Boston, Massachusetts
February 1990
The gate of Massachusetts Correctional Institution - Concord slid open with a loud buzz, and Patrick Reardon, once again, walked out into the cold a free man. The driver of the Lincoln honked twice and Patrick hurried to the back seat of the warm car. John Reardon didn’t get out but greeted his nephew with a warm hug once he was seated.
“Thanks for getting me, Uncle John.”
“Your father’s ghost would haunt me if I didn’t,” he grinned. “Seamus could forgive a lot of things, but failing to be waiting with a warm greeting and an even warmer shot of whiskey when he walked out of prison was not one of them.”
Patrick looked around the spacious interior of the limousine, then took the glass that John held out for him. He swallowed the whiskey and refilled the glass. As they pulled away, Patrick stared out the window and asked his uncle, “How’s everyone?”
“Good, good. Imogen is due any day. I’m going to be a fecking great grandfather.” He smiled around his whiskey. “Her husband is working for Eoghan. I get the impression Eoghan isn’t impressed. Says the guy spends more time on the golf course than behind his desk. He needs a talking-to.”
“I could have some of my boys pay him a visit.” Patrick grinned.
John scrubbed a hand down his face.
“It was a joke, Uncle John. I’m going straight. I made you a promise. More important, I made myself a promise.”
“That’s good because I got you a job. A friend of mine who’s retired from the force is the head security guard at the Gardner Museum. You know the place? It’s on Evans and Fenway.”
“Never been. Probably drove by it on the way to a Sox game.”
John chuckled. “Yeah, you probably did. Anyway, he was able to fill out the application—omitting some pertinent facts—and you’ve got a job. Night shift to start, but it’s a good job. Easy. Nice pay.”
“Sounds boring,” Patrick said.
“Patrick, you need to thank the Holy Virgin for boring. You hear me?”
“Yeah, sorry Uncle John. I’m grateful, I am. There are worse things in life than getting paid to sleep in a chair.”
“You just spent the last five years learning that lesson.”
“I’m fifty-seven years old. It took me a while, but I get it, I really do. I’m ready for the quiet life.”
“Good man.”