It was more likely that she’d inadvertently step on Nolan’s toes with Seamus than that Seamus would make a connection between Bridget and anything Nolan did. They hadn’t so much as looked at each other in Seamus’s presence.
“She has a point,” Will said.
Nolan turned his beer glass in his hand, his expression serious. “We’re going to break into Seamus’s house.”
She shook her head. “That’s a fucking stupid idea.”
“It’s the opposite of stupid,” Nolan said. “Seamus hands out the money at the Cat on Mondays, and we know the names on the envelopes are written ahead of time.”
“We don’t know how far ahead of time,” Bridget pointed out.
“True,” Nolan said, “but none of us have seen him writing on them at the Cat, so it’s safe to assume he does it before he gets there.”
“Maybe, but he could be doing it somewhere besides his house, like the Playpen,” Bridget said.
The Cat was Seamus’s primary place of business, but he kept a small office at the Playpen.
“Anything’s possible,” Will said. “But for someone as paranoid as Seamus, the most likely scenario is that he takes care of the things that could compromise the organization at home.”
She sat back in the booth, her stomach turning over at the thought of Will and Nolan inside Seamus’s house. “If he catches you there, he’ll kill you both.”
“He won’t,” Nolan said. “He goes to mass every Sunday night at six. We’ll be in and out before the Sanctus.”
“I don’t like it,” she said.
“Do you have a better idea?” Will asked.
She searched her brain, willing it to come up with an alternative. “I could come with you,” she suggested. “Be a lookout.”
Nolan’s face hardened. “Absolutely not.”
She thought about insisting. Nolan wasn’t her boss. He couldn’t tell her what to do.
But then she thought of Owen, of her parents. She was already putting herself at risk just working with Nolan and Will behind the scenes, and while she would have liked to do more, she was hyperaware of her family’s reliance on her, their reliance on the money she was bringing in for Owen and on the support she offered around the house.
She sighed. “Will you call me right when you’re done?” she asked. “Let me know everything’s okay?”
Nolan nodded.
“Fuck,” she said.
“Try not to worry. Everything will be fine,” Nolan said.
It wasn’t herself she was worried about. Nolan had protected her to the best of his ability, would continue to protect her. He was the one in danger, he and Will.
And the possibility of something happening to one of them while she stayed safe was no comfort at all.
18
Will parked his car half a mile from Seamus’s house in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and they started out on foot. It would have been foolish to leave Nolan’s car, too flashy for the neighborhood and bound to get attention.
“I can’t believe I’m fecking breaking into Seamus O’Brien’s house while he’s at mass,” Will said. “I’m definitely going to hell now.”
“Not if you repent.” Nolan’s family was Catholic in name only, thanks to his grandparents who had been good Irish Catholics and his mother who had cast off the mantel of the church’s expectations more or less the day after Nolan’s father’s funeral.
“I haven’t been to confession in ten years,” Will said.
“Then this isn’t going to make the difference,” Nolan said, stuffing his gloved hands in his pocket. “Just add it to the list.”