In the Wrong Hands, стр. 33
She was naturally pretty. She neither denied it nor apologized for it. She could have disguised herself in utter contrast, making herself “plain”, but she knew better. Guys could see through plain. A guy couldn’t be manipulated with plain.
She had a better way to go. Firmly, she held a theory that pretty had five basic subcategories represented succinctly by the Spice Girls. Jumping between these subcategories, without fail, left guys blind and clueless (even more than usual).
She strutted towards Reilly’s nightly haunt, looking as though she just stepped out of a limousine. She’d dyed her hair golden blonde with subtle streaks of red. Her dress was classic black, knee-length, and tastefully backless. Her shoes were strappy, three-inch heels over nude stockings. Her jewelry was all gold, and thin, and her make-up was straight off of the cover of Vogue magazine. Indeed, she’d successfully jumped subcategories of pretty: wild to sophisticated (Scary to Posh). She reached for the big oaken door to Frankie and Jimmy’s and smiled as she thought about how Reilly wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off of her. Less than forty-eight hours ago, he was grilling her for information about some dead minister or something. Tonight, he’d have no idea who she was…fuck head.
Gordy’s instructions were simple: Hit the shamrock with the brick and ride like hell for the bridge. He wasn’t told what to do if he got caught. For that, he had a plan of his own.
This was the night…what he’d been waiting for ever since he dragged that stupid cow from the Mayor’s farm to the UJ Cloister. It was a two-mile walk, and the thing shit about every ten feet. After tonight, he’d have his real jacket. After tonight, he wouldn’t have to fetch beers or endure a regular helping of boots to the balls. Arthur told him so.
The Reillys moved to Potterford when the steel plant opened in 1898. Sean Reilly worked the furnace and, as the story went, was so callused he could light a match on the tip of his index finger. His son Liam worked the line. He was short and wiry but could still drag a girder the length of a football field if needed. Liam’s son, Martin, was on the loading dock and died saving the lives of seven men when a suspicious fire almost took half of the factory in 1984. Martin and his wife June were blessed with four children. Beth, their only daughter and second oldest child, sold insurance. Petey, their youngest boy, drove a semi. Ian, their middle (and largest) boy owned a local trophy shop. Kevin, their oldest, became a detective for the Potterford P.D.
Despite his upbringing, Kevin Reilly had all the characteristics of a second or third generation cop. He wore his love for the job prominently on his sleeve and went after bad guys with a zeal that bordered frightening, depending on the case. Potterford was his town. His family had been walking its streets and praying in its churches for four generations. He took every crime as a personal insult, and that drive kept his arrest record unsurpassed. Not that things like arrest records and commendations meant anything to him. They didn’t. What mattered to him was hearing the town say “thank you” every time he closed a set of handcuffs. No one killed a man of God in his town and just walked away.
Still, the Jeremy kid wasn’t supposed to die. Until two days ago, Reilly’s passion for the job had granted him self-justification for his pliable interpretation of the law. He’d looked the other way here and there when it served the greater good. He’d taken down a pimp or two and sampled the wares afterwards. He had a couple of paid informants that weren’t on the books, but what happened Saturday night was different…big-league different. Reilly had ordered a hit. He could talk to himself all he wanted to try to convince himself otherwise, but it was what it was. Nothing was going to change the fact or bring that Jeremy kid back from the grave.
He’d been putting up a front all day. Now he was exhausted and paralyzed. Staring deeply into a pint of Guinness was the only activity he could manage. His brother, Ian, was sitting across from him. Their server’s name was Angie. It was the Reillys’ table, literally. A bronze plaque bearing their father’s name said so. Anyone that wanted to sit at it was told that they had to give it up if any Reilly walked in. Ian was not helping matters in the least, but his heart was in the right place. A heart he had when it came to his family. A brain? It depended on the day.
“Kev man, you gotta snap out of it. I’m gonna say it again. You went to the source, you got your info, and you did what your heart and your gut told you to do. That’s what a man does, right? Pop said that over and over again right before beating the shit out of us, right? That kid was in a gang. If he didn’t shoot Bishop Ryan, then one of those other limp dicks in the gang did. And now they’re going to think twice before doing it again. And let me tell you something else. That kid didn’t die because he took a beating. We all take a beating. He died because he was too stoned to defend himself. When you go at a guy with a bat, you expect him to cover up or put his arms over his head. You don’t expect him to give you a clean shot. Man, I gotta tell you…”
“Ian, will you shut the fuck up?!”
Right now, all Reilly