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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 him if I realized who he was, that I would never have given him a job. My mercy, hospitability and love for Catalina had some hard limits, even back then. Shit, if I’d known Brock was Kavanagh’s son, I’d have sent him back where he came from. His dad was no innocent victim. He sold us stuff, stole our stuff. Ratted on us. He did a lot of damage, was responsible for the loss of a couple of lives, too.
Brock Greystone was not a Greystone, and he wasn’t a West Coast outsider either. He was David Kavanagh’s son, one of us. An Irish kid from Boston who pretended to be someone else. He even had that smooth Cali accent to accompany his thick hair and Hollywood smile. No trace of Boston in his voice.
How could I not have known Brock was one of us?
I let him into my life without even checking who he was first. My mind was so messed up over losing Cat, over her betrayal, over her pregnancy, and how her baby-daddy needed a job on the East Coast, I got sloppy. Before I knew it, Brock had access to my business, to my secrets, to my father.
