Hmm. "A chancer. A . . . dodgy character." I grinned, proud to have remembered a word from my Irish slang lesson. I turned to Brogan. "And your client is . . ."
"Sally Hodges. She has a three-year-old and a six-month-old living in a shithole where the rats are bigger than the cats."
I cringed. But if Sally Hodges lived in this rat-infested shithole, she must not have the money to move elsewhere. And if she didn't have the money to move elsewhere, how did she have the money to hire Brogan and Fionn? "I'm coming with you," I said.
Brogan shook his head. "You wouldn't want to be anywhere near this place, trust me."
"I'll stay in the car. But I'm coming." Brogan considered me for a second, but then nodded his okay.
Ten minutes later, we were pulling up in front of a crumbling, three-story brick building. I leaned toward the backseat window, looking up at the structure as Brogan and Fionn got out, telling me they'd be back in twenty minutes, Brogan locking the doors with his key fob.
Although the street was nice, with lots of old, large trees, the building in front of me was a definite eyesore.
I sat in the car for several minutes, watching two boys kicking a ball on a patch of brown grass. I glanced up at the building one more time.
Overcome with curiosity, I got out, walking quickly to the door I'd watched Brogan and Fionn enter, wrinkling my nose when I stepped into the lobby. It reeked of trash and something dead. I hoped whatever had died was of the animal variety.
Stepping through the debris, I climbed the stairs, following the raised voices. I stayed hidden around a corner for a minute listening to the conversation.
I heard Brogan say, "Mr. Dudley, we've catalogued a hundred and fifty housing code violations in this building. Frankly, I hardly want to waste the finances or the energy bringing a lawsuit against you, but there are seven women and thirteen children living here who deserve better than the fucking, dirty shithole you're providing for them. And unlike your tenants, I have the means to do something about it."
"Now listen here, boy," an older voice spat out. I peeked out from behind the corner and caught the old man's eye, and pulled myself back against the wall, my heart pounding. Damn! "Who's that?" I heard him demand.
Biting my lip, I pulled my ball cap off, quickly scrubbed at the mustache I'd drawn on with eyeliner that morning and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt, un-tucking it and tying it at the side of my waist. I took a deep breath, fluffed my hair and stepped out from around the corner, smiling brightly. Brogan was walking toward me and when I shot him a smile, his forehead creased right before his eyes widened.
"Oh, hi, sorry I'm late," I sing-songed. Brogan frowned, and I stepped around him, reaching my hand out to Mr. Dudley. "Mr. Dudley?"
"Uh . . ." said the tubby old man with the greasy, white hair sticking in every direction from his head and every other orifice I could see. He looked at me, to Fionn and then back to me. I glanced around him into the dirty garbage pit he referred to as his apartment and tried not to grimace at the smell wafting out. My eyes caught on a bookshelf near the door—a bookshelf featuring a folded American flag in a small glass holder and several medals and plaques. I squinted my eyes, reading the inscriptions quickly. When I looked back to Mr. Dudley, he was trying to look down my shirt.
"Mr. Rudy Dudley, former US Marine, recipient of the Silver Star?"
He puffed up, standing taller, looking at me more closely. "That's right. How'd you know that?"
I pointed behind him to his bookshelf, smiling and cocking one hip out. "The Silver Star," I said, putting one finger up to my lips and puckering up as I tapped them. "That's for gallantry in action, right? Why, Mr. Molloy, Mr. Ramsay, we're dealing with a bona fide hero right here. You boys hardly need to threaten him with doing the right thing. Doing the right thing is in his blood." I sighed. "Mr. Dudley, you have no idea what an honor it is to meet you. There are so few real men nowadays, don't you agree?"
Mr. Dudley straightened even further, smoothing his wrinkled wife beater down his paunchy stomach and flicking something dried and crusty at the hem. "Uh . . . yeah. Yeah! You're right, young lady. In my day, heroes were respected." He shook his head. "Not anymore." He shot a glare to Brogan and Fionn who were watching our exchange with blank looks on their faces.
"Well, I respect your service to our country, your bravery, and I admire the fact that you want to provide safe and secure living conditions for the women residing here—the women who are counting on you to be the hero they need. But, Mr. Dudley, I understand it's an overwhelming job and perhaps you've hesitated while trying to come up with the most strategic plan for making the fixes and repairs necessary. Am I right?"
"Uh . . . strategy . . . yeah. That's right. If you're not strategic, it'll all go to hell. Every last bit of it!" he yelled, looking off behind me as if expecting someone else to appear.
I nodded sympathetically as his eyes moved back to me. "You're so right. Again, Mr. Dudley, the sound thinking I'd only expect from a war hero such as yourself. Here's what I propose: if I can get your guarantee that you'll fund the cleanup project and hire the professionals necessary, I'll send a crew made up of Mr. Ramsay's employees, free of charge of course, to get rid of the garbage and debris littering the uh . . . grounds and main foyer of this property."
Mr. Dudley nodded. "Main foyer, right." He narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head, considering me.