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This time I listen, sliding back into the darkness of my bedroom. I close the door, leaving a crack wide enough to see straight down the hall.
Dad twists the handle, and before he can open it, Mickey’s boot drives the flimsy wood inward, exposing the Butcher of Belfast in my entryway. An icy cold chill runs down my spine and a sigh of exquisite delight, so close to a moan, escapes my lips.
I’ve watched him from a distance, but street lamps don’t do him justice. He’s tall, packed with rock-hard muscles that strain his clothes, and wears a devious smirk like it’s the latest fashion. A thick layer of stubble coats his strong jawline, and his green eyes have a predatory gleam. Mickey Byrne is a lion on the hunt. He’s circling his prey, toying with it.
“M . . . Mickey, what brings you here this late on a Sunday?” Dad knows the answer, but he’s stalling for time.
“Hello, old son,” Mickey steps inside the apartment. He drives a savage shoulder into my dad, sending him flying back into the thin wall behind him.
The king is in my house. Should I be excited to have him so close or terrified that he’s paying us a personal visit?
Mickey’s men enter our house with their hands hovering precariously on their hips, threatening to draw whatever concealed weapons they have underneath their coats. Dad’s pressed himself so tightly against the wall that it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken through to the other side.
“Shabby place you’ve got yourself here, Artie.”
“Shabby?” Dad scratches a non-existent itch on his inner bicep. The skin goes pink from how his nails dig in. “Uhm, thank you.”
“It ain’t a compliment,” Mickey says. He jams a hand into his breast pocket and draws a box of cigarettes. His eyes briefly dance down the hallway to my bedroom. I should disappear into the darkness and let it consume me. Hide as best I can from the beast standing in my home. I don’t. I stand and watch him, hoping he spots me and calls me to come.
I’d run to his side like the good little lapdog I want to be for him.
“You’ve been in the States too long, Artie. You’ve forgotten your roots.” Mickey jams a cigarette between his lips, shuffling through various pockets for a lighter.
“I was,” Dad can’t get a few words out before choking. “I was born here.”
“You were born in Irish country. Don’t tell me the lot of you have gone soft.” Mickey slinks into the living room and takes a seat in dad’s lounger. “Smells like cat piss in here. Do you have a cat?”
Dad shakes his head.
“Are you spilling your bladder over the furniture?” Mickey’s face twists in an appalling sneer. His comment rouses a chuckle from the two who joined him.
I want this beast to destroy me. He’s cocky, confident and speaks his mind without fear of consequences. I bet that sharp tongue would feel good nestled between my legs.
“We take what we can find.” Dad shrugs. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Mickey?”
“Money, o’course. By my calculation, it’s been a month. Thirty-three days, if you wanna get anal about it.”
Something about the way Mickey says anal makes my cheeks burn crimson. He didn’t even mean it like that, and I’m here fighting not to chuckle like a schoolgirl.
“Ah, you see, Mr. Byrne—”
“Mr. Byrne, ‘ey? Not Mickey anymore?”
Dad swallows so loud I can hear it from across the apartment.
“Let’s not play this game.” The Butcher waves a hand and his foot soldiers step up to my dad. They each grab an arm and pull him into the living room, dropping him to his knees in front of Mickey. “Where’s my money?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Bleeding hell, Artie. We told you what’s gonna happen if you don’t come up with the money, didn’t we?” Mickey eases into the lounger. He fiddles on the side of the seat until he finds the latch, releasing the leg rest. He gets comfortable, smoking his cigarette, while his two men close in on dad.
Sick satisfaction washes over me, watching Mickey work. He’s gunning for my dad, and it should piss me off. It doesn’t. After years of shoveling my dad’s shit, he’s the one who finally gets to know what it feels like to be small. The way his grim demeanor cuts dad down makes me grin. His physically menacing size, overshadowing my father’s limp, frail physique, drives me wild. Mickey’s a monster, there’s no doubt about it.
“Please, Mr. Byrne, I’ll get you your money.” Dad forces his hands together into a tiny cup, begging and pleading for Mickey’s sympathy.
Don’t give it to him. Let him feel the sting of his decisions.
One of the men grabs dad’s shoulder and pushes him to the ground. He presses a great black cobbled boot into dad’s back and keeps him pinned in front of Mickey.
