SMASHER vs. Mafia: A Christmas Special (Part 1)

A nurse who murdered patients with unprescribed insulin injections. A sadistic killer whose murder was inspired by the hit TV show Dexter. These are just a couple of the dark, true crime stories you'll hear each week on the Crime Hub podcast. In each episode, I dive deep into new disturbing true crime stories, like the story of the religious cult Heaven's Gate, a group who convinced its followers to commit suicide in order to reach a level of existence above human. Searching true crime stories like these are what make the Crime Hub podcast worth listening to. If you enjoy my horror stories, then you'll absolutely love my true crime stories. Go check it out today by searching Crime Hub and the search bar on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or Amazon Music. Be sure to click follow to get notified every time a new episode is released. Want to listen to the entire three-part smasher versus mafia series today? Start your seven-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium now and listen to all three parts without waiting. Just go to patreon.com slash drnosleep to sign up. You can cancel anytime, no commitment. That's patreon.com slash drnosleep. When they pulled the canvas sack off the shackled Mafioso's head, he squinted, expecting blinding light. But the warehouse where his captors had taken him was dim and cool. The only light source was a few columns of dusty sun from high, open windows. He sniffed. The place smelled like fish and something worse. From outside, he could hear seagulls, ship horns, and dock workers on the job. A bit of sea breeze off the bay shook the dirty plastic curtain that hung across the far wall. The Mafioso cleared his throat and looked up at the dozens of men gathered around him, their faces in shadow, their arms crossed. They were dressed in denim and flannel and old work boots, and many had beards or unkempt shoulder-length hair. Huh, what a joke. This new brand of so-called gangster had no style at all. When he was coming up in the 60s and 70s, the criminal underworld in the city of Grim Bay had class. They had gravitas. But it was 1986 now, and all that was gone. Just like his cousins and friends and compatriots, all were dead or locked up. A door squeaked open, and the crowd of gangsters parted to make way for the newcomers. He wondered if it would be her, the matriarch of this crew. The two individuals now approaching his chair were male. At first, he thought it was one man and one boy, but now they were both children. He had heard rumors about these two, the bastard sons of the new queen pin. But to see them in the flesh was something else entirely. The boy in front was about 13. He looked tough and stoic, dressed in a dark denim jacket and pants, and wearing a gold chain necklace and a diamond stud earring in his left ear. His coyly black hair was cut short, and his skin… well, his skin was… different. Asymmetrical patches of light and dark covered his face and hands, like dark brown clouds in a chalk white sky. The mafioso let out a low whistle, then looked up, over the first boy to the second, who stood with his shoulder slumped and his head bowed. This kid was technically the younger of the two, but thinking of him as a little brother, as a little anything, was absurd. Although only ten years old, the kid was already over six feet tall, with a large head, broad shoulders and the biggest freaking hands the mafioso had ever seen. His hair was bright orange, with a cowlick, and his downturned face was pale and wide, with exaggerated features. Shudding forehead, flat nose, big ears. The only thing about these two that marked them as brothers were their eyes. They both had small, light blue eyes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, said the mafioso, shaking his head. You two really are a freak show. Let me guess, he smirked at the shorter of the brothers, with the patches of light and dark color in his skin. Your daddy must have been a cow. He looked up and let out a low whistle. And yours must have been a goddamn ogre. My oh my, that Goomah mother of yours really wasn't selective in what she screwed, now was she? This little outburst elicited a good deal of grumbling from the men in the warehouse. But the two boys, they didn't flinch. I have vitiligo dumbass, said the boy in front, and my brother has pituitary gigantism. Then it's like I said, hey big boy. The oversized child said nothing. What's the matter with him? Don't he talk? What is he, slow? No, said the brother in front. He's just quiet. It's called selective mutism. You know, you really should read a book sometime. Ah ha, he shifted on the seat and winced. Hey kids, think you's could loosen these goddamn shackles? Don't rub in my wrists and ankles raw. Before the boys could answer, the door squeaked open a second time, and the distinct sound of high heels clicking on the concrete echoed around the warehouse. The gangster parted, nodding in respect, and the boys both moved aside. And there