At the end of the block, Sean looked around, then veered into the city park, slowing to a walk as he spotted the car parked near the water fountains. A man and a woman climbed out, both tall, with short hairstyles. It looked better on her. She had strong Mediterranean features, handsome rather than pretty, dark eyes and deep auburn hair. Natural, not dyed.
“Agent Vanston.” Sean nodded at the man. “And I take it Stretch here is supposed to pass as my lady friend?”
“I’m Agent Gia Sirico, Mr. O’Donnell,” the woman said. No one offered to shake hands.
“No offense, Red, but you’re not my type. I usually date petite blondes and my brother knows that.”
Sirico shrugged. “For this weekend, your taste runs to Italian redheads. Unless you’d rather spend the next ten years in a cell. That’s the fall for embezzlement, Mr. O’Donnell. Ten hard years.”
“Call me Sean. You’re supposed to be my girlfriend.”
“Okay, Sean. Call me Gia, not Red. The only reds we care about are in Haulers Local 106.”
“I don’t like the goons in Mike’s union, either. Which is the only reason I’m doing this. I didn’t embezzle a dime. There must be a computer malfunction at the bank.”
“No doubt,” Vanston snorted. “But at the moment, your accounts are short half a mile, O’Donnell. So what will it be? A little cooperation or Christmas in jail?”
“I said I’d help you and I will. Just don’t expect me to like it. What do I do?”
“Keep it simple,” Vanston said briskly. “You introduce Gia and me as your girlfriend and her brother, Gia and Carl Moscone, and you help us to blend in.”
“It may not work. My brother’s no fool.”
“You’d better make it work, sport. If Red Mike doesn’t buy your act we’ll bust you on the spot and haul you out in cuffs.”
“You mean you’ll try.”
“Is that a threat?” Gia asked.
“More like a promise. Because if my half-brother guesses I’m selling him out, jail’s the least of my worries. I won’t get out of there alive. And neither will you.”
By the time Sean and Bowser got back, the street was already lined with cars. Uncles, aunts, in-laws, cousins, and neighbors. Hardworking Irish-Americans coming to celebrate the holiday with their nearest and dearest and to welcome their notorious kinsman home from the lockup.
While Iron Mike basked in their affection and good wishes, Mother Meg kept the dining room table piled with finger food and sandwiches. Occasionally a man would take Mike aside for a quiet discussion — a job for a relative, a beef with a boss. No promises asked or given, but the problem was noted and a debt was incurred.
No one mentioned the labor racketeering charges Mike had been jailed for. No need. Most of the men were hard-core union. A few were old enough to remember the lead-pipe-and-dynamite days when Walter Reuther was beaten half to death by company thugs on the Miller Road overpass and old Henry Ford mounted a machine gun on his factory roof.
Bottom line, they were Irish. And knew a bit about men being imprisoned for their politics. And right or wrong, Commie or no, Iron Mike was family.
Amid the din of a dozen conversations and laughter, no one noticed the buzzer but Sean. He hurried to the door just as his mom opened it. To the FBI.
“Good evenin’, welcome, and Merry Christmas to you both,” Mother Meg said, ushering them in. “You must be—”
“Gia, the love of my life,” Sean said, sweeping the startled agent into his arms and kissing her soundly on the mouth. And holding it as their eyes met. Hers flashed, but she held the kiss as long as he did, and gave him an extra hug when it was over.
“A girl that blushes.” Mother Meg grinned. “Didn’t think there were any left, let alone that Sean could find one. And you’d be the brother?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Vanston nodded, shaking her hand. “Carl Moscone. Call me Carl, call me Carlo, just don’t call me late for dinner.”
“Well, if you’ve brought an appetite you’re at the right place, Carl. We’ve enough tucker here to feed an army.”
“Or a Red Brigade,” Sean said blandly. “Come on in, kids, meet the gang.” He ushered the agents through the crowded living room, making introductions all the way. Ending up at the dining-room doorway where Mike was leaning against the door.
“Gia and Carl Moscone, this is my famous outlaw brother, Iron Michael O’Donnell.”
“Welcome and Merry Christmas,” Mike said, shaking hands with both of them. “Wow. Another rangy, redheaded beauty. Can’t imagine how my brother finds them.”
“I thought he preferred blondes,” Gia said.
“Did Sean tell you that? If nobody’s warned you yet, miss, you’d better beware of my little brother. Beneath that button-down banker’s disguise, Sean’s more mischief than all my rowdies put together.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Gia said. “Sean claims you’re an evil mastermind.”
“See, there he goes, fibbin’ again. I’m just a humble labor negotiator, miss. And what is it you do?”
“Nothing very interesting, Mr. O’Donnell. I write advertising.”
“A pity you’re not in management. I wouldn’t mind negotiating a deal with you myself.”
“Hey, do you mind?” Sean chimed in. “This woman’s going to bear my children.”
“Just what the world needs, more skinflint bankers,” his brother shot back. “And you, Carl? Mike said you play a little poker. We’ll be puttin’ a little game together later. Care to join us?”
“Love to.” Vanston smiled. “Hope you don’t mind losing your allowance.”
“A bold talker with a beautiful sister.” Mike grinned, wrapping an arm around the agent’s shoulder. “This’ll be a holiday to remember. Come on, Carl, let me find you a drink.” Mike led him off through the crowd to the kitchen.
“Well,” Gia said, taking a deep breath, glancing around to be sure they weren’t overheard. “That went well. You think he suspects anything?”
“Why should he?” Sean shrugged. “He’s an honest man.”
“He’s a Communist thug.”
“Who doesn’t pretend to be anything else. Which is more than I can say for either of us.”
“Cool it, O’Donnell, we’re not the bad guys here. I’m doing my job and you’re saving your ass. If your brother’s not guilty of anything, he has nothing to worry about. And by the way, don’t go overboard with the kissing thing.”
“Gee, Red, we’re supposed to be in love and the Irish are an affectionate race. So are the Italians, come to think of it.”
“We also have a pretty good gag reflex.”
“Really? Then how do you explain eels in clam sauce?”
“Ah, there you are, you two.” Mama Meg came bustling up. “Gia, you and your brother are staying over, I hope.”
“I’m sure they have other plans, Ma—” Sean began.
“Not at all,” Gia interrupted. “We’d be delighted, Mrs. O’Donnell.”
“Wonderful. Lord knows I’ve waited long enough for Sean to bring a girl home, but I must say it was worth the wait. What’s your favorite pie, dear?”
“My fav—? Lemon meringue, but—”
“You don’t say! Mine too! I know a wonderful recipe. Let’s hope none of these lunkheads like it so we can eat it up ourselves.”
“Please, Mrs. O’Donnell, don’t go to any trouble—”
“No trouble at all, dear. I love to cook, though you’d never know from this skinny rail I’ve raised. Will you two be sharing Sean’s old room, then?”
Gia opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, looking to Sean for help. Didn’t get any; he was all wide-eyed innocence.
“A girl that blushes,” Meg repeated, shaking her head. “Who’d have thought? Never you mind, dear, we’ll find you a bedroom of your own. The boys’ll be playin’ cards most of the night anyway.”