Okay, so maybe his mind was going.
My huff of laughter wasn’t deliberate. “I’m not in love, Gramps. You know me better than that.”
He eased forward with a groan. Moving around was difficult on him. “Pull that chair over here and sit closer.”
The look in his eyes told me I’d better do as he said.
Once I was sitting directly in front of him, he placed his hand on my knee. “I’ve taught you many things, Logan, but I think I neglected to teach you that you don’t decide when you fall in love. Love decides that for you.”
I lowered my head and raised my eyes. “What’s the matter, old man, got chicks on the brain? Don’t tell me the cute blonde who gives the hand jobs while she bathes you has been standing you up?”
Gramps gave me a wicked laugh. “Think I’d still be here if that were the case? She makes her rounds, don’t worry.”
I couldn’t help my smirk. There was the guy I was used to.
“I assume you’re not here to ask me about the birds and the bees, so cut the shit and tell me what you are here for.”
I gave him a hesitant nod.
“Go on.”
“There’s this girl.” I cringed at the first words that left my lips.
He slapped his hand on my leg and smiled like a motherfucker.
I held my hands up. “Wait—it’s not what you’re thinking.”
Gramps had triumph in his eyes as he eased himself back, looking very proud. “It never is, my boy, it never is.”
I scooted my chair back and rested my forearms on my thighs. “Let me start again. Patrick had my father go on a drug warning last night.”
As soon as I said the words, I felt the temperature in the room drop, and it had nothing to do with the thermostat. The old man’s eyes darkened as the playfulness I’d just seen evaporated into the hard man from the street. Faster than sin, he took the pencil from behind his ear and plunged it into the chair cushion. Some kind of animalistic growl left his throat, and then he brought himself to his feet. “That wasn’t how we left things. Take me to see Patrick,” he barked.
Looking into his dark eyes had me jumping up. “That’s only going to stir shit up and you know it.”
“Now!” he demanded.
“Talk to me first. Listen to what I have to say,” I pleaded.
His disposition didn’t change and his scowl remained.
Worried things would only get worse, I reasoned with him. “Please, this isn’t about your son. I’ll take care of him. He’ll be fine. I’m here because I need some advice. Some insight. Or innocent people are going to end up hurt or, worse, dead.”
Gramps reluctantly sat on the edge of his bed. “Go on.”
I told him everything that I knew that had taken place so far between Patrick, O’Shea, and Elle, which wasn’t much. Even about how much Elle looked like Emily. I kept my voice even, but it broke more than a few times. Finally, I shared my plan to bail out O’Shea out if I had to.
He listened intently. When I finished, he scratched his chin and seemed to think hard for a few moments before he spoke. “Let me get this straight. Someone has been funneling cocaine through the high-society circuit and when Patrick got wind of it, he went ballistic because he doesn’t own a piece of it; and then true to form, he put Tommy on it, who in turn questioned everyone, beat doors down, made threats, but whoever was running the ring remains a ghost on the street.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Makes me think he’s running more than just the small, wealthy circle.”
“I have to agree. This source is bigger than even Patrick thinks.”
I was certain he was right.
“And you think it could be this chick you mentioned?”
“Yeah, O’Shea’s wife. I’m not one hundred percent on that, but that’s what I’m told.”
He harrumphed, since his old-school beliefs meant a chick could never pull something like that off. “I don’t think so.”
“Gramps,” I started to say, but he cut me off.
“And O’Shea, he’s that Black Irish Mickey, the florist’s boy?”
I had to shake my head. No one used that term anymore but him. He had this thing about the Irish having dark hair. Some old wives’ tale that they had a little bit of the devil in them. “Yeah, that’s him. He’s an attorney.”
“Is he anything like his old man?”
“He has dark hair.” I smiled.
“You know what I mean, smart-ass.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know either of them, but in what way do you mean?”
“Devout Catholic. Never misses a Sunday Mass or a confession. Carries a rosary with him too. In fact, if I recall correctly, he had a delinquent son he shipped off to Ireland at a young age to prepare for seminary school years ago. That’s what a fanatic he was.”
“To each his own I guess, but like I said, I don’t know the father or the son. I do, however, think this son is a douche, but a devout Catholic, that I doubt.”
Gramps raised his brows. “You say,” he grinned, “this douche is claiming he isn’t involved with the drug ring at all?”
“That’s what he told Pop, but I’m not so sure.”
Gramps shook his head. “I’m with you. Not sure I’d believe him.”
The tiredness in the back of my eyes faded at the realization I might be right. “Why do you say that?”
Shifting on the bed, he brought his large frame to the head and settled back. “I can’t say, really. It’s a feeling based on what I know of his old man. When Mickey O’Shea was a teenager, he was a small-timer hoping to hit it big. Always doing stupid things. I warned your father to stay away from him in school. And it was a good thing I did. At nineteen, just after he got married, Mickey did a five-year stretch for hijacking a fleet of trucks. His first big job and he gets caught right out of the gate. Fucking idiot. When he got out, he started up his own gang with Patrick Flannigan as his number two. Some shit went down with his wife, and after that the gang folded. Lucky for him, his mother had passed and he took over her flower shop. I have to say, I was surprised that he gave up on making his fortune on the wrong side of the law and settled for domestic life.”
“So he dropped out just like that?”
He shrugged. “As far as I know. Then his wife was killed in some gang-related incident and honestly, I haven’t heard much about him since. But if the young O’Shea is anything like his old man was, he’s a dreamer hoping to hit it big the easy way.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Gramps. O’Shea seems to be doing well on his own. I asked around and he’s thinking of running for District Attorney next year.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t him.”
“He claims it was his wife who set up the drug ring with his friends.”
“Well, talk to her.”
“Can’t. She disappeared three months ago and from what I can piece together, no one knows where she is.”
“And you’re in love with her?”
“No, Gramps. I told you, I haven’t met his wife.”
His eyes narrowed on me. “I’m old, not senile. I’m not talking about the wife and you know it. I’m talking about the one that looks like Emily.”
Cringing, I paced around the room. “Gramps, I only told you that about Emily so you’d understand where my concern was coming from. I’m not in love at all. But last night someone slashed his sister-in-law’s tire and then later tried to break into Elle’s place.”
“And how much longer are you going to pretend that look on your face isn’t what I thought it was when we first started this discussion?”
I shook my head, getting a little aggravated with his misdirected focus. “Give it a rest, old man. I’ve already told you, there’s nothing there.”
He stared at me, his mood contemplative. “I’ll let it go for now, but only because there are more important things to focus on. Was she hurt? Were there any messages left?”
I leaned against the wall. “No, she wasn’t hurt. I’m not sure about any messages.”
His wheels were spinning. “Then it wasn’t Patrick or his prick son, for that matter. The one thing you can count on is that they are lowlife scum. If it had been them, there would have been no doubt it was.”