No Good Brother. Tyler Keevil

of names, but I didn’t recognize any of them, since I didn’t actually work at the docks he had in mind. This seemed to disappoint him momentarily, and he looked at me anew, as if I might not be a fisherman at all but a guy posing as one.

      ‘So this is your brother?’ he asked Jake.

      Jake introduced me, and Mark held out his hand to shake mine. As we did, he noticed my fingers and turned my hand up so he could get a better look. He bent over it as if he were going to kiss it.

      ‘Jesus Christ. You get bit by a shark or what?’

      ‘No – I got bit by your mom.’

      I do that, sometimes, when I’m nervous. I say something completely inappropriate and out of line. Mark let my hand drop. For a second it seemed as if it could go either way, but Mark laughed again – that squeak of a laugh – and said something about me having balls, to make a crack like that. Then he stopped laughing, and gave his earlobe a gentle pinch.

      ‘Just don’t say anything like that around my brother, okay?’

      ‘Where is your brother?’ Jake asked.

      ‘He’ll be here. We got a few minutes to kill.’

      He took a seat and we did the same. While we waited he wanted to see our crokinole skills. We divided up the rocks and took turns shooting twenties. Mark wasn’t that good but he was very enthusiastic. We did that for ten or fifteen minutes, until headlights flooded the office. A vehicle had turned into the drive: another SUV, a big Durango. As it pulled into the garage beneath us the thump-thump of heavy bass beats made the whole room vibrate. Then the music cut out, and a few moments later Patrick Delaney made his entrance.

      ‘What’s the fucking dilly, yo?’ he said.

      Pat had Mark’s features but he was heftier, all muscled up, with a crew cut and the kind of wide-shouldered, swaggering walk tough guys develop. It should have been comical but there was undeniably something intimidating about him. Jake and I both stood up, since the situation seemed to call for it. Pat ignored us. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and he went right to the desk and dropped it. It landed heavily.

      Mark said, ‘You got them.’

      ‘Check it,’ Pat said, and unzipped the bag.

      There were black vests inside. They were puffy and heavy and when Pat pulled one out I realized it was a bullet-proof vest like cops wear. Mark held it up to his chest, checking the size, then undid the Velcro and strapped it on, over his sport coat.

      ‘Yeah, motherfucker,’ he said, and thumped his chest.

      ‘You’re invincible.’

      They played around with the vests a while longer, and I got the sense that this was largely, or partly, for our benefit: they were showing off their toys. Then Pat deigned to notice us. Or notice Jake. He came over to the crokinole table and stood in front of him.

      ‘We ready to roll on this, Jake?’ he asked.

      ‘We’re rolling like dough,’ Jake said.

      Mark patted Jake’s back. ‘Jake’s got full run of the place.’

      The four of us sat down and Pat didn’t mess around with preamble. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a white envelope and placed that on the table, beside the crokinole board.

      ‘There might be a key in that envelope. If there is, it might fit a vehicle that will be parked in a particular location tomorrow night.’

      ‘What kind of vehicle?’ Jake asked.

      ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know what’s in that envelope – get me? But whatever it is, it’ll be what you need. Once it’s there, ready to be picked up, you’ll get a call on this.’

      He slid a cellphone across the board. It spun and came to a stop near us: a black clamshell Nokia. Jake took the phone and envelope and tucked them in his jacket pocket.

      ‘You drive it over,’ Pat said, ‘and when you get there, and everything’s a go, you give us a call just to let us know. We’ll make sure the next phase is in place.’

      At that point, I assumed it was money. Or dope. That was what I’d been expecting all along: some kind of drug run or delivery with us acting as mules or couriers or whatnot.

      Pat asked, ‘You sure you can gain access?’

      ‘I got clearance.’

      ‘If you screw any of it up, you’re fucked, and we don’t know you. You take the fall. That’s how it works. Can you handle that?’

      ‘We can handle it.’

      Pat looked at me. I’d been frowning, trying to follow it all, but when he looked at me I smiled instead. I smiled in what must have been a weird and extremely unconvincing way.

      He said, ‘Your brother doesn’t seem so sure.’

      I said, ‘It all sounds pretty vague.’

      ‘That’s called being smart. That’s called deniability.’

      ‘Deniability,’ his brother repeated, and giggled. He was still wearing his vest.

      ‘We can handle it,’ Jake said.

      ‘Good. Maria said you’d get it done. She said you were reliable.’

      ‘Maria?’ I asked.

      I couldn’t help it. It just popped out. They all looked at me, expectantly.

      ‘Like Maria O’Connell?’

      ‘That’s her,’ Mark said. ‘That a problem, Relic?’

      ‘I just didn’t know she was involved.’

      Pat jerked a thumb at me, and asked Jake, ‘He gonna be all right?’

      ‘He’s fine.’

      Mark was giggling again. He started telling a confusing anecdote, the overall point of which seemed to be that Maria had set fire to his brother’s Hummer, after an argument.

      ‘She was always a firebrand,’ Jake said.

      ‘She’s turning into a goddamn liability,’ Pat said to him. ‘You’re gonna see her and her brat down there. Do me a favour and make sure she’s not too strung out, will you?’

      ‘I’ll look after her.’

      There was an edge to how Jake said it. Pat didn’t miss that. He jerked his chin.

      ‘You two used to have a thing, didn’t you?’

      ‘Years ago.’

      ‘You’re lucky the bitch dropped you.’

      The door opened and that guy, Novak, came back in. He’d brought the cake and four plates. He laid the cake in the centre of the board and from his pocket slid out a slim blade, a stiletto, which he used to slice four pieces, getting the sizes exactly the same. With the flat of the knife he lifted each piece onto a plate, then went to take up his position by the door again.

      ‘Our mom makes the best fucking cake,’ Mark said. ‘Try this shit.’

      Pat took his piece and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. I ate mine more slowly, pretending to really appreciate it. I have to admit: it was good cake – lemon and poppy seed.

      ‘Golden,’ Jake said.

      Pat grunted. Then his phone buzzed, and he checked the screen.

      ‘I got shit on,’ he said. ‘We good here?’

      ‘What about our money?’ Jake asked.

      ‘You’ll get your money on delivery.’

      ‘And then Jake’s square with you, right?’ I said.

      Pat held out his hand, palm up, as if to say, ‘Who