Buried Too Deep (closed)

[zydrate]

The Emerald Tavern — Boston, 3:00 AM

Amelia Ryan sat on the curb, the damp chill of the concrete seeping straight through her jeans. Around her, the strobe of red and blue emergency lights sliced through the heavy Boston drizzle. Firefighters rolled up heavy canvas hoses, their boots splashing in the dark runoff water that pooled around her sneakers.

A paramedic hovered over her, his voice a low murmur as he rattled off a list of her minor injuries to a pair of cops holding clipboards. Amelia tuned them out. She pressed a cold compress to her throbbing temple and stared at the blackened, soot-stained brick of The Emerald.

Luckily, the fire hadn't done as much damage as it could have.

She took a slow, shaky breath, forcing her heart rate down. She was physically hurt, yes, but nothing that wouldn't heal. She was lucky. At least, that's what the paramedics kept saying.

But Amelia didn't feel lucky. This wasn’t the first time they had targeted her, and deep down, she knew it wouldn't be the last. Tonight, they had taken it too far. They wanted her to break. They wanted her to pack up, sign the papers, and run.

As much as her aching body wanted to give up, she couldn't. This bar was her livelihood. It had been passed down through three generations of her family before it landed in her hands, and she wasn't about to let a bunch of bullies burn ninety years of history to the ground.

Amelia stared at the soot on her hands, but her mind was still trapped inside the bar twenty minutes ago.

She had been alone, blasting the jukebox to keep herself awake while she wiped down the taps and counted the till. A normal, quiet Tuesday night. She hadn't even heard the front door open over the music.

Before she could even scream, they were behind the bar.

She could still feel the phantom grip on her jacket, the rough shove that sent her crashing into the liquor shelf, shattering bottles of Irish whiskey around her. The memory of the lead guy's voice buzzed louder in her ears than the sirens around her. “Here’s what happens when little girls like you don’t pay up.”

Then came the match. Then came the fire.

"Ma'am?"

The detective's voice broke through her thoughts, snapping her back to the cold curb. He tapped his pen against a small notepad, his eyes scanning the bruises already darkening on her skin. "I'm going to ask you again. Did you see who did this? Do you know who they were?"

Amelia looked up at him. She could still feel the phantom heat of the fire, still hear the heavy, accented threat whispered in her ear behind the bar. If she told this cop the truth—if she said Russian mob—she would unleash a war she wasn't ready for.
The police wouldn't protect her 24/7. The second they drove away; those men would come back to finish the job.

Besides, in this part of Boston, you didn't talk to the cops. You handled things yourself.

She swallowed the metallic taste of blood in her mouth and looked the detective straight in the eye.

"No," Amelia lied, her voice steadier than she felt. "It happened too fast. I didn't see their faces."

The detective stared at her, his expression hard. He didn't believe her for a second, but he flipped his notepad shut anyway. "Right. Well, if you 'remember' anything, give us a call."

The detective walked away, his boots crunching on the wet glass littering the pavement.

Amelia let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around the damp fabric of her jacket. She had closed the door on the law. Now, she was entirely on her own.

A sudden, sharp screech of tires echoed down the block, cutting through the low rumble of the firetruck engines.

Through the haze of smoke and flashing blue sirens, a dark sedan whipped around the corner and slammed to a halt at the police tape. The driver’s side door flung open before the car had even finished idling.

 

[1Beachbum25]

Padraig "Patrick" Dempsey grew up on the streets of Boston. At the age of 13, he was orphaned when his parents were killed when a car pulled up next to them as they sat on the front stoop and opened fire on them. Patrick only survived because his father had sent him inside to get him another beer.

He only lasted a week in foster care. There was no way he was going to live with the family he was sent to. One day, he walked out and never looked back. He knew enough people through his father's connections that they hid him from authorities, and put him to work in the business.

Working the streets put Patrick in touch with a lot more people. His always was careful to do exactly what he was instructed to do. He didn't want to risk pissing anyone off and losing the protections he had.

