party. If there’s anything you need me to do, let me know.”

“As if I wouldn’t.” She paused. “You know what would make a lovely gift?” she said brightly. “An engagement ring.”

“Ma.” Now he was getting annoyed. “Stop pushing.”

Getting engaged—as if they were even remotely ready for that. As if he could afford a ring, or even want to take on that whole premarital headache. In his efforts to pay more attention to what was going on with Natalie, he’d been hearing all about the high drama of Vivi and Anthony’s wedding plans. The amount of time being eaten up, the money being laid out on everything from flowers to catering was mind-boggling as well as scary. Half the reporters he knew were divorced as a direct result of their jobs. He was in no rush to say, “I do.” Thankfully, Natalie wasn’t, either.

He was beginning to get restless. “Anything else?”

His mother looked amused as she raised an eyebrow. “Being dismissed, am I?”

Quinn put his hand over his heart. “My sainted mother? Never.”

She rose up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Go up and see your father.”

“I was planning to.” He loved the way she still tried to boss him around.

She patted his cheek and then moved off to deliver an extrathick slice of brown bread to the Major, as she did nearly every evening. “You’re a good boy, Quinn. I raised good boys. Now, if you’d just get your priorities—”

He put his index finger to her lips, shushing her. “Night, Mom. See you soon.”

28

“Tommy fucked me
over. I’m screwed. You’re screwed.”

Quinn watched in alarm as Liam paced the length of Quinn’s tiny living room like a caged animal, his voice sawing back and forth between anger and incredulity. It was one of Quinn’s “work nights,” and when his cell rang at 2 a.m., he was wide-awake, hours into doing research on the ’net. He assumed something had come in over the police or fire scanner at the
Sent
, and one of the overnight editors was sending him to check it out.

He was wrong.

It was Liam, distraught, asking if he could come over and talk to him
now
. And here he was, emanating dark, dangerous anger as only Liam could.

“Calm down,” Quinn urged.

Liam halted, laughing with disbelief. “When I tell you what went down, you’ll see why calm is the last thing I can muster up right now.”

“Well, at least sit.” Quinn gestured toward his crappy old couch, its cushions covered in old files and newspapers that he promptly transferred to the floor.

“You sure I won’t catch some kind of disease from this thing?” Liam joked before sitting down. Quinn thought it was a good sign that Liam still had his sense of humor.

“You want a shot of whiskey? Calm your nerves?”

“You sound like Dad.”

“We do share some of the same genetic material.”

“True. Yeah, whiskey would be great. Thanks.”

Quinn nodded and went into the kitchen and pulled a half-empty bottle of Jameson from one of the cabinets. He poured a shot for each of them and returned to the living room.

“Sláinte.”
Liam threw the shot down his throat.

“Sláinte,”
said Quinn in return, doing the same. He sat down beside his brother. “What the hell is going on?”

“Two days ago, Tommy came to me and asked me if I could drive a moving truck out to Long Island tonight so he could help one of his longtime clients move. He can’t drive a stick, and I can. Said he’d pay me. So I said yes. I mean, what the hell, right?”

“Okay. So you moved the guy’s stuff and—?”

Liam looked pained as he ran a hand through the tangle of his dark, curly hair. “We drove back into the city. Tommy said he needed to drop some DVDs off at the video store or else they’d be late. He was just going to throw them in the drop box, you know? Again, no big deal. So we pulled up in front of the store, and thinking he’d only be a minute, I kept the engine running while he jumped out.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know. Midnight, maybe.”

“Whoa, back up. You moved the Long Island guy’s stuff at night?”

“Yeah.”

“That didn’t strike you as weird?”

“No.”

Quinn shook his head. “So what happened next?”

Liam’s eyes flashed with anger. “Tommy hops out of the truck, grabs something from under his seat, smashes the door of the store, and runs inside. He loads up a couple of duffel bags full of shit, and then
sets the fucking place on fire
. Then he hops in the front seat and tells me to get the hell out of there as fast as I can.”

Quinn pressed his palm to his forehead as he tried to take this all in. “Li. You saw him break into this store and you just sat there? It never crossed your mind to just drive away?”

“What the hell was I supposed to do, Quinn?” Liam snarled. “Leave him there? Besides I was too shocked to even move!”

“Do you have any idea if anyone saw you were driving the truck?”

Liam frowned. “I’m pretty sure no one did.”

“But you’re not hundred percent certain. Jesus Christ.” He went back into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, came back to the couch, and poured them both another shot. Without a word the brothers both tossed the second shot down. “Then what?” Quinn asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Tommy directs me to a warehouse on Twelfth Avenue. I’m screaming at him the whole way about how he used me. And you know what he says? He says he had no choice, that Whitey told him to. That now that I was involved, you’d stop nosing around.” Liam put his head in his heads. “Can you believe this? My oldest friend in the world, Quinn.”

“Shit.” Quinn felt waves of guilt break inside him. “This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s my fault, because I was stupid enough to trust that asshole. I never thought he’d screw me this way. I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Maybe he wasn’t bullshitting you when he said he had no choice.”

“Screw that. You’ve always got a choice,” Liam said bitterly. “Oh, and by the way, this warehouse?
Two down from the one that was torched.”

“Anyone at the warehouse?”

“I don’t know. As soon as we pulled up, I jumped out of the truck and told Tommy to go fuck himself. He tried to throw some money at me, but I started jogging away, trying to wrap my head around all this. That’s when I decided to call you and walk over here.”

Quinn put a consoling arm around his brother’s shoulder. Liam hung his head. When he lifted it, his expression was pure despair. “What the hell am I gonna do if Tommy comes strolling through the door of the Hart with some ‘job’ Whitey wants me to do? If I say no, they’ll nail the video store robbery on me or threaten the pub or Mom and Dad.”

“Don’t worry about Mom and Dad. Whitey’s never offered them weekly protection, as far as I know. Don’t know why, but he hasn’t. There’s always been something about the Hart that’s kept Whitey from throwing his weight around. I don’t think he’d threaten them.”

“But he can drop a dime on me.”

Quinn grimaced. “Yeah, he can.” His guilt was all-enveloping now as he realized his story might well have screwed up his brother’s life for good. “I’m gonna quit working on this story,” he declared. “It’s not worth it.”

“Yes, it is,” Liam insisted. “They beat the shit out of PJ, threatened Franco, and torched the Sweeneys’ store. You gotta nail their asses.”

“I don’t cave, and you’re screwed.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Liam stood. “I’m wired. Wanna go to that all-night diner, get some food?”

Quinn gave a small wince. “No. I’m gonna call my contacts at NYPD and see what they know about the video store.”

“Okay.” Liam dug his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I guess I’ll be going, then,” he mumbled.

“Yeah.”

Quinn hated how it was still two steps forward, one back with him and Liam, moments of closeness alternating with moments of awkwardness. At least he got the sense that Liam’s long-held resentment was fading. That was something.

He walked Liam to the door. “Hang in there.”

“I’ll try.” Liam glanced back over his shoulder at Quinn’s living room. “Word of advice: don’t ever have Mom here. She’d have a heart attack if she saw how filthy it is.”

“Yeah, I know,” Quinn said, mildly mortified.

Quinn patted his brother on the back. “Talk to you tomorrow. Probably see you at the pub after work.”

“I’ll be there,” Liam said dryly, “unless I’m off torching a store for Whitey.”