she was, in a power suit with shoulder pads, her red hair and a high perm, sucking on a large cigar as she approached. The mafioso grinned. Well well, ma raid McMurrah. The whore, who stole a criminal empire. Coming to a stop, she blew a cloud of pale blue smoke from the side of her mouth and said, if you look at history, Mr. Scarpinato, you'll find that every umpire was built on theft and destruction. You should read a book sometime. I was just telling them that ma. The letter held his son. Ma raid smiled. Have you met my sons then? This here is Cormac, reaching out with her free hand. Ma raid, laid it on the shoulder of the boy with Vidaligo. He's a hell of a businessman already, aren't you? And here, she turned her eyes to the giant ginger, who continued to stare at his feet. Is Dermot? Dermot will be a mighty fighter. When he finally learns to come out of his shell, won't you? Dermot did not respond. Turning back to her captive, Ma raid took another draw on her cigar. Boys, this greasy son of a bitch is Mikey Scarpinato, one of Romulus's many, many nephews. Pleasure, said the mafioso, rolling his eyes. So can we move on from all these theatrics now? All this hoopla with the chains and their creepy warehouse and blah blah blah. It's rather silly, even for you, ma. As soon as this word left his mouth, the crowd of gangsters behind her flinched, and one grizzled fellow with glasses, mutton chop sideburns and a ponytail marched forward. Oi! The man snapped. You don't be calling her that now. Why not? I thought everybody calls her ma. The Irishman glared behind his glasses. We do. Yeah, call her ma. The McMurrah. My mistake, he cleared his throat. Alright then, ma. The McMurrah. Yous want to intimidate me, right? Well guess what? I'm intimidated. There. What else? Yous want me to kiss your fucking ring? Fine. The Celtic cartel is won. You own the streets. Happy now? She leaned forward in the chair, chains jangling and smirked. But yous and I both know. You need me and my guys to handle the docks. Without us, you don't have the numbers to move your products. Or handle the authorities when they come sniffing around. I'm a vital part of your operation. Is that so? Said Ma Raid, a twinkle in her blue eyes. She looked over at the man with the mutton chops. Fitz! Why don't you show our guest here the catch of the day? Right you, Armah! Said Fritz, and walking to the wall, he grabbed a dangling rope and tugged it. On the back wall of the warehouse, the plastic curtain was dragged sideways. From his chair, Mikey Scarpanato narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the shapes suspended from the shadowy ceiling there, hanging on meat hooks. As comprehension dawned on his face, his eyes bulged. They were bodies. Forty men, naked. Their arms and legs removed. Their heads lulled forward. The hooks had been stabbed into their backs and out their bellies. Jesus fucking Christ! He spasmed in his seat, rattling the shackles. You fucking bitch! What the fuck is wrong with you? What have you done? Coming closer, Ma Raid lowered herself to one knee before him and drew deeply on the cigar. I won? She blew smoke in his sweaty face. That's the thing about us. Irish Catholics. And it's the same as you Italians. We all have a boatload of cousins. And my boatload is arriving in the harbor tonight, from the old country. Fifty strong lads eager for work and loyal. Her blue eyes squinted in a victorious smile. So no, Mikey. I do not need you and your guys anymore. Rising, she turned her back on him. Oh fuck! He hissed, teeth gritted. Fuck! Ma Raid cast a look around at her men, then turned instead to her two sons. Cormac straightened up, puffing up his chest, showing what a brave little man he was. Behind him, Dermot did not move. She walked to her youngest son and looked up into his downturned face. Dermot? She said softly. Remember what we talked about? Well, it's time. Ten-year-old Dermot's face flinched and swallowing. He gave his head a little shake. Ma Raid sighed irritably. Cormac cleared his throat. Hey, oh ma, if he's not like up for it right now, I'd be happy to shut up, Corm. Your brother has put this off for long enough. Dermot closed his eyes. At the end of his long, stocky arms, his massive hands curled into fists, as if trying to hide the size of each massive finger. Then he made a little noise in his throat, like a whispered grunt, deep and pleading, and tilting his head a bit to the left. His lips twitched and his forehead wrinkled. What's that boy? snapped his mother. He says he don't feel good, ma. Your brother could use his bloody words. She screamed, and when Cormac opened his mouth to speak again, she shot him a stern look, and he cowered, silent. Turning back to Dermot, she lowered her voice to a sinister whisper. My darling boy, the Lord in his wisdom has gifted you with the might of a warrior. It is shameful to let that go to waste. Again, he only flinched. None of that face twitching shite. You know I can't fucking understand it. Ma. Cormac said. He ain't