Sparrow - L.J. Shen Page 0,97

fullest.

I took a seat in the first row, next to two elderly men I didn’t recognize. I glanced sideways, scanning them. From their attire, mannerisms and the faint scent of mothballs, I gathered the geezers were not ex-mob. They were ancient looking, with snow-white hair and gray flannel suits, and although probably Irish, they didn’t mix with the rest. Outsiders.

Good. I wasn’t in the mood to suffer the usual crowd.

The priest started talking and I tuned him out. Tara and her mother, the only relatives Paddy had left, sat on the other side of the church. Tara cried and sniffed, clutching torn, damp pieces of tissue in her fist, and although I felt a little sorry for her loss, knowing she’d inherit nothing from her deadbeat dad, I stood my ground. Sparrow deserved whatever Paddy had more than she did. It wasn’t Tara he had hurt.

As soon as the service started, I found out exactly why the spot I chose in the front pew was empty in the first place. The men beside me were gossiping like fucking teenage girls. They were at it in full force, ignoring the priest and everyone else. Sounded like they were doing an inventory of who was there and who wasn’t, and even though I didn’t want to, I pretty much had to eavesdrop. Not that it was really eavesdropping when their voices could carry all the way to Cape Cod.

“Who else hasn’t shown up?” One of the men clucked his tongue.

“Ah, the old wife, Shona. The one he married in the nineties. She ain’t here either.”

“I’m not surprised. Paddy gave her hell.”

“That, he did.”

“And the Kavanagh kid, surprised he’s not here.”

“I think his name is Greystone now. He changed it after his da died. I would, too, after what happened to him.”

“David Kavanagh brought shame to his family. Killed by a drug dealer.”

“Greystone,” the old man continued, ignoring his friend. “Should be here. Paddy was his godfather, after all. He should show some respect.”

“The Kavanagh kid’s living in Boston now, you know. Moved back five, six years ago, I think. I saw him hanging around his da’s favorite bar a couple of times. Makes you wonder why Kavanagh didn’t show up when he lives just down the road.”

“I told you his name’s Greystone.”

The old geezers were rambling, the thread of the conversation tough to follow, but I’d caught one thing. How many Greystones were there in the world, and even more importantly, Greystones who had moved to Boston five or six years ago?

Kavanagh. Greystone.

Kavanagh.

Greystone.

Brought shame to his family…living in Boston now…Paddy was the kid’s godfather…Kavanagh.

David Kavanagh.

Who was David Kavanagh? I tried to remember. The name sounded familiar, like a childhood lullaby I hadn’t heard in years but could still hum.

David Kavanagh. Who the fuck are you, David Kavanagh?

Then it hit me.

David Kavanagh. A beating gone bad. It had happened nine years ago, when the mobsters of America realized how poorly regulated the recycling industry was and cashed in big while going green. Cillian had Kavanagh roughed up after he tried to steal a shit-ton of recycled pipe and copper wire. Kavanagh got caught, pulled a knife instead of taking his medicine and ended up dead. There was blood. Everywhere.

Cleaning up the mess was one of my earliest jobs as The Fixer. I’d staged a drug deal, dumping the body in an alley with Kavanagh’s knife, proud I’d handled things so neatly for my father.

David Kavanagh. Fuck, fuck. David fucking Kavanagh.

Trying not to let paranoia get the better of me, I eased back into the pew, but it was too late. I was all fucking ears, dying to hear what they’d say next.

One of the white-haired men nodded, spitting more info and a little saliva on the burgundy carpet.

“Brock,” he said with conviction. “Brock was the kid’s name. Nice boyo. I think he’s married now.”

My hand snaked to my breast pocket. I clutched the yellow slip of paper. All the pieces fell together. A moment of clarity washed over me, and I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Brock had a motive, and access.

Fuck.

Paddy was Brock’s godfather. Of course he fucking was. That’s why Paddy knew about Red’s mom. Why he knew about the arrangement, about the marriage, about everything.

Jesus fuck.

And Brock? He’d reinvented himself as Greystone, even dropping a fucking clue by adopting a last name that was a little morbid and a lot angry. As a rehab counselor turned restaurant manager. As the good guy.

He knew I’d keep an eye on