Free Bloodline by Warren Murphy Page A

redecorated.”
    “Redecorated for what?” Falcone asked.
    “As a tearoom.”
    “A what?” O’Shaughnessy sputtered.
    “A tearoom,” Mercer said, almost defensively. “You know the kind. With all sorts of exotic blends for our regular customers. Blends from Scotland and Ireland and Tennessee and the Caribbean.”
    “Jumping Jesus,” the big Irish cop answered. “And next thing you’ll be telling us that there’ll be women in here and we won’t be able to spit on the floor and you’ll not be serving liquor.”
    “Something like that,” Mercer said.
    O’Shaughnessy turned his back on the bartender and drained his whiskey. He told his partner, “Did you know, Tony, that in Ireland the Mercers are considered the scum of the earth? Lower than fish shit they are. Their word is worthless, and they would sell their children for an extra helping of English gruel, spilled on the floor for them to lap up. No self-respecting Irishman will have anything to do with anyone named Mercer.”
    “These last ten years here must have been a terrible burden on you then,” Falcone said, winking at the bartender.
    “I did it all for you. To keep you out of the clutches of this thieving tea peddler. Aaaah, I can’t even bear to be looking at him. Let’s get a table.”
    They brought refills of their drinks to a rear booth, where O’Shaughnessy insisted on clinking shot glasses in a toast.
    “To Demon Rum?” Tony asked.
    “To hell with Demon Rum. Let him get his own drink. I’m drinking to Tommy,” he said. “How is he?”
    “He’s all right.”
    “So what’s wrong?” When Falcone looked up, O’Shaughnessy said, “I’ve worked with you for ten years, Tony. I know when you don’t like the new brand of tooth powder Anna buys. You think I don’t know when something’s bothering you?” He paused. In ten years they had saved each other’s lives more than once. O’Shaughnessy had even run into a burning building and carried the unconscious Falcone out in his arms. They were as close friends as policemen could be, but here O’Shaughnessy knew he was getting into family business, and policemen were notoriously close-mouthed about family problems.
    “Is it Tommy?” he asked. “He’s healed, hasn’t he?”
    “His body has,” Falcone said. He sipped slowly at his whiskey.
    “Shell shock?” the Irishman ventured.
    “That’s the story he and Mario are peddling. I’m supposed to believe it. But it’s not true.”
    “Then what?” The other policeman paused. “You don’t mean those damn fool doctors got him hooked on drugs.”
    “That’s what they did,” Falcone said.
    “Jesus H. Christ. How is he?”
    “He looks fine. They had to do so much surgical work on his hip and stomach that they had him laying around that Frenchie hospital for a year. “
    “I never did understand that.”
    “Apparently, there was some French surgeon who was the best in the world at this kind of stuff. So they wanted Tommy to stay nearby. No argument from me; physically, he’s good as can be expected. But that’s when they got him hooked, while he was laying around in pain between all those operations.”
    “So all this time they’ve been working on getting him off the drugs?”
    “Morphine,” Falcone said. “And he’s been off it for six months now. We were supposed to think he was still in France, but Mario had him stashed in a convent upstate. He was working as a handyman to get his body back in shape and make sure that he didn’t have any way to get any morphine. There sure isn’t any in any convent. So now he’s back, and maybe it was all for the best, except I’m not supposed to know anything. And I don’t like it.”
    “So your pride is hurt,” O’Shaughnessy said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You’re happy about your boy, but you’re upset because your two sons—one of them a priest himself—think that they’ve pulled the wool over your eyes. Let’s face it. You’re just annoyed that Tommy