ready. Please, just let me knife the fucker. Oh Jesus. Wailed Mikey's scarpinata from the chair. Glaring, Maread grabbed Dermot by one giant arm and pulled him. He did not resist, and stumbled forward as she guided him to stand directly in front of the shackled mafioso. Now then, hold out your hands. She demanded of her son. Dermot did not open his eyes, but slowly, watched by all. He uncurled his fists, then lifted his arms up, letting his massive hands hover in the air, on either side of Mikey's scarpinata's head. Oh man, what the fuck is this? Wind the mafioso, now starting to shake so badly his teeth chattered audibly. Maread moved around Dermot, rested a handle on his back and whispered. Good. Now, go on. Clap. For this piece of shite. Dermot didn't move. Do it. A shudder went through the boy's body, and he led out a tiny grunt. At his back, his mother snarled and jabbed him in the back with her hand. Now. Dermot shook his head. Cormac averted his eyes, but whispered, just do it, Dermot. Get it over with. Do it. Their mother screamed, jabbing him again. Kill. Dermot's mouth stretched, suddenly open, and his eyes blazed with fear and fury. He screamed, a sound like a wounded beast. He whipped his arms wide, then brought them crashing together with a thunderous crunch. The crowd of watching men gasped. Cormac closed his eyes. Maread McMurray smiled, and patting Dermot lightly on the back, she said. There now. That wasn't so hard now, was it? Young Dermot could not tear his gaze off the site before him. His giant hands remained on either side of the man's head, dripping, shaking. Mikey's Scarpanato's skull had been crushed inward, the bone fragments loose and jutting under his bruising skin. One eye had exploded into goop, and the other was bulged out, bloodshot and loose on its optic nerve. From the ruined mouth above his shattered jaw, there issued bubbles of slobbery blood and wet, agonal breaths. Coming suddenly too, Dermot gasped and pulled his hands away. The head flopped sideways, and the body went limp in the chair, dripping blood and urine on the concrete floor. Cormac's side slid his hands into his pockets and turned to walk to the exit. Brushing by his brother, he whispered, he gets easier. Fits and the other members of the Celtic cartel turned to follow the boy out, walking in silence. Morade moved around to Dermot's front, careful not to get any spilled bodily fluids on her shoes. She beamed up at her son. I'm so proud of you. She told him. My little smasher. 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By March of 1998, that nightclub had a lot to offer. And not just exotic dancers, pool tables, an extensive cocktail menu, and the city's best DJ. For beyond the main floor of the club, there lay a maze of back rooms, where one could procure just about anything for the right price. From a kilo of Columbia's finest to private companionship of every sort, and even anti-aircraft artillery. Despite all these criminal offerings, many people would rank their favorite part about visiting the Lusty Shamrock to simply be getting to see the establishment's infamous bouncer in person. Standing at 8'6 and counting, the 21-year-old ginger giant, known as Smasher, had become something of a local celebrity. And though he rarely ever spoke to the patrons at the Lusty Shamrock, they always got a thrill out of having him check IDs and nod at them stoically inside. Or else turn them away with a shake of the head that, while subtle, was never ignored. He kept his bright orange hair long and loose upon his hulking shoulders, and his wide jaw was traced in a chin-strap beard. He wore suspenders over a white collared shirt, jeans that barely fit over his muscular thighs, and the tailor-made boots, as no store-bought footwear would fit him. One evening, as a group of nervous young men reached the front of the line outside, the one in front raised his driver's license in a shaky hand. Dermot McMurray plucked it up in his 10-inch fingers and squinted down at the date of birth. One bristly eyebrow raised on his jutting forehead. The young man swallowed. What? I'm 21, man! Dermot's other eyebrow went up. Fine. I turn 21 tomorrow. But it'll be midnight in like a few hours. Come on, Mr. Smasher, just let me in! Dermot looked down, his blue eyes alight. Please? The young man added. Dermot cracked a smile, and handing the ID back, he turned and lifted the green velvet rope to let the group pass inside. Even as they disappeared down the dim hall, from which pumping music played, another young man jogged out, looking anxious. What's up, Dermot? He said, a little breathless. They need you inside. The man, whom everyone called young Fitz, to differentiate him from his father, moved to take Dermot's place by the door. Dermot turned and started to duck into the entryway, when young Fitz added in a whisper, it's Lotus! At the mention of the name Lotus, Dermot moved suddenly faster, his hulking body rushing down the hall in almost perfect silence, so that as he came upon patrons, they were startled