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“Why the fuck would I want that piece of shit in my home?”
“Youdon’t want him. But I do. Because once he’s here, I’m going to kill him.”
2
TRAP
* * *
Afamily of tourists stands outside Philadelphia’s Mummer’s Museum, oohing and aahing over the memories they’re making for a lifetime. “Excuse me! Sir?” the mother says. “Could you take our picture?”
What’s wrong with a fucking selfie?
I think it. I don’t say it. I take their thousand-dollar phone and wonder what they’d do if I tore off down the alley with it. Instead, I tell them all to say cheese. I’m a goddamn upright citizen.
At least, that’s what I hope to project before I slink into the Hare and Harp, a down-at-the-heels bar with mahogany walls, a long scarred counter, and a private office for the captain of Philadelphia’s Irish mob. “He in?” I ask the bartender, who’s polishing a glass like his life depends on it.
“Who’s asking?”
“Trap Prince.”
The barkeep scowls, but he taps out a text on the phone he pulls from his apron pocket. Nice to know organized crime is keeping up with the times.
“You know where the office is?” the guy finally asks.
I don’t bother answering. I just head down the hall, past a storage room and a steep set of stairs that lead to a basement where I suspect things happen that I’m better off knowing nothing about.
I knock twice on the door at the end of the corridor and wait for a shout—“Come in!”—before I turn the knob.
Braiden Kelly sits behind a desk that looks like it was salvaged from some ancient Irish ship. The front and sides are carved with harps and shamrocks and those tall buckled hats that leprechauns wear. A gooseneck lamp stands on top, highlighting a statue of St. Brigid and a fan of mass cards.
Kelly stands when I enter. I tolerate his handshake, snarling at the Beast inside my skull and clenching my other first around my cell phone for a quick five-count. Kelly waves to one of the two massive armchairs that crowd the rest of the office. I take the one angling toward the door, putting my back against the wall.
“My man Liam should’ve sent you back with a pint,” Kelly says.
“He must have realized I’m not staying long.”
Kelly probably figured that out on his own. Sure, Kelly’s in the Diamond Ring, one of my top twelve clients at the freeport. But that doesn’t mean I drop in on a regular basis to shoot the shit.
He rubs a hand over his face, and I wonder what I interrupted. The guy looks tired; there are spider lines of red around his blue eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a week or more. Maybe that’s because his beard drives women crazy. Or the made men of Philadelphia might have some sort of problem on their hands.
Not my fucking circus. Definitely not my goddamn monkeys.
“I need some help,” I say.
His face twitches, just a raise of his eyebrows. “What sort of help?”
I glance around the office, wondering if I’d recognize surveillance equipment if I was staring right at it. I figure Kelly’s got to sweep the joint on a regular basis. He might be able to buy protection from Philly cops, but the feds aren’t as easy to keep on a payroll.
“Go on,” he says. “The office is clean.”
“I need some help picking up a guy. He’s in a warehouse, down by the Navy Yard.”
“Some help.” His voice doesn’t go up, but he’s asking a question.
“He’s employed by the Herzogs, Jonas and Ansel. The assholes who made that video public.”
He doesn’t have to ask which video. The footage of Alix killing Klaus Herzog has been front and center on local news for over three weeks. I told the Diamond Ring about it myself, at the same time I suggested they all take long vacations to countries without extradition treaties.
