He hadn’t noticed the name when he came in, but he ordered a beer and a shot and let his breathing ease, working his jaw and occasionally reaching into his coat to find the pistols he carried most of the time, touching the butt of each in turn. The gesture calmed him, the way working a rosary had comforted his aunt in Clonard in Belfast. She’d put him on a boat to New York when he was thirteen, thinking she’d make him safe from the violence that had taken his brothers and father. He’d been taken in by his aunt’s cousin in Philadelphia, Tom Devlin, who worked strong-arm for the roofers union. Tommy Devlin was tall and balding and silent, except when the rage took him and he’d grunt and chuff like some great animal about to put his horns into someone. Devlin put him to work burning nonunion rigs, and then beating the ones who didn’t get the message, and then Angel was as lost as if he’d stayed home throwing rocks at British APCs in the Falls Road. Now he sat and stared and realized a tall girl with a broad face and blond hair in braids was standing in front of him behind the bar.
What do You think about The Wolves Of Fairmount Park?
