“I don’t know when you’ll see any money,” Patrick said. “The publisher won’t pay until the judge considers the pending injunction against the book. The Blackstones are already trying to block it, and I can’t wait on payment forever.”
“I’ve got an entire case of cigarettes you can have,” Mick offered.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Well, I don’t have any money. You know that.”
“You’ve had an interesting proposition,” Patrick said. “The Blackstones will pay you a thousand dollars for agreeing to drop the book permanently.”
Mick leaned against a gritty brick wall as he drew hard on the cigarette, his eyes pensive. “I was hoping to make a lot more than that.”
“But this is guaranteed money, payable immediately. If you gamble on the memoir, it could be years before the court lets the book go to press. I think you’ll win, but there is no guarantee.”
Mick’s hand trembled even harder. Those tremors were a dead giveaway that Mick hadn’t drunk enough yet tonight to calm the shakes. Up close, the ravages of age and alcohol were easier to see than when he’d been holding forth in the pub.
“The quick money is tempting,” Mick finally said. “I’d pounce on it, but Ruby won’t want to sell out. She has her heart set on buying a place in Brooklyn. A little flat with our own kitchen and maybe even a window. What would you do in my shoes?”
“I’d ask your wife how badly she wants that place in Brooklyn. She won’t get it with a thousand dollars.”
Mick nodded and tossed the butt of the cigarette on the ground, grinding it out with his shabby boot. “Good idea. Let’s go ask her.”
Patrick’s hand shot out to stop him. “I was there right before I came to the pub. It didn’t seem like she wanted to be disturbed.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mick said as he started ambling down the alley. “She picked up some stuff from the printer that’s a bit hot and probably didn’t want your pious eyes seeing it.”
Hot? That could mean any number of things, but as long as Ruby wasn’t wrapped in the arms of an illicit lover, he wouldn’t mind concluding this business today. Mrs. Kellerman’s offer carried a stink on it, and he wanted to put it behind him.
Ruby was no more welcoming to him this time, even when Mick swaggered into the single room they shared and drew her into a hearty kiss and a tacky grope. She twisted out of her husband’s embrace and tugged her blouse back into place.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” she said to Mick. “I barely had a chance to throw a cloth over the mess I picked up from down the street.”
The only thing with a cloth over it was a small crate at the end of a rumpled, unmade bed. The room reminded Patrick of the squalid place he’d lived when he first got off the boat. It had a table with two chairs, a chest, and a bed with a thin mattress. All washing and cooking took place in a communal room down the hall.
Mick took a seat on the cloth-covered crate and dragged Ruby onto his lap. “It looks like we’re already making the Blackstones jumpy, love,” he said, then told her about Mrs. Kellerman’s offer.
Ruby seemed offended by the suggestion. “A thousand dollars? When those people live in palaces? Tell her to fling it in the sea.”
“Are you sure?” Mick asked. “We could get the money right now. Think of it, love. A thousand dollars will buy you some new clothes and restock the pantry.”
“You mean it would restock the wine cellar,” she corrected. “We didn’t flee Ireland to be those people’s lapdogs. You did eighteen months in jail waiting for that trial. A jury found you not guilty, and those people never even said they were sorry. Tell them to take their thousand dollars and stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
The words sparked something in Mick, and he stood, tossing Ruby to her feet. “That’s my girl,” he boomed and swept her up into a hug. He tried to twirl her, but his gangly frame couldn’t manage it, and they both went crashing to the floor. They howled in a combination of pain and hilarity.
Patrick looked away. Mick and Ruby were both thoroughly disreputable, but he envied their closeness. Going through life alone was hard. He wanted what they had. He wanted a woman in his life, not the lonely existence of a bachelor still living with his mother.
In the ruckus, Mick’s boot dragged the cloth from the crate, and Patrick’s eyes widened as he stared at it.
Ruby was hiding something “hot,” all right. It looked like a stack of incendiary broadsheets. He couldn’t read much through the slats, but the words Blackstone and Injustice printed in large, bold-faced type were easy to see.
Mick peeled himself up from the floor and grinned as he saw where Patrick was looking. He popped the lid from the crate and handed him one of the flyers. “I thought I’d stoke up a little advanced publicity for my book,” he said proudly.
It didn’t take long to scan the page. This was going to be a problem. The ghostwriter who penned the memoir had carefully avoided outright slander, but this screed was a direct assault on the Blackstones, their bank, and the businesses they funded.
“Use these flyers for kindling, not publicity,” Patrick warned Mick. “I worked with your writer to be sure the book had no outright lies that could get you convicted of libel, but this document is full of it.” He read directly from the flyer. “‘The Blackstones outlaw clocks in their coal mines so they can trick a man into thinking he’s worked only ten hours when he’s actually worked twelve.’ You know that’s not true. There is now a clock in every Blackstone mine, factory, and cafeteria. No one is being lied to about what hours they’ve worked.”
“But they used to.”
“Maybe, but not today, and this leaflet could get you convicted of libel.”
Before he could say more, a pounding on the door interrupted him.
“Mickey!” Someone banged again and shouted from the hallway. “I’ve brought reinforcements from Mingo County.”
Mick opened the door, and men started funneling inside, but Mick pushed them back. “Hey, Donahue. You’re early. I’ve got my lawyer here.”
Patrick eyed the half-dozen men standing in the hallway. Mingo County was a coal mining region in West Virginia, one of the areas that had given the Blackstones trouble over the years.
“What do you need a lawyer for?” Donahue asked. He was a wiry man with hard eyes and cheekbones like blades in his thin face.
Mick straightened his collar. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve got an important book coming out soon.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice, and it didn’t look like Donahue appreciated it.
“Aye, which is why I don’t like a lawyer sniffing around. What’s in that crate?” Donahue pushed into the room and grabbed a flyer. “What are you doing with this?”
Mick gave a smirk. “Since they’re all over West Virginia, I figured I’d use some here in New York. They’ll help sell my book.”
“We’re about more than selling books,” Donahue said in a low tone. “If you think that book is going to do the trick, you’re an even stupider old drunk than we thought.”