Mr. Collins nodded as he continued taking measurements. “That it will. Now, tell me, boy, what germ of insanity prompted you to take on a seedy client like Mick Malone?”

Mick Malone was the most contemptible man Patrick had ever represented. Mick had escaped convictions for kidnapping and murder, but everyone knew he was guilty. Now he was hoping to cash in on his notoriety by penning a memoir, and the Blackstones’ reaction was going to be savage.

“Mr. Malone is entitled to legal representation, same as any man,” Patrick replied.

“You’d better take a bath after dealing with that one,” Mr. Collins warned. “Your mother said Mick was drunk as a skunk when you met with him last week.” The tailor spoke quietly, but news of Patrick’s mother’s gossiping was worrisome. They lived in the Five Points, a rowdy Irish slum where secrets spread like wildfire. Patrick needed to know exactly what his mother had blabbed all over the neighborhood.

“What else did Ma tell you?”

“Oh, you know, how proud she is of you. How she wishes you’d marry and start giving her grandbabies, now that the church won’t get you. Don’t blame your ma. She’s bursting with pride whenever she talks about you, Patrick lad.”

That might be, but she needed to stop running on about his clients. His typical cases battling evictions or bailing someone out of jail were as dull as watching paint dry. Not the Blackstone case. Defending Mick Malone against the Blackstones was the most important case of his career.

“Come for a fitting next week,” Mr. Collins said. “You’ll look as smart as any of those shifty Blackstone lawyers. You are Ireland’s and America’s finest!”

Patrick nodded, wishing he was half as confident as his tailor.

Patrick bought his mother a bouquet of daisies on the way home. The flowers would help soften her up before he read her the riot act over the way she was jabbering about his cases. Birdie O’Neill’s greatest hobby in life was bragging about her son, and it had become a problem.

When Patrick first began practicing law, he’d asked her not to discuss his cases. She’d pinched his cheek and promised to behave, but inevitably he’d hear about her nattering whenever he visited the barbershop or a pub. It was usually harmless, but this case was different.

It had all started when Father Doyle showed up at their apartment two months ago, pleading for Patrick’s help with the infamous Mick Malone case, and Birdie overheard everything. Patrick didn’t want the case, but how could he turn down his old benefactor?

He walked up to the fourth-floor apartment he shared with his mother and let himself in. Birdie lay sprawled on the sofa at a strange angle, watching the pigeons feed on the lump of suet she set on the windowsill for them.

“You okay, Ma?” he asked.