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I don't move, not taking my eyes off Oscar.
The thug finishes going through the bills and then nods at Oscar.
I question, "Are we good?"
Oscar waits a moment, then looks at Malachy.
My chest tightens. I need to get out of here. "There's one minute left before the O'Connors storm your pub. I don't think either of us want that. Or do ya?" I threaten again, my pulse increasing, wondering if I made a mistake creating this bluff.
"He stays," Oscar states, pointing at Malachy.
Fear overtakes Malachy's expression.
Maeve's stupid fucking da.
He's just another gambling junkie. I've seen it too many times, and I'll be damned if I take this problem on for the rest of my life.
Still, I declare, "No. The old man leaves with me. If he doesn't, the O'Connors come in."
Tension builds once more.
Oscar finally nods. "Aye, you're free to go. We don't need more bloodshed tonight. But don't ever step foot in my pub again."
I glance at Malachy. "He's not to step foot in your pub either, understand?"
"Why am I being penalized?" Malachy whines.
"Ya stupid fucking drunk," I mutter, trying to contain my new wave of anger.
Oscar folds his arms over his chest, assessing us.
"Never again," I warn Oscar.
He snarls, "I decide what happens in my pub, not you. Now get the fuck out before I kill ya."
"You kill me, and those women out there are dying tonight. You understand?"
Oscar's face hardens. "Ya have thirty seconds to get out of my pub safely, then I'm not guaranteeing anything. Show him to the door." He motions to the man who was counting the money.
Malachy and I are escorted through the pub and out the front door. I deeply inhale the fresh air. But it's only when I check my car for bombs with my pen, get in, and start the engine, that I relax a bit.
We stay quiet as we drive through Dublin, and my pulse finally decreases once I'm back in O'Connor territory.
I turn to Malachy and catch him taking a sip of his flask.
Fucking drunk.
How did Maeve put up with this shit all these years?
I warn, "This all ends. Do ya understand me?" But I know better. My warning is in vain. A gambling addict is a gambling addict. They can't just stop. And my gut says Malachy will still find a way, even if there's nothing left for him to bet.
"Aye. Stop bossing me around now," he grumbles, then puts his flask away, leans his head against the headrest, and shuts his eyes.
I don't say anything else. I drive him to his house. It used to be in O'Leary territory, but now it's in ours. When I pull into the driveway, I slap him across the face.
He wakes up. "Oi! What are ya slapping me for?"
"Get the fuck out and don't ya ever put my wife at risk again. Do ya understand me?"