and jerked aside. Emerging into the wide open main floor, with its strobing lights and thumping bass, he moved quickly through the tables and approached the stage, where spotlights shone on the stripper pole, though no dancers were on the stage. At the foot of the stage, a short man in a pinstripe suit was screaming in the faces of two of the club's dancers. One of the women, who had jet black hair held up with Lotus flower clips, was bleeding from a swollen lip. Dermot's heart hammered in his massive chest, and his giant hands trembled at his sides as he marched in long, furious steps toward the confrontation. Just as he reached them, the music died suddenly, and the house lights came up, erasing the sexy atmosphere and causing many patrons to whine. Called a voice from the balcony above, and looking up, Dermot saw his brother Cormac rushing down the stairs toward them. Dermot reached the angry man in the suit first, and calling upon a monumental level of internal restraint, he did not grab the patron and crush his body into a pinstriped meatball. Instead, he slid in between the man and the dancers, and stood there, a tower of glaring flesh. Whoa! Okay now, seriously? The suited man shouted, throwing up his hands. There was cocaine around his nostrils and on his collar. Come get this ugly gorilla out of my face right now before I… before you what? Cormac stomped into view, his blue eyes burning in his handsome face, with its light and dark patches. He wore a diamond-earing and gold-chain necklace, a tailored denim jacket and jeans, and a sleek pair of nikes. Cormac wasn't alone. On his heels, clipboard under one arm, marched Whiskey Blaze. Whiskey Blaze was dressed in a cowgirl-inspired outfit for her performance later. The hard-working woman was somehow able to not only efficiently manage the lusty shamrock, but also put on one hell of a show three nights a week. Let's say we take the temperature down a bit here, eh boys? That bitch! The patron screamed, stabbing a finger in the air to point through Dermot's chest. Scratch me! Look! He turned his stupid face to reveal two small, pink lines on his right cheek. Dermot's eyes twitched. Hmm, said Whiskey Blaze, remaining level-headed as always. And what was it that you did, sir? And the seconds leading up to that altercation? Oh shut up! When I put about a thousand bucks down in 20s, I think I'm entitled to grab a bit of… The man did not get a chance to finish this sentiment, for he suddenly found himself dangling several feet off the floor, held up by a giant hand, squeezing the top of his head. He kicked out with his feet, and grabbed uselessly at the muscular arm that held him. Oh my god! I-I-Stop! Dermot growled, which shut up the bastard. Hey Smash! Said Carmack. You've made your point now man. Put him down, okay? Dermot's face flinched, and he showed his teeth. Dermot! Said a soft, sweet voice from directly behind him. It's okay. I'm okay. Really? After a moment, Dermot exhaled, and released his grip on the man's head. He fell in a heap to the floor, knocking over a chair and banging his chin on his own knee. When he rose up again, shaking and disheveled, one of his front teeth was missing. I'm pressing charges! He screamed. Do you assholes even know who you're messing with? Carmack moved around and got right in his face. No fucking idea! Looking aside his denim jacket, he revealed the Sig Sauer P-226 at his waist. Do you dumbass? The man looked from the handgun to Cormack's narrowed eyes, and swallowed. You need to leave now, sir. Whiskey told the patron. Then she turned and waved up to the DJ on the balcony, and at once, the party lighting and music resumed. The patron straightened his tie and turned to go. But Dermot let out a little grunt. Smashers right! Said Cormack, glaring at the man. You are no longer welcome in this establishment, ever! The patron scoffed and shrugged, but Dermot whipped to glare down at his brother, one eyelid twitching. Seriously, Smash! Cormack said under his breath, before exhaling and grabbing the man by the elbow as he tried to walk away. What's more? He went on. If you ever show your face a little Dublin again, I will personally shoot you in the fucking head. Is that clear? The man's eyes went wide. He nodded, then ran for the doors. Jesus! It's one fucking mess after another! Cormack grumbled when he had gone. The dancer supporting Lotus had returned to the stage, and sauntering to its center. She raised one slender arm and let her fingertips trail up the shining pole there. The patrons hooted in approval. And as Cormack pivoted to watch, the dancer hooked one ankle around the pole and launched herself in a fluid spin. Dermot returned and looked down at Lotus, who now had a wad of napkins pressed to her mouth. They locked eyes, the giant with the bulging muscles, and this light and delicate woman. And in that moment, much passed between their faces in silence. But as Cormack turned to face them, Lotus averted her gaze and allowed whiskey blaze to help her to a back room to clean