Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters Page 0,83

many ways.

“Well, okay. Guess I, umm, could do that, Alex.” Sounded like that word got stuck in his throat. Mel had actually called him by his first name. Honestly, Alex was shocked he’d remembered it. “But I might could help if what you’re up against has anything to do with Pops Delaney. Just saying…” The old fart ran a wrinkled hand over his now clean-shaven chin. That was new. He’d shaved his beard off. And he hadn’t cut himself.

Alex put Mel to the test. “What the fuck do you know about Delaney?”

“That he’s a sneaky, lying son of a bitch. He runs guns outta Boston Harbor, sells them to the highest bidders, don’t matter if they’re American or not.”

“Everyone knows that.”

“That he holds court every Tuesday at noon at the Black Irish Rose Tavern on Boston Harbor. That’s when and where he dishes out orders and rewards. Hangings if someone’s got it coming. The rare promotion when earned.”

The thought came without deliberation or reason. What if that medicine was working? What if Mel really knew something—helpful? What if he was telling the truth?

“Prove it,” Alex dared him. “Give me one reason to believe you.”

The bastard reached inside his brand-new white t-shirt and tugged out a medal on a ball-chain. “This here’s his token. No one gets in to see Pops without it.” He slipped the chain up over his head and handed it over. “Go on. Take it. You’re my kid. I ain’t got much, but it’s yours now.”

Alex stared at the medallion swinging at the end of Mel’s gnarled finger. An inch square enameled green shamrock on one side, script etched in black on the other. “What’s it say?” he asked instead of accepting the thing that had all the makings of a peace offering.

“Bráithreachas,” Mel whispered. “It’s Gaelic. Means brotherhood.”

That word rang a long-forgotten bell, a memory of Gramps and Mel arguing like two Bighorn rams butting heads. Of Gramps bellowing that strange Irish word, cursing Mel to go to hell with it. Yelling it at the bastard whose liquor and friends had always meant more to him than his sickly wife and wee one. That he needed to crawl back to Hell, leave before he brought more death home with him. Of Mel yelling back at Gramps that he could burn in that Hell for all Mel cared. That some things were more important than a stupid, scrawny kid and a lying wife.

Alex reached out and snagged the damned medallion. He was that stupid scrawny kid and the bell this medallion had rung had long been silent. “How did you get this? The truth, Mel. For once in your life, tell me the son of a bitchin’ truth.”

“You sound just like your grandpa when you say that. Son of a bitch was always his favorite—”

“The truth!” God, for once! Could he be straightforward and honest? Could he answer the damned question?

“Okay, well, umm… Yeah. I ran with Pops back in the day. I was his second lieutenant,” Mel replied, his voice as steady as Alex had never heard before. “I was the one he conferred with when the coppers were breathing down our necks. I did what he needed getting done.”

Coppers? Was this just a distorted memory from some old gangster movie?

“You were his hired gun? His enforcer?” No way in hell.

Mel nodded, a thin bead of sweat now dotting the space above his upper lip. He was breathing hard. Had all the signs of a man confessing his sins—if anyone was stupid enough to believe him.

“I’m not falling for a word of it. Pops is dead. Want to guess who offed him? One of my people, Mel, and now his deranged daughter’s put a hit on that person. She set the whole fuckin’ charade up, now she set my TEAM up. So tell me again what a big man you were when you hung with that cold-blooded bastard, Delaney. Go on. Brag some more. I need another good goddamned fairytale shoved up my ass.”

Shrugging, Mel spread his arms, his palms splayed as if he were an open book. Which he damned well was not. “Then tell me what you want me to do. You’re my son. My only kid. I know I messed up with Abigail and you, but I can’t go back in time and change nothing. All I can do is be a better man today and tomorrow. The next day. How can I convince you I’m serious? What do you need? Maybe I