The Family Firm

Chapter 62

Donny ran a hand through his thinning hair and stared at his neglected glass of Teacher's. He hadn't felt this nervous in a long time. It wasn't every day that he was expecting a phone call from Mickey McElroy himself, and yet that was where he sat, in his home office, listening to the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

He had been acquainted with the gangster for four years now. In Manchester, they had struck up an alliance of sorts, though Mickey had never explicitly told him what the purpose was. In the beginning, Donny had been blinded by the idea that he might be able to use whatever strings Mickey could pull in order to reclaim Frankie for himself. With Fred out of the way, she wouldn't have her brother there to poison her against him. And, working for a man as powerful as Mickey (for, although Donny wasn't very far deep in the criminal underworld, he had a general knowledge of how things worked), Donny would be all quids in. With a proper job, there would be nothing stopping Frankie from taking him back. And once he could make it on his own, well, he wouldn't have to worry about Mickey McElroy any further either.

Frankie had given him a second chance in the end, which was something that fell into both his and Mickey's plans. Though he had certainly pissed that away by now. She hated him, like she had always hated him. The woman was hot and cold, which was part of the reason he loved her. She was a mad woman, was his Franks, tough and strong and stroppy, one of the few women that put up with him, and he reckoned he was the only man who could tolerate her.

No, he had never really treated her right, but she hadn't given him any respect either! She drove him mad, would drive any man mad really, and who could blame him? The woman was damned near intolerable, and yet there he was, always by her side, martyr that he was. That had to count for something.

If he just made things right this time, if he could salvage what little relationship they have, and prove that he was a good man, then things would be fine. He might even have a proper relationship with his son again. But he needed time, and Mickey had to understand that. You couldn't rush things with Frankie, even after all those years.

The phone rang so sharply Donny nearly fell out of his chair. Before it could ring a second time, he plucked the receiver from the cradle and pressed it to his ear—this was under strict instruction from the gangster himself, a precaution when dealing with private matters. He waited the appropriate few seconds before saying nervously, 'I'm alone.'

At first, there was nothing. And then, a thick Northern Irish brogue garbled from the other end. 'I take it things are going well?'

Donny held his breath. For a split second, he considered lying, but knew that when dealing with men like Mickey, he had to tread carefully. 'Er . . . no, actually. But, it's nothing to worry about. I just need a bit more time. She's—my wife is a difficult woman . . . —'

'Do you think I'm a cunt?'

The question took him by surprise, and he gasped out lamely, 'What?'

Mickey repeated himself. 'Do you think I'm a cunt?'

The tension between the two men hung thickly in the air, and Donny struggled for words.

'No, no of course n—'

'Then why are you treatin' me like one?' Mickey took advantage of Donny's silence. 'I give you free rein to do as you please, for four feckin' years, and only one ultimatum, that bein' to make good with Frankie Evans. And what have you got to show for it?'

'Look,' said Donny, feigning confidence. 'I've done plenty, Mr McElroy. We live together again, which is more than I can say for her in years, it's just we hit a bit of a . . . rough patch.'

'Oh, a rough patch eh?'

'Yes,' he reaffirmed. 'But I promise you, I promise you I'll get it sorted as soon as possible.'

'It's too fecking late for that,' responded Mickey. 'I've finished me own rough patch with those Derry bastards, and I don't need to clean up your messes too. But if you want something done, you have to do it yourself, aye?'

'Mr McElroy—'

'Fuck off, O'Reilly,' spat the gangster. 'You'll be seeing me soon enough.'

The sudden click of the call's disconnection was startling, and the breath caught in Donny's throat, even after the familiar tone began emitting from the receiver. Slowly, he lowered the phone and hung it up before staring on in silence. He'd really ballsed things up this time, hadn't he.

His anxieties hit him in the gut like a bucket of ice-cold water as his eyes flitted from the phone down to the folder resting beneath his finger tips. Within it were all the contents he needed to sort things out for good. Perhaps it was time to use them. He wasn't sure he'd get another chance.

The sound of the front door opening downstairs alarmed him, and the panic rushed through his veins like adrenaline. He could almost laugh at himself; he was acting like he was being caught in an affair! It wasn't Mickey already, clearly, it was only Frankie, home from her new office or wherever she fucked off to those days.

'Donny?' she called up the stairs, her voice shrill in his ears. 'Help me with these bags, yeah?'

Annoyed by himself and his jumpiness, he quickly compiled the contents of the folder and crammed them into the safe he had in the back of his home office. He'd sort that out later. There were a few things he had to do first . . .

'Donny?'

'Sure, Franks,' he called after her, realising he'd delayed. 'Be down in a tick.'