The Long Game by J. L. Fynn Read Free Book Online Page B

had
already stopped by to congratulate me on a job well done, and he’d
heard about my success straight from Pop Sheedy himself.
    A ladybug landed on the front of my shirt.
When I brushed it away, it took flight, heading northeast. I
couldn’t help but think of Mary Sheedy’s confidence that her
husband would be from Georgia, thanks to a ladybug that probably
hadn’t made it past the woods before getting eaten by a bird. I
chuckled to myself as I stepped off the porch and crossed to the
picnic table.
    The day promised to be a scorcher, and I made
a mental note to sleep outside that night rather than in the stuffy
confines of the tin can Maggie called a home. I straddled one of
the benches and blew a sharp whistle through my teeth. Yeats padded
over and slipped his head into my lap, patiently waiting for a
scratch.
    “Morning, boy.” I dug my fingers into the
folds behind his ears. “Where’s Beckett?”
    I’d named the dogs after discovering the
Irish writers in a freshman English class. With their grizzled and
scraggly appearance, the names seemed fitting. Yeats lifted his
head and huffed, clearly annoyed he was once again tasked with
finding his errant companion. I chuckled as he lumbered away and
disappeared around the side of the trailer.
    The sound of an approaching vehicle made me
turn in my seat. A black car pulled up to the trailer, slowing to a
stop in front of our blue pickup, which looked even older and
shabbier next to the glittering Mercedes. All the doors opened, and
Pop Sheedy hoisted himself out of the car with aid of the
doorframe. He was soon followed by all four of his sons. Judd was
the last to appear from the car, glowering as he emerged from the
driver’s side. The age range of the Sheedy boys spanned almost two
decades. Mike, named after his father and so referred to simply as
“Sonny,” was the oldest at 38, but his plump face made him look
only a few years older than his youngest brother. His young
appearance was even more stark when he was next to his craggy wife,
who thankfully wasn’t with him today. All four of them seemed to be
cut from the same cloth, each hovering right around six feet tall,
with broad shoulders; coal black hair; and the same wide-set, milky
blue eyes.
    Apprehension prickled at the back of my neck.
Something had to be wrong. Maybe Pete had been exaggerating when
he’d told me how happy Pop had been with my efforts the day before,
or—worse yet—maybe a police officer had come around asking
questions about my quick-change. Whatever it was, this unannounced
visit could only be bad news because Pop Sheedy never came to
you.
    I stood in a show of respect to the clan
leader who sauntered toward me at a painfully slow pace. The boys
hung back a little, though they trailed after their father in an
effort to get within earshot of the conversation. Probably looking
forward to the reaming I was about to get, the bastards. They’d all
decided to tag along to get a good laugh at the buffer.
    I didn’t take my seat again until Pop had
settled himself on the opposite side of the table.
    “Morning.” I sat stiffly across from the old
man. “I’m honored you decided to pay a visit. Can I get you
anything? Maggie made a new batch of tea.”
    I half-stood again as if I were about to go
inside and put a kettle on. I was stalling, of course, trying to
delay the inevitable.
    “ Sit down, Shay,” Pop
said.
    I slowly lowered myself back to the bench.
“Pop, I think I know why you’re here, and I can explain.” It was a
lie. I had no explanation because I had no idea what I’d done
wrong. Still, it seemed like an apology was the best way to
start.
    “ You don’t know why I’m here
and have nothing to explain, so shut your trap and let me say what
I’ve come here to say.” Pop’s eyes were full of cold
appraisal.
    “Yes, sir.” I dropped my eyes to the table
and kept my mouth shut as instructed.
    “This trailer of yours is a bit of an
eye-sore,” Pop said after a