As Patrick got older, he was given more trusted assignments. By the time he was 18, he was sent on jobs as a member of an "enforcement" team. He continued to show that he was committed to doing the best job. He earned a reputation, even at that young age.

When there was a big problem, Patrick was always sent in. The older members the team would allow Patrick to handle the problem. It always seemed there was no longer a problem with that situation once Patrick intervened.

By the time he was 25, Patrick was being trusted even more within the organization. He no longer had to act as an enforcer, but people knew that if he had to, he would willingly take care of business.

Now, at the age of 31, Patrick was in the "inner circle." He was involved in advising and decision making. He had risen from nothing to being well-off and quite powerful.

When his phone rang at 2:45 am, Patrick knew it was important. Why else would he get a call that early in the morning? He answered it, listened and then immediately got dressed. Less than 30 minutes later he was pulling up to the fire location. He parked his car in the middle of the street and walked down to where the woman was sitting on the curb.

He knew of Amelia Ryan, however, he had never met her. Patrick walked up to her and offered her his hand to help her to her feet. "My name is Patrick. Come with me. We need to talk."

 

[zydrate]

Amelia looked up at the man standing over her.

He wasn't dressed like a cop.

He wasn't dressed like a firefighter or a paramedic either.

Dark clothes. Expensive watch. Shoes too clean for someone who had simply wandered over from the crowd. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence that made people move out of his way without realizing they were doing it.

She ignored his outstretched hand.

Instead, she slowly pushed herself to her feet on her own, wincing as her ribs protested. The cold pack slipped from her fingers and landed with a wet smack on the pavement.

Gray eyes met his.

"You've got about five seconds to tell me who you are," she said, her voice rough from smoke, "before I assume you're with the people who tried to turn my family's bar into a bonfire."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the officers only a few yards away before returning to him.

"If you're another collector, you're late." She let out a tired, defeated sigh, "They already made their point."

She studied him in silence for another moment. There wasn't panic in his eyes. No adrenaline. No curiosity.

Just purpose.

That bothered her more than the fire.

"You know my name," Amelia said quietly. "I don't remember giving it to you."

The flashing lights painted alternating bands of red and blue across both of them as rain continued to fall.

"So..." she folded her arms despite the ache in her shoulder, "...convince me why I should get into a car with a complete stranger at three in the morning."

She wasn't refusing.

Not yet.

But she wasn't following him blindly either.

 

[1Beachbum25]

Patrick looked into Amelia's eyes when she stood up and gave him five seconds to respond. He understood her hesitancy; considering he was standing outside of her burned-out bar.

He remained silent as she continued to talk to him and ask him questions. Patrick kept a straight face and showed absolutely no emotion.

Watching as she folded her arms defiantly, Patrick maintained eye contact. He was not here to intimidate her. Nor, was he here to harm her. Patrick was here to help Amelia.

"If I was part of the group that did this," Patrick pointed at the bar, "there would be absolutely nothing left for you to go back to and rebuild."

He paused; letting that comment settle in before continuing.

"I am here to provide you with assistance and to gather information about who did this, so, that they can be held accountable for what they did."

Another pause. He was not in a hurry. He wanted Amelia to be able to digest what he was offering.

"I know your name just like I know the names of many of the people of Irish descent in this neighborhood. Many of them come to me, or one of my associates when they need help. Others are to stubborn to ask for help, so, I reach out and offer them support. That is why I am here."

Waiting a second before continuing, Patrick's expression remained the same. "Now, if you would like some support with your situation, you can come with me and we can have a discussion about how I can help. If you don't, that is fine; it just means I will get back into bed between my silk sheets a whole lot sooner. The choice is yours."

Patrick took a step back. "However, I am not waiting very long for your decision." At no time did he raise his voice or change the look on his face. It was clear, however, that he was not going to wait more than a moment for Amelia's decision.

 

[zydrate]

Amelia studied him in silence.

Most men filled the quiet because they couldn't stand it.

This man didn't.