up. Dermot started toward the exit to return to his post outside, but his brother swatted him on the arm. Hang back a minute, Smash. Young Fitz has got the door, right? Come with me. I could use you. Dermot followed Cormack to a quiet back corner of the club, away from the stage and blasting music, where ambient lighting glowed down on a dozen pool tables. Two men in black suits were shooting a game, and when they saw the brothers approaching, they exchanged a look, then straightened up, leaning on their pool cues. Evening, gents, said Cormack, coming to a stop across the table and pulling out a cigarette case. You two, enjoy yourselves. The men did not answer, but looked from one brother to the other as Cormack lit a cigarette with his lighter and took a long pull. Glowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth, he said. It has not escaped my attention that you have now returned to the lusty shamrock for the third night in a row. The more sly and confident of the two men sniffed a laugh. So? It's a nice joint you got here. Lovely entertainment. Good drinks. A bit pricey, though. Bullshit! Said Cormack with a tired sigh. Look, I got enough on my plate right now without dealing with this. So let's cut to the chase. Raising the hand with the cigarette, he pointed with two fingers at the first man. You are special agent Tippet with the FBI. As the agents grin faded, Cormack turned to point at the other. And you are special agent Cohen with the ATF. The second agent swallowed nervously. Cormack took another puff on the cigarette, then nodded. As you already know, I am Cormack McMurray, also known as Mat Cow. And my associate here is my baby brother Dermot McMurray, also known as Smasher. And we are dangerous men. Now then, with that out of the way, obviously your agencies have been watching our family's business for years. So the fact that you're showing up like this now, either you're trying to send a message or you're after an audience. Which is it? A heavy moment of speechlessness followed, broken only when the whooping of horny voices back by the stage filled the air. The dancer must have pulled off a difficult move or perhaps an article of clothing. Exhaling, special agent Tippet set his pool cue on the table. All right then, you two are not the ones we need to talk to. Cormack blew another cloud. Okay, fine. You want to meet the queen? Let's take a walk to the castle. In fact, if we hurry. Tilting his right arm, Cormack checked the time on his Rolex. We might get there before she finishes her last cigar and heads off to bed. Without another word, Cormack spun and marched back through the room. The federal agents exchanged another cautious glance, then looked up at Smasher. He gave them a little smile and held out one giant hand, indicating that they should go first. The feds followed Cormack out, with the hulking dermat taking up the rear. Despite the late hour, the borough of Little Dublin was bustling and lively as the four men walked out of the club. Doc workers in dirty work boots and flannel jackets laughed and argued and shuffled about in groups on the sidewalks. Teens and hoodies and baggy jeans practiced kickflips on their skateboards in the street. On the balconies of the apartments on either side of the street, older couples sat and smoked and watched the young folk below, with mingled annoyance and jealousy. And everyone present, as soon as they saw Cormack and Dermot approaching, grew quiet and nodded respectfully as these two princes of the Celtic cartel passed by. Hey, Mad Cal! Called a teenage girl, smoking a blunt with friends outside a 24-hour laundromat. Evening ladies, said Cormack with a wink, which elisted it a good deal of girlish giggling. Strings of little Irish flags were hung across the main road as they turned onto it, and many streamers of green, white, and orange could be seen in the businesses there. St. Patrick's Day was next week, and Little Dublin always put on one hell of a parade. Cormack led them around another corner and down a quieter lane, where the high brick walls were coated with many layers of graffiti. A few recent spray-painted additions stood out, including the phrases, fuck the Brits! And freedom for Ireland! There was even an extraordinarily lifelike portrait of the British monarch's severed head. Glad to see that art isn't dead, joked Agent Tippett, and his colleague chuckled nervously. They came up to the docks. A creamy fog hung above the dark waters and the bay beyond. Being left along the wharf, Cormack flicked his cigarette to the ground as he walked up to the dark green door of a nondescript pub that faced the water. Above its misted windows hung the establishment sign, which read, in gold letters, the Ballygub, over the painted image of a stone cottage on a green hill. Cormack opened the pub's door, and the sense of beer and cigarettes wafted out, along with the sound of a fiddle. But Agent Tippett stayed outside, staring up at the sign. What's the story with that name? He asked. Ballygub, is that an old