He’s back in don mode. I know better than to fuck with him on the job.
He takes this shit seriously.
The door creaks open to reveal a stout man with a huge beer belly and blotchy skin. He’s got pale, wispy hair that might’ve been blond in a former life and a desolate, half-grown beard.
His bloodshot eyes dance between Sean and me with complete bewilderment.
“Who the fook are you?”
“Are you Padraig Connelly?” Sean asks.
His eyes narrow instantly. “Who’s asking?”
Sean doesn’t seem interested in trading questions any further. He elbows his way into the house, shoving Padraig back in the process. The door bangs into Padraig’s face as I follow my brother inside and shut the door.
Much to my surprise, the house is reasonably well-kept. The furniture is clearly old, but everything’s clean. Everything’s organized.
Well, except for the mountain of beer bottles littering the carpet in front of the couch.
“Who the fookin’ hell are you?” Padraig groans, holding his bleeding nose.
“Sean O’Sullivan. Does that name ring any bells?”
Padraig’s glaze over in confusion for a moment. “Uh…”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sean snaps through gritted teeth. “You really are a pathetic drunk.”
If the beer bottles on the floor weren’t proof enough, the man also reeks of alcohol.
“O’Sullivan,” Sean says again, enunciating clearly. “I’m gonna give you one last fucking chance to get your shit together.”
He steps forward threateningly. Padraig pales.
Sean’s not exactly a tall man. Not compared with me, anyway. But he’s built like a linebacker and he’s got muscles to spare.
“O… O’Sullivan,” Padraig nods quickly, realization dawning fast. “I… you’re here for the money.”
“I’m here for the money,” Sean agrees. “Two thousand euros. In cash. Right fucking now.”
I can see the wheels in Padraig’s head turning fast.
One thing’s clear: he doesn’t have shit to give us.
Sean sees that, too. He curses furiously under his breath.
He grabs an ugly ceramic vase off the thin table standing beside us and smashes it hard against the wall to create a sharp pattern of jagged edges.
He backs Padraig into the same wall and pushes the broken half of the vase up to his neck.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he snarls into the man’s trembling jowls.
I stand back stoically and watch my brother work.
For a man who claims to have accepted this life under duress, he’s extremely fucking good at it.
Padraig has turned an unflattering shade of pink. Spittle flies from the man’s mouth as he tries to form an excuse.
“Mr. O… O’Sullivan… I don’t have… but I will, I will... please. Give me more… more time…”