Free Little Criminals by Gene Kerrigan Page A

as the proud mother of two of the most feared gangsters on the Northside. Her ancient face seemed too slender for all the wrinkles it had to accommodate.
    ‘Pearl, you’re looking great!’
    Her smile broadened.
    Pearl was in her mid-eighties. Hair dyed a discreet blonde, fingernails an imprudent scarlet. The Ralph Lauren blouse and skirt, a trophy of her annual shopping trip to Harrods, hung a little too freely on her thin frame.
    ‘It must be a year, Frankie! No, I tell a lie, it was Christmas, and that’s an age.’
    ‘Pearl, you’re looking younger every time I see you. Must be all the toyboys keep you fit and healthy.’
    She laughed obligingly and as they embraced he was surrounded by the sweet perfume with which Pearl drenched herself each morning as soon as she rose. Obnoxious as it was, it was an improvement on the carbolic smell Frankie remembered from his teenage days, hanging around the Mackendrick house, carrying messages for Jo-Jo and Lar. Even back then he’d figured there was no future in freelance knocking-off, the real money was in the organised outfits that were coming together. Pearl was a permanent presence through the years when Frankie served his apprenticeship with the Mackendrick brothers. Her husband, an anonymous little mouse of a man, his purpose in life served by providing Pearl with sons, drank himself to death before the boys were out of their teens.
    ‘How’s the little one? She’s only gorgeous!’
    ‘She’s thriving, Pearl, thriving.’
    ‘You’ll have to bring her round to see me. Listen, did they offer you a cup of tea?’
    ‘Thanks, but not this time, Pearl. Business. Your young fella’s expecting me. Sure, I’ll look in and say hello before I go.’
    Pearl put her hand on his arm. ‘I mean it, love, bring the little one round here some afternoon next week. It’s great to have the youngsters around. It’s like I’m soaking up a bit of their energy, God bless them.’
    ‘I will, Pearl, she’d love to see you.’
    As Pearl moved slowly towards the stairs, her arms folded, her slippers making a slapping sound on the marble, Christy came to the door of the kitchen and crooked a finger. He led Frankie through the kitchen and out the French windows, into the back garden. About thirty feet away, Jo-Jo Mackendrick was slouched in a chair beside a wooden garden table, phone at his ear. He wore black shorts and a dazzling white FCUK top. There was a glass of white wine on the table, beside a hardback book – a John Grisham – open and face down.
    Jo-Jo finished his conversation and waved at Frankie to come over. Christy stood by the French windows, arms folded, in sight but out of hearing. In his mid-fifties, balding, with a slight paunch, Jo-Jo still had the build of the construction labourer he once was. He’d had an extension built on to the side of the house, a gym where he did half an hour each morning on the bike, reading the Irish Times and the sports pages of the Mirror , and three mornings a week he followed the bike with half an hour on the weights. His three sons were grown up, two of them with kids of their own. Since his wife had died of breast cancer five years ago he’d lived alone here with his mother, wintering in the Caribbean but always spending Christmas week at home, holding open house for his friends and their families. Jo-Jo retained overall control of the business, while his older brother Lar handled most of the day-to-day concerns – what Jo-Jo called ‘operational matters’. The core businesses were cigarette smuggling, protection and three brothels. The firm also took what Jo-Jo referred to as ‘royalties’ from a number of operations managed by others, such as diesel laundering and credit-card fraud. A car-ringing scam had recently closed down due to police attention. The Mackendricks still sponsored the occasional armed robbery, but Jo-Jo preferred the steady income from what he thought of as the wholesale and service sectors. Although the