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I scoff. "Of course ya were going to win. You're always going to win."
"I win a lot," he argues.
I snort. "Do ya not notice that ya have nothing left? You've lost everything, including your own flesh and blood. But that's not enough, is it? You're so deep down your addiction hole ya still can't stop."
His expression glowers red, but he stays silent. I grab his shirt collar and yank him toward me. He cries out, "Let me go!"
I seethe, "You will never put Maeve in any situation like this again, including coming to her for help. Do ya understand me?"
His eyes widen further.
I bellow, "I asked if you understand me!"
"Aye! Now get your hands off me," he insists.
I wait another moment, then finally release him, inquiring, "What bookie did ya make a bet with?"
He pauses as if trying to remember.
"Come on, old man. I don't have all night. Who is it?"
He mumbles, "Oscar."
I rack my brain, and dread fills me. I know who he's talking about, and it's worse than I assumed. "You're really an idiot," I scold. "Ya made a bet with Oscar O'Leary, didn't ya?"
"Of course I did. I am an O'Leary," he stresses, as if it's something to be proud of.
"I thought they wouldn't take any more of your bets," I say, but I know how it works. If there's anything a bookie thinks he can take, he will. I know the game too well. Somewhere, Malachy came into some winnings and must have used it as collateral to get back into their good graces.
He shrugs. "Well, they did."
"How much do ya owe them?" I demand, turning right, which will lead toward Dublin.
He takes a deep breath. "€50,000."
I groan. "€50,000? Are ya out of your ever-loving mind? And how the hell did ya get a bet that big?"
He removes his faded green beret and runs his hand over his balding head, stating, "I have credit."
I snort. "Credit? Ya can't even pay your light bill. How the fuck do ya have credit, especially after they banned ya?" It's another stupid question, but I can't help myself from asking.
He turns toward me and then freezes. He stares at my fingers on the steering wheel. His cheeks turn red.
He's down, but I kick him further, asserting, "Aye, ya don't like your band on my finger, huh? Oh, wait, should I say my band that's no longer on your finger?"
He scowls and blinks hard. I know the ring means something. Maeve acted like she would be destroyed when I initially took them.
They're shitty pieces of gold, tarnished and probably not worth two nickels if I rubbed them together. Yet it's the only thing the old man had left besides his daughter before he gave her to me.
I almost feel sorry for him, but then I remember what a sick fuck he is, betting his own daughter to pay off his debt instead of taking his punishment like a man. So he doesn't even deserve his shitty gold band.
I accelerate down the road and turn up the radio, not wanting to talk to him any longer. I know where Oscar hangs out. He'll be in the pub in Dublin.
I'm not happy I have a three-hour drive, but I know what to do. There's only one way to get in and out of the pub alive and ensure Malachy no longer owes Oscar.
I cross the border from O'Connor territory into the O'Leary's, gritting my teeth. My chest tightens. It's not a smart thing to come here on my own. However, the bag of money I have in the back of my car will get me through and out alive. I put my hand on my hip, even though I know my gun's there.
By the time we get to Dublin, it's dark. I pull up to the pub and park, then order Malachy to get out.