That, more than anything he'd said, gave her pause.

Her eyes drifted past him to The Emerald.

The flashing lights reflected off the soot-blackened windows. Firefighters were packing up, and someone from the city had already started stretching yellow tape across the front entrance.

Closed.

The word landed like a punch to the ribs.

She didn't care about the broken bottles.

She didn't care about the bruises blossoming beneath her jacket.

She cared that if those doors stayed shut for more than a few days, she'd be in trouble.

Her bartenders depended on their paychecks.

The cook had three kids.

Her beer distributor wouldn't wait forever. She had contracts with several small brewers to debut their beer in the next couple of weeks...

The bank wouldn't wait either.

With a tired sigh, she looked back at Patrick.

"So that's it then?" she asked quietly. "You just appear out of the mist like some bloody Irish guardian angel and expect me to climb into your car?"

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth threatened the smallest smile.

"Bit dramatic, don't you think?"

The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Her gaze hardened.

"I'm not afraid of you."

It wasn't bravado.

It was fact.

"I've spent thirty-two years behind that bar." She nodded toward The Emerald. "I've thrown out drunks twice your size, chased off thieves with a baseball bat, and once broke up a fight with nothing but a mop because it was closer."

A faint Irish cadence, usually buried beneath years of South Boston, slipped into her voice without her noticing.

"So if I get in that car, it'll be because I choose to."

She took one slow step toward him, close enough that only he could hear her next words.

"They weren't after money."

Another step.

"They wanted me to sell."

Her gray eyes searched his face, watching for the slightest flicker of recognition.

"I've had offers for years. Every one of them got the same answer."

She glanced once more at the tavern.

"I'm not selling my family's life."

Silence settled between them.

Finally, Amelia exhaled through her nose.

"...All right."

She nodded once toward his sedan.

"We'll talk."

Then she pointed a finger squarely at his chest.

"But if this turns out to be a waste of my time..."

The Irish accent slipped through her bravado.

"...you're buying me the first pint when The Emerald reopens."

Without waiting for his answer, Amelia walked toward the passenger side of the car.

 

[1Beachbum25]

"So that's it then?" she asked quietly. "You just appear out of the mist like some bloody Irish guardian angel and expect me to climb into your car?"

"Bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"I'm not afraid of you."

Patrick turned around and started walking toward his car. He respected her for the hard line she was taking, but he was not going to beg her to talk with him.

He walked in a steady pace toward the car. Nothing rushed. Not too slow. He would give her a chance. If she didn't take it, there was nothing he could do for her.

As he walked, she started to talk more... telling him it would be her decision if she got in the car... that it was not for money but an attempt to force her to sell.... it wasn't the first time that people wanted her to sell.... she wasn't selling her family's legacy.

He listened, but said nothing. Ducking under the police tape, he continued toward his car. As he reached the front of the car, he turned around and faced her; still showing no emotion.

He had learned a long time ago that showing emotion was a sign of weakness. Whether he was angry, sad, happy, uncomfortable, or any other way, Patrick's outward demeanor never changed... not around others.

Moving toward the driver's side door, Patrick opened it as he heard Amelia say that she would talk. He half-listened as she said something about a waste of time and him buying the first pint.

He watched her walk toward the passenger side door.

Patrick got into the car and started the engine without unlocking the passenger side door. He put the window down on that door and reached across; holding out a business card. On it was nothing but a shamrock and a phone number.

"When you are really ready to talk about what happened and the future of your pub, call that number."

When she took the card, Patrick put the window back up and drove away.

He was impressed that she was not a push-over and just blindly went along with the first offer of help, but she also had to understand that she was not dictating when they would have a conversation.

If she wanted help, Patrick would be more than happy to provide it, but he would be the one that was directing how things went down.

 

[zydrate]

"You jacka--" Amelia stopped short of what she wanted to say as she watched Patrick drive off. She didn't move for several minutes as both the fire department and cops left the scene. The looky-loos were also gone and she was left standing there by herself.

