Pigs by Daniel James

Author:Daniel James [James, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency
Published: 2019-07-21T22:00:00+00:00

Safe House

“It’s just fucking awesome to be riding with you. I could blush, I swear. I’ve been a wheelman for enough names in my time—Roach, obviously—but now to be driving the both of you? It’s like driving Jagger and Richards, or something. The Parkway Bank & Trust job you pulled. $70 mill. Your Marshall Pierce jewellery heist. $53 mill. Those two are my personal favorites, but you guys are a living highlight reel showcase.”

Isaac begged to differ, but allowed Fitzy to run at the mouth if it meant he kept his focus on the road. Now he knew why Grace had graciously given him the shotgun seat with a mischievous smile. Punk, Isaac thought, knowing she was sitting peacefully in the backseat with Roach, who was haggling over the phone with Monahan for the nearest haven off the streets.

“The way you carried those jobs out. The precision, the control. Like a damn military unit. I wish I could have drove for you back then. I’m a damn good driver.”

“If you can drive like you talk, I don’t doubt it,” Isaac answered, silently begging for him to let the radio, or even sweet silence, dominate the journey.

Fitzy chuckled, patting the wheel with his ham-like fists as if trying to coax some laughter from the leather. “I hear ya. I know I talk a lot, it’s what I do when I’m excited, but I’m quiet when I need to be, ya hear? You like this sweet ride?” Isaac grumbled assent. “I borrowed it from an old friend back in Charlestown,” Fitzy went on.

To his credit, Fitzy was very efficient at yammering away whilst smoothly slipping and dodging in and out of lanes. “Must be a kind friend,” Isaac said.

Fitzy’s grin was more like a gurn. “I say friend—he’s really just some guy I grew up with in Southie. Mitch “Dopey” Roscommon. He used to be small time, working for the O’Connell family, and I was more, ya know, freelance. We’d keep runnin’ into each other. He’d ask for tax from a sideline I had going, I’d give him a drunken slap in Whitey’s; he’d shoot my car up, I’d fuck his sister. Just small tit-for-tat stuff, ya know? I actually quite like the guy. Wouldn’t dream of wasting a bullet on him. Not even the skin off my knuckles. Anyway, he’s a mid-level guy now with a nice new home in the South End and a Benzo, and last time I checked our scoreboard I owed him one, so I drove back to Boston and boosted this. Stupid design flaw in the vehicle, if you ask me. Would have been a little harder to steal if I’d had to hotwire it from his driveway. But keys and locks are just too old-fashioned now, I guess.”

“Dino-tech,” Grace added from the back seat.

“All I had to do was some grade-school-level iPad tinkering to amplify the key’s fob signal from inside Mitch’s home, and boo-yah! I was away.” He chuckled with a machine-gun cadence.

Isaac humored the loquacious racer, growing impatient with Roach’s prattling to Monahan.

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