Irish Gaelic word for something? Sure, said Cormack. What's it mean? Your sister's vagina. We going in or not? Cormack turned and disappeared inside. The agents followed. Kniffing a breath of the sea air, Dermot bent and moved in last, shutting the door behind him. The Ballygub had a far more mellow vibe than the lusty shamrock, and though the bar and the little tables were all full tonight, the clientele was older, and content with quiet jokes and conversations over their pints. In the far corner, beside the dartboards, the fiddler was playing an old Irish ditty. In the bar, Old Fitz narrowed his eyes behind his glasses as he surveyed the two strangers in their black suits. Evening lads, said the bartender. Old Fitz's sideburns and ponytail were mostly gray now. Everything all right? Yeah Fitz, said Cormack, weaving through the tables toward the back hall. Just some visitors from up. All right. Noted Fitz, leaning on the bar and pressing a button beneath the counter with one thumb. On the floor above them, barely audible, an electric buzzer sounded. Oh grand, Mr. Dermot. Asked the barman as the huge man passed him. Dermot nodded. The four moved into the back hall, past the bathroom, then up a musty staircase, which creaked with their every step. Coming to a hall above, Cormack walked briskly down to the door at the end and gave it a quick tap before swinging it open and stepping inside. As the federal agents followed him into the personal office of the infamous crime boss, they were both taken aback by the austere nature of the room. It was dim and dusty, with wood-paneled walls and not much bigger than the average bedroom. Two tall, thin Irish wolfhounds lay on a very large, very hairy dog bed in the corner by the desk. And though the dogs were resting and didn't look particularly dangerous, the smell of their fur was strong in the room. Behind the desk, a woman with gray streaks and her red hair sat in a swivel chair with her back to them, facing a window that looked out over the bay. She must have heard them enter, but she did not move, except to lean back her head and blow a stream of silver-blue smoke at the ceiling. The only other person in the room was a small and rather odd man in the corner to their left, sitting on a stool with his legs crossed. He wore only a threadbare robe, like something out of medieval times, and had faded green tattoos all over his exposed arms and legs and neck. The top of his head was bald and shiny, but he had a wiry beard, braided and threaded with colorful beads. The man cackled when they entered, making agent-tippet jump. Guys, what the hell are you supposed to be then? I'm the druid. I am. Keeper of the good book. He motioned with one skeletal hand to his side, where an old wooden lectern held open a heavy antique Bible spread open. Tippet shook his head. You people are so weird. He grumbled and took a step toward the old book, thumbing through a few yellowed pages. Can you even read this tiny text with those crazy eyes of yours? The druid cackled a third time. There's druid magic in me eyes, good sir. Uh-huh. I didn't know pagans were interested in the holy Bible. And I didn't know a man's Mickey could come in such a teeny-twenty size. countered the druid, pointing at the agent's crotch. Me eyes are magic, don't forget. I see all, including your side arm there. Though, arm armed as well, mind you. The druid twisted on his stool, revealing a holstered dagger at his belt. Both federal agents tensed at this, but Cormac cleared his throat and said, That's enough druid. Sorry for the late visit, ma. But you've got company. These are. My raid spun in her chair to face them, her blue eyes flashing violet in the fiery glow of her cigar. One of the wolf hounds on the floor looked up sharply as their master moved. Blowing out another cloud of cigar smoke, Maread McMurrow said, Tip it and go in. The bastard's trying to make my boys nervous. She sneered at them one at a time. So what the fuck can I do for you then? Agent Tippett stepped closer to the desk, sliding his hands in the pockets of his suitcode. Miss McMurrow, it's a pleasure to finally meet you face to face. She squinted up at him from behind the desk. Her face had grown wrinkled and her voice gravelly over the years. But the fierceness of the woman's tone and expression was all the stronger. I asked you a question, Tippett. Clearing his throat nervously, Agent Cohen stepped up beside his colleague. Ah, well, you should know, ma'am, that the federal government has quite a lot of incriminating information on you and your operation here. He said, straightening his glasses. Drug trafficking, illegal gambling, prostitution, money laundering, bribery, to name a few. Back in his corner, the druid laughed. Maread cracked a wry smile. Is that right? She drew on her cigar. You go after me. You bring this whole city government crashing down. You should know, fellas, that they have quite a lot of incriminating information on some very powerful people, including a few of your superiors down in