She should be crying. This all felt short of devestating but no one died, thankfully. Also, the bar? Amelia sighed and finally turned from where she was standing.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow was a couple of hours away...

Tomorrow she would handle this. Right now, she pulled the yellow tape away and stepped into the bar before locking it up behind her.

***
It did take a couple of days to get things in order. Thankfully, there were neighboring businesses willing and ready to help with the cleanup. The local deli provided lunch for the next two days of clean up. Some of the firefighters that were here the other night had come to help also.

Amelia's dad, Daley, was the one to direct on the cleanup but he handled the repairs.

The story going around was that it was an electrical short that had caused the fire.

But Amelia and her dad knew better. Hell, even her grandfather, all knew better.

Her grandfather had said to give and maybe they should sell.

Her father was starting to lean with the selling. Especially after seeing the bruises and cuts on Amelia.

But no, Amelia was also stubborn, she wasn't going to sell.

There had been several big 'discussions' about it over the past few nights family dinners.

Amelia would. not. give. in.

Then there was the card given to her by that Patrick guy. She had asked her father if he knew of a Patrick. Her father never answered.

Now, even after being closed less than a week, Amelia knew they had to open. The repairs were mostly done. Little things that could be done during closing.

Besides, it was all so costly already. Even if insurance was paying for some repairs and such. She had local brewers on the backburner who were waiting for her to fullfill her side of the contract of debuting their beers. She couldn't back out on those.

Now, it was a Friday night, and even though the bar was usually opened at 11AM, today it they delayed it as much as possible and didn't open until after 5pm.

Why had they opened so soon? Sure, she could have waited until everything was ready but no, there were two reasons... they were losing money by staying closed and two, she wanted to show 'them' she wasn't going to let them scare her away and take the family's pub.

Fuck no.

There had been some annoyomous donations and for that, she again had been grateful. As much as she had wanted to know where some of this money had come from, she had been too busy to dwell on it now. She had a bar to re-open. Staff to reassure they were going to always have a job as long as The Emerald was open.

 

[1Beachbum25]

Patrick drove home, undressed and climbed back into bed. "You can't help someone unless they want help, and she didn't act like she wanted help."

The next day, Patrick made a few phone calls. One call was the Firefighters' Union Hall. Patrick suggested that it would be a good idea for some of the men to volunteer their time at The Emerald Tavern. A nice donation to the union might be in order.

Next, he contacted a couple of local businesses. He had a hardware store deliver supplies that were needed in the clean-up. A payment close to double the value was delivered to the store. The local deli was paid very well to deliver meals to the workers cleaning up. Both businesses were instructed to make it look like they were donating and not to tell anyone who was paying for it.

Meanwhile, Patrick made some inquiries. He wanted to know who and why. It didn't take long for his informants to find out that it was the Russian mob that was responsible. They wanted to buy the bar, but the owners wouldn't sell.

Patrick knew the Russians were trying to push their way into that neighborhood. He was going to make sure that it didn't happen. However, if the current owners didn't want his help, he would just protect the other businesses in the area.

He knew he needed to start sending a message. Several members of the Russian mob were seen in the neighborhood. It was obvious they were there to intimidate. Patrick had them "picked up" and taken to a warehouse. With hoods over their heads, they were beaten and tortured. Fingers were broken. Knees were fractured. Patrick even decided to have a little fun with one of them and had them water-boarded.

Not a word was spoken to them. There were no threats made. None were necessary. At 2 am, they were driven to a quiet neighborhood under control of the Russians and left on a street corner... hog tied with the hoods still on their heads and rags stuffed in their mouths so they couldn't scream.

Early the next day, Patrick sent one of the men around to talk to Daley. The message was clear. "They were willing to help, but his daughter needed to be on board. If she wasn't, there was nothing they could do to help."

They left him with the address of the warehouse where the Russians had been beaten and told him that if he wanted help that Daley and his daughter should be there Saturday morning at 9 am sharp. "And tell your daughter to leave her attitude at home."