“You’re never going to let me live that down…”
“Well, if it isn’t the Callahan Clan?” called out Old Man Doyle, and just like that, the music cut, the sea of drunks parted, and his men stalked around us, like vultures to their prey. Blowing smoke out of his nose, his old eyes glanced over Mel in disgust. “And this Italian cunt too.”
His men laughed, and one by one all other bystanders, at least the ones with even the slightest mental capacity, retreated into their homes.
“You should lay off the pipe, old man. You don’t have very many brain-cells left,” Mel hissed, breaking free of me completely to stand on her own.
Using his cane, he stepped forward once more. “In my day, wenches like you kept their mouths zipped and legs opened. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Her hand twitched in the direction of her gun, skillfully hidden at the back of her bra. Stepping forward, I forced myself in between them, my father and Declan were beside me within seconds.
“Nice hat, Doyle.” I smirked at the old cloth top hat that sat on his gray head. “What the hell do you want?”
Placing his pipe in his mouth once more, he sucked in deeply and blew the smoke into our faces. “You met the Briars. In fact, it has come to my attention you nearly killed one. Your week is over, and it’s best if your family returns to the depths of Hell from which you came.”
“Or what?” I asked, grabbing the pipe from his mouth. “What will you do if my family and I decide to spend a few more days, maybe even months, here?”
His nostrils flared and I could almost hear his bones crack and pop as he tried to stand up straight.
“You’re playing with fire, young man.” He spat at my feet. The moment he did, a crowd of men slowly came around us. Even the stupid fucker that I had shot through the foot held his gun pointedly at our side.
“We’re from hell, remember?” Mel replied, her eyes scanning over each black rifle. “When you’re born of fire, it can’t hurt you.”
“So young, so foolish,” he said dangerously as he slowly pulled out a photo from his jacket pocket. “You think you can come to our country and walk on water? Think you’re untouchable? Folks are gunnin’ for you while you’re gunnin’ folks down. All it takes is one, before others step up against you. Go home. Get your filth out of my country because you won’t make it another night here.”
Turning towards my father, he simply laughed at me, shaking his head at the fool in front of us. My mother being my mother looked bored and annoyed, clenching her gift in her hand.
Glancing down at my wife, she just nodded. Before he could even blink, my fist collided with the side of Doyle’s wrinkled face. His top hat flew from his head, rolling onto my feet. Pulling the gun from its holster, I grasped hold of his collar and stuck the barrel in his eye.
“Cousin, is this fool trying to blackmail me?” I sneered, digging in deeper into his eye.
Declan frowned, the same expression on his face as our mother. “I believe so. I wonder if he knows he has no men to back up his threats.”
With his one free eye, he glanced around at the men he thought supported him. The man who I shot earlier limped over, grabbing Doyle’s top hat and handed it over to Mel.
“Where’s your fucking loyalty?” he yelled, struggling under me.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Mel replied, dusting off his hat before placing it on her head. “With us.”
Pulling his face closer to mine, I held his throat tightly. “You’re shit out of luck.”
“One day…” he struggled to speak.
“Spare me the sanctimonious bullshit, Doyle. I’ve heard it all before. Ireland does not need you. This town does not need you, and when your blood splatters over its streets, it will be the rain and nothing else that washes it away.”
“Liam,” my mother called, stepping forward. “It’s Sunday.”
Staring at my watch in anger, I pulled my gun from his eye before smacking his cheeks softly.
“How lucky you are, Old Man Doyle.”
Rising from the ground, I fought the urge to kick the living shit out of him; old man or not, he had threatened the wrong family. Pushing himself off the ground, he dusted himself off, glancing around at us all before backing away slowly. The very few men still loyal to him helped him into his truck at the end of the street before taking off.
The only proof that there was ever a festival taking place throughout the streets were the lights that dangled in the winds, the scattered bottles on the sidewalks that were still dripping with rum, and the abandoned instruments that only moments earlier were alive with music.