He turned to me from the row in front, smiling his bloody smile and sneered: “We’re going for a little visit. Have a little chat with the Don.” He looked at the thug to my right and gave him a slight nod and suddenly a black hood was pulled over my head and a handgun muzzle shoved into my ribs. Roughly twenty minutes later the car slowed to a stop and a door opened. A strong hand pulled me out of the SUV and twisting my arm behind my back I was led until a warm gust of air washed over me. A heavy sounding door closed behind me. Pushed ahead, I eventually arrived at some steps which I stumbled down before being sat down on a stool. My shroud was lifted and I found myself in a dark room with a long table in front of me. A light shone in my face. As my eyes became adjusted I could just make out the faint shadow of a person sitting across from me at the end of the table. An ember from a cigarette glowed dimly in the shadow. A hoarse, smoky voice spoke softly from within the dark “William Scarlett. Age 23. 5’11” “It’s six feet” I interrupted, then receiving a hard punch from somewhere behind me. “Five feet, eleven inches,” the voice continued “180 pounds. Born in Beaumont Hospital, Dublin in 1989. Father abandoned you at age 5, your ma’s a raging alcoholic and your young sister Jenny is just about to start secondary school at St. Mary’s. She’s a pretty one, now ain’t she?” “What do you want from me?” I asked. “Earlier today you botched a little operation of ours. A colleague of yours, Mr. Morgan Corbally, informed us .” The voice said. “Now, the man you rescued today was, how shall I say, a competitor of ours and being a businessman, I sought to eliminate said competition. Understand?” “Yes.” I replied, shifting my weight on the stool. “As you are by now aware, we know who you are. We know that you spent a time in the West End street gang with your friend Mr. Corbally where you pushed drugs for us. We also know that you’ve got quite the little record. Possession, larsony, assault.” The voice said mater-of-factly. “So?” “Mr. Scarlett, we feel that a person with your particular skill set could help us remedy the little faux pas you committed this afternoon. You see, the man you saved was Ian McQuaid, head of the Clerkwell Mob. He’s been out ordering our boys killed, and we want that to stop. Savvy?” “And?” The voice chuckled. “Why, Mr. Scarlett, you’re going to finish the job.” “And if I say no?” I blurted out “Remember Mr. Scarlett, we know where you live. T’would be a shame if poor, beautiful Jenny were to have an accident, wouldn’t it?” “I don’t even know who you are.” “Oh you do. Everyone knows the Dipper.” Donald O’Leary, commonly known as “The Don” or as the he likes to call himself, Donald the Dipper. It’s a stupid name I know, but just ask those he’s “dipped.” You see, Donny’s a bit of a historian and he just got a kick from learning about the Salem Witch Trials in which accused witches were “ducked,” strapped into a chair and dunked into a river for minutes at a time. He was so taken with the ingenuity of the Puritans that he decided to give it a try. Needless to say, he was a huge fan. After the meeting I was hoisted and pushed back up the stairs and into the backseat of another car, a black four door Lexus that must have been as old as I was. Arch got behind the wheel and Dag got into the passenger’s side.
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