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"No, ya don't."
"I do."
I rise and walk toward him.
He flinches slightly.
I say, "Tell ya what. I'll give ya ninety thousand, but that's it. Not a penny more. And if ya get greedy, Malachy, and argue for more, I'm giving ya nothing. I'll take ya out of here and kill ya. So what's it going to be? Ninety grand and a new life or six feet under the ground?"
He stays silent.
"I'm going to count to three, and if I get to one and ya haven't answered me, I'm choosing the latter," I warn.
He continues to stare at me silently.
"Three…two—"
"Fine. I'll take the ninety," he blurts out.
Sucker.
I would've given him more than that, but I'm sure he's already debating what bets to place. I nod. "Get your ass up and get dressed. We're leaving now."
"Can I have some breakfast first?"
I jerk my head backward. "No, ya can't have any fucking breakfast. Get dressed, now."
He does as he's told.
I send a text message to one of our bookies, telling them to have €90,000 ready for me when I arrive. Then I lead Malachy through the hotel and exit the building.
We get in the car, and I drive to the bookie's. It's one Malachy's been to. When we get there, his eyes light up.
I mutter, "Can't help yourself, can ya, old man?"
"I won last night," he repeats.
It's always the last high that keeps gamblers coming back. Malachy's no different. I park and shoot a text message to the bookie. He comes out with a bag of cash, then glances at Malachy, questioning, "Boss?"
"Thanks, I'll be around later," I state, then take off, not wanting to answer any questions. I drive toward England, and when we get to the border, I pull up to the ferry docks.
Malachy asks, "Where exactly are ya taking me?"
"London."
"London? What am I going to do in London?" he frets.
"You're lucky I'm not taking ya to Siberia. I'd shut up if I were you," I threaten.
He stays quiet but taps his fingers on his thigh.
"Stay in the car while I get the tickets," I order before getting out. I pay the fee for the ferry to take us to Scotland, then return to the vehicle.
Malachy's asleep, snoring against the window. The air is thick with stale alcohol and his body odor.
How long has it been since he showered?
I drive onto the boat, and disgust continues to fill me. I park and assess him, wondering how Maeve put up with him all these years.
