Indebted to the Mafia King
Friends Closer

Dante

A few days later, I lean on my horn as the car in front of me completely ignores the green light overhead. "What the fuck do you mean, am I sure we have to do this?"

Tony rolls his eyes. "Exactly what I goddamn said. I know ignoring Cal Duncan isn't smart, but just because he called the meeting doesn't mean we have to do it in his home fucking base."

"You'd prefer neutral territory." I speed forward as the car finally moves and dodge around them to reach the open road ahead. "Like Chinatown?'

"You're in a rare mood," he grumbles. "Thought I was supposed to be the fucking funny one."

"I thought so too." I grin at my old friend. "And I'm just trying not to walk into an out-of-the-blue meeting with Cal Duncan looking like we're crying over spilled milk. Didn't you say he was minding his Ps and Qs?" "Technically." Tony shakes his head. "As technically as a motherfucker could. He's dancing right on the edge of our territory, just barely not starting something."

I pull up in front of McCreegan's Pub, up in Woodlawn in the Bronx. It's a hole in the wall place, just a few steps up from Benny's. I shake my head. No one in this goddamn city has any panache other than me. Tony grunts in agreement. I park the car, and we get out and walk inside.

Of course, inside isn't much better. The place looks like it was transplanted right from Ireland, complete with a massive, stained, dark-wood bar and the smell of a thousand years of old beer. I dodge between a couple tables of old Irish men drinking in the middle of the day and saunter up to the bar.

"The Lucky Charm," I say with an eye roll.

The bartender nods and disappears, then returns a few minutes later.

"You're late," he says.

"Traffic," Tony replies.

The bartender grits his teeth but leads us through a swinging door into the kitchen, then into the freezer.

"Did Cal decide to kill us after all?" I rub my arms, trying not to turn into an icicle.

The bartender ignores me to shoulder-check a particularly frostbitten box. It slides back into the wall with a click, and then the whole wall swings open like a door.

With a relieved sigh, I step through, expecting something more modern. Behind the freezer wall stands what looks for a second like a replica of the bar out front, just a little cleaner. Then, I realize the redhead behind the bar here is none other than Cal Duncan himself.

"Gentlemen!" he calls. "Please, come in, warm up."

He begins pouring three mugs of beer so dark it looks like liquid mud. Fucking hospitality rules. I'll have to drink the swill. One glance at Tony tells me he's thinking the same goddamn thing. Still, we sit on the barstools and accept the drinks. "Slainte." Cal raises his own beer and drinks

I grip the handle of my mug and take a pull. Swamp water, with bits of swamp floating it in. I smile and set it back down.

"Surprised to see you swapped out the old ball and chain." Cal grins and sticks out his hand. "Tony? We spoke on the phone. You look exactly how I pictured."

Tony shakes his hand tensely. "Right back 'atcha."

Cal turns back to me. "So, when can I expect the wedding invitation? She seemed quite enamored of you the other day."

"About the time I can expect the topic of this conversation, it seems," I say.

He laughs uproariously. "Well, the Irish are blunt, but it seems we've got nothing on you."

"Apologies for my bluntness. I'm rather busy with the barbecue, which you did get an invitation to. And, to be frank, I'm not much interested in doing business with you."

"You think our problems start and end with a couple partnerships?" He laughs again. "We're in deep shit, my fine friend. Federal shit."

My stomach drops. "That hasn't popped up on our radar, and we have people inside most of the major agencies."

"That's because you're not looking for people, you're looking for a person." Cal sips his own beer. "One Special Agent Henry Alcott, to be precise. And he might not be on your particular radar because, to hear tell, he's your stock." He smiles. "Saint stock."

I blink and glance at Tony out of the corner of my eye. We know Henry. Hell, Tony's nonna's Christmas Eve used to include Henry Alcott. His grandfather was a Saint. I have a vivid memory of passing him the seventh fish one year, only for him to take one look at it and sprint from the room to throw up because he was sneaking beer all night. He hasn't been by the last few years though.

"Let's say I believe you." I trace the handle of my mug. "Why the fuck would it benefit you to tell us this? Is there more you're holding back for a price."

"I'm an open book." Cal spreads his arms. "Truth told, I don't think we need any more shaking up here in the city, and rats have a tendency to do some shaking."

I study him for a long moment. I know Cal Duncan by reputation mostly. Men don't get to our position without a few secrets, but I know what sort of man Cal is. The bravado's his favorite cover, a game that unnerves all the men like me, who he thinks have sticks up our asses. But there's a not-quite-playful flicker in his eyebrows, a shred of nervous energy in the way he spins his beer around.

"This city is a house of cards," I say slowly. "And if our cards tumble, yours are next. Someone's breathing down your neck. The Russians?"

Cal grins too wide. "Handsome and smart. Your girl must be pleased."

I stand. "Thanks for the beers, Cal, but you don't need to worry about Henry Alcott."

"I think that's mighty short-sighted, gentlemen." His smile doesn't fade. "The Russians aren't just sniffing my neck of the woods."

I nod to Tony, who stands.

"We'll see you at the barbecue." I turn and walk back out the freezer, through the front pub, and don't even pause until we reach the car. Tony walks at my side in perfect silence. "Fucking Henry," he says as soon as he drops into the passenger's seat.

"Fucking Henry," I agree. "Look into it, okay? And maybe check to see if Cal's telling the truth about the Russians. The last thing we need is them sneaking up on us." Tony nods. "I've never liked rats."