Washington. Ignoring her threat, Agent Tippett continued where his colleague had left off. You could also be facing charges for multiple assaults, kidnappings, and glancing up over his shoulder. He looked at Dermot. Executions of quite a lot of your criminal competitors. He turned back to Maread. All that? It would make a hell of a RICO case. A lot of agents would give their left nut where it cracked in a case like that. I don't have time for your left nut, Tippett, said Maread. Why are you here? The agents exchanged a look. Ireland, Agent Cohen finally said. That's why we're here. Hire seer! The druid declared suddenly. Free Ireland! Tippett rolled his eyes. That island of yours has been in a state of civil unrest and violence for thirty years. He said, as if she didn't already know this. And as you are no doubt aware, peace talks are now underway in the city of Belfast. The United States government is doing everything we can to ensure that those talks go smoothly. Maread did not hide her disgust at his words. Fuck the bloody peace talks! I figured you'd say that, said Tippett, turning to Cohen. We know, ma'am, said the ATF agent. That the Celtic cartel has been supplying not only funds, but also military-grade weapons to some of the most radical members of the Irish Republican army. You are funded terrorists! shouted Tippett, his eyes narrowed to meet hers. And you're doing so at a time when any IRA attack could bring an end to those negotiations and lead to decades more strife for your countrymen. Maread grinned and looked at Cormac. You hear that, boys? It seems these men are here to help Irish people. Surely that has nothing to do with ensuring a political win for the US government's current administration. Which, could surely use one right about now. Ma'am. Agent Cohen began again. But Maread slammed her fist suddenly upon the desk, causing ash and embers to spring from the tip of her cigar. You don't have shite on me! She screamed, and both wolfhounds jumped up nervously. Because if you had even a scrap of evidence beyond the prison rumors of some lowlife thug, I'd already be in handcuffs. And we both know it. So go back to your boss's at AC to tell President Clinton that Maread McMurrah says he can go fuck himself or find another intern to do it for him. Tippett opened his mouth to speak again, but Cormac turned to him. You should really go! He said, as one of the wolfhounds let out a low whimper. Hazen! Right fucking now! Agent Cohen didn't have to be told twice. Turning on his heel, he moved to the door. But Tippett stood in place for a few more seconds, smirking. You sure got some real weirdos on your crew, ma'am. He said to Maread, you! He added, looking at Cormac. Tell the DJ at your little club that they can play something besides remixes of you too and the cranberries. Then Agent Tippett too left, and Dermot shut the door behind them. Need anything from Tesco? Like Nescafe Azir and 90g instant coffee? For just £3.50 this Easter with your Tesco Club card. Because every little helps. Majority of larger stores as 0.90g sends 14th April. Club card or app required. That's what a war does. I had two sons, now I've got one. Hi, I'm Brian Cranston and I play Joe Cumber. And I'm Marianne Schomback-Tister and I play Kate Keller in All My Sons. And we'd like to invite you to watch this production of All My Sons by Arthur Miller, coming the 16th of April to the cinema. You can get your tickets at ntlive.com. Once they were gone, Cormac and Merade both exhaled tensely, and the druid chuckled. Dermot remained silent and looked over at the dogs. One of them circled and lay back down. The other came trotting toward Dermot, who leaned to scratch her between the eyes. Nicely handled Ma, said Cormac, walking over to look out the window to watch the federal agents exit the pub and head down the street. But those fuckers will be back. I know it, said Merade. Druid, check the book. What's the next shipment set to leave for Fennett? The eccentric little bookkeeper hopped off his stool and stretched, his knees popping, then turned to the Bible on its lectern. Shutting the heavy book, he picked it up, flipped it over, and set it back down, upside down. Lifting opened the back cover. He revealed the book's second set of pages, where a hidden ledger of meticulously recorded dates and transactions were written. Druid, magic! The bookkeeper declared, as he always did when performing this little illusion. The one could purchase a similar trick book in any magic shop. Let's see... D-D-D-D-D. Mm-hmm. We've allowed armilights and RPGs going out on Tuesday morning, just before the parade. Hmm. No. Too risky now. Push it, at least a week. She spoke over her shoulder to Cormac. And what about the trouble with the loan shark downtown? Have you all? Boy? Smasher! I can see you in the reflection. Where are you sneaking off to, then? A dermat had patted the dogs on the head and turned silently to exit the office, but now stopped, cringing as his mother called to him. One giant hand still on the