Epilogue

So, now with Yorkkie and Andy gone, Jade Gallows headed to face the gallows, I'm left alone again. Thank God. Not that I didn't enjoy the reminiscing with Yorkkie and the Kid, but I would have really had more fun doing my usual thing.

It had been a few weeks now since they had left, and the body of Peter Finn had been discovered and his murder attributed to one of the other Irish gangs, who are now all out of commission, though not to my credit. I've gotta admit it, though, ol' bastard had style.

Just crawled out of the shower, not even dressed yet, and the phone rings, a cell phone, which is odd because I don't remember ever owning one, or taking one off someone for more than a second or two. None the less, curiosity gets the better of me, it might be someone looking for a fix, and I could set 'em up with one, a permanent fix.

"Hm?" I don't say anything, not stupid. I didn't know who was expected to be picking up on my end.

"Hey Frankie."

Holy fuck, I think to myself. That's a familiar voice, one that should be dead unless Yorkkie and that fuck up Kid screwed up. "Gallows."

"Aye, t'is meh," her voice was smiling, and the connection didn't sound trans-Atlantic. Was she back in New York? Had she ever even left?

"What the Hell do you want?"

"Jus' ta tell ya tha' Finn Cooley ain't no trouble ta no one, n'more," her accent was almost too thick, I was having trouble understanding her drawl, though it was a soothing one. "An' if'n ya wonderin', Ah did kill 'im, an ya buddy from 'er Magesty's services. Andy's 'right though. Can' kill a kid, now can Ah?"

"What the Hell do you want?" I repeat again. I'm holding a towel around my waist and I'm in no fucking mood to play mind games with a damaged Spud head.

"Tempah, tempah, Frankie," her voice was soothing, maddening to me as I tried to not slam down the phone. There was obviously something that she wanted to tell me, and I'll be damned if I don't find out. "Ah jus' wanna thank ya fer sumthin' ya did las' time ya were in Ireland."

"Your husband?"

"Ya go' it."

"He just got in the way."

"Nah, Frankie ya got meh wrong."

There was a knock on the door. Some how I knew who would be on the other side. I held the phone in one hand and my Colt in the other as I unlocked the door. If the Irish Siren wanted in she could open the door herself, and she did.

There she stood, talking on a cell phone, wearing an outfit which would have drawn attention even in Soho. Gray skirt, black sweater, tall boots, scally cap, and flaming red hair. It must have been her natural colour. Even an old bastard like me could admit that she was pretty damn good looking. And I, an old man in a towel, stood in front of her.

"Ah wanna thank ya fer killin' Cyril, ya nevah knew tha bastard, an if ya did, ya woulda jus' killed 'im fastah," she moved closer to me and I immediately wanted to pull the gun and shoot her, but since I was still holding the phone, when the towel dropped, I was left exposed.

She looked at it, withered in the cold air. She didn't laugh at it, which was kind. She looked up at me with a smile on her lips, and I suddenly felt what was in her eyes. There was a hunger in her stare.

"I love my wife."

"She's dead."

"You will be too if you don't leave."

She smirked, her shoulders shrugging under the black sweater. She sauntered towards me and I lifted the gun. She moved very slowly, languidly, and forced the gun down and to the side. She pressed her warm, red lips against mine and pulled back, her eyes truly enchanting had I not wanted to shoot her.

"Ya got mah numbah now," she spoke with her lingering accent as she turned. The view from behind as she walked away was almost as good as the view from the front. "Give meh a call if ya evah wan' a little roll of tha stones."

And with that, she headed out the door. I could have stopped her. I could have shot her. I probably should have. But I didn't, and that was the end.