doorknob, he turned his head to face her and Cormac, letting out a little grunt, his face flinched and his shoulders jittered. This caused Marade to cringe and bite down on her cigar. What's he saying? She snapped at Cormac. Just that he's meeting young Fitz for a drink. Is he now? Hmm. Alright then. But don't wait so long next time to pay your old ma a visit, eh? Dermot looked at the floor, nodded, then opened the door and ducked into the hall. Back inside the office, Cormac turned back to the window and stared at the bay. While I'm here, we gotta talk about the docks, ma. What about them? We need more guys, again. Marade still had her sharp eyes fixed on the door as Dermot's footsteps faded. Huh? More guys? Take some of Fergal's boys. Cormac shook his head. Nah, they're all working transpo now. Fergal can't spare them. We've talked about this, ma. For decades, Marade McMurrow had been using the docks to train up her men before promoting them to posts around the city and beyond. It was a good system. It kept her lieutenants loyal, but they tended to take their guys with them when they moved up, leaving the docks short-handed and leaving Cormac to take up the slack. Pulling out his case, Cormac lit himself another cigarette. I got about 500 Korean TV's sitting on a freighter out there, and nobody to haul them in before inspectors show up. Marade tried to take another pull on her cigar, but realized she had practically bit off the end in her irritation. Grumbling, she set it down in an ashtray on the desk. I'll make a call to your Uncle Ayman. He'll send over a fresh batch of... We don't have time for that, ma! Said Cormac, raising his voice to speak over her. And if your little attack in Belfast goes down next month, they'll need all their boys over there for the fightin' that's to follow. We need to address this, now! She finally turned to him, and her mouth twitched with a proud smile. My little businessmen, she said, I know you, Cormac. You don't come to your ma with a problem unless you already have a solution in mind. So how do you want to handle it? Cormac took a drag on the cigarette, the next hailed through his nostrils. There's a new crew in town. I want to take them in under our wing. Marade raised an eyebrow. Irish? Nah. Russians? Commies? I don't know their politics, ma, but they're big and strong, and no one to shut up. Are they connected? To the Red Mafia in New York? Don't think so. Though the crew leader's got a brother who's a big shot in London, supposedly. The guy here is named Volkov. Ivan Volkov. They call him the Bear. Why? Cormac shrugged. Cause he's fuckin' hairy! How the fuck should I know? But the brains of the outfit is the Bear's wife. Zoya, you're like her. She's smart, no nonsense. And don't worry, I know they can't be trusted, but... Of course they can't be bloody trusted! Marade sneered, spinning fully around in her chair to look out the window with him. Only a fool relies on trust. Control. That's all that matters. Cormac nodded. I can control them. Oh, and about that bookie, the Bulgarian. You were right. His numbers aren't adding up. He's been skimming all year. I'll take Smasher down there this weekend. We'll handle it. As Marade stared down at the street, the front door of the pub opened, leaking a rectangle of light over the dark-ass vault. And she watched as a huge shape moved out into the night. What's going on with your brother? She asked, her eyes narrowing on the sight of Dermot as he turned left, not toward the club, and walked off along the wharf. Smasher? He's fine. No. He's acting distant with me. She said. Then, in response to Cormac's chuckle, more than usual, I mean, been getting worse the last few months. He's fine, Ma. Cormac repeated. Marade stiffened. Nah, something's up. She turned to her other son. The son, like her, the one she actually understood. Put eyes on him. Cormac froze, cigarette hanging from his lips. Eyes on, Dermot? He's our head assassin, not to mention your... Are you serious? Though there was no lit cigar in front of them now, Marade's eyes burned with the fiery glow anyway. Has the fucking grave. After a moment, Cormac nodded, then turned, bid her and the druid a good night, and departed. Marade McMurrow turned back to the window, hugging her arms around her chest and squeezing. Control. It wasn't easy, controlling a business empire, a criminal syndicate, a whole city. But she did it every fucking day. She got out of bed, she came here to the office, and she put out a thousand fucking fires and lit a thousand more. She understood it. The game. The nature of power. The violence. The money. The delicate balance of it all. And when, on the rare occasion, something did crop up that Marade could not understand, that she couldn't control, she disposed of it. With one exception. One very, very big exception. Outside, the halting silhouette of her youngest son turned a corner into an alley and disappeared from view. And behind her office window, his mother bared her smoke-stained teeth in a grimace and snarled.