Raymond had asked to meet with Patrick at seven o’clock in the evening. It was an odd time for a business meeting, so Patrick assumed they would be going out for a meal.

“You said there wasn’t anything libelous in Mick’s book,” Raymond challenged the moment Patrick walked into his office. With his slicked-back hair and thick mustache, Raymond looked like an angry bulldog.

Patrick held up his hand. “That memoir has plenty of libel in it, but it’s presented as Mick’s personal opinion and not a statement of fact. That gives him the pass he needs. We’ve got the freedom of the press on our side.”

Raymond rubbed his palms together so hard that his knuckles started cracking. It seemed he enjoyed the prospect of a trial. “This’ll be a lesson the Blackstones will never forget. They’re going to lose and be humiliated by what I’ve got planned. Actually, what Mick has planned. This is all his idea.”

The first hint of misgiving took root. “What’s Mick’s idea?”

“Follow me,” Raymond said with an enigmatic smile as he left the office. “We’re heading down to the brewery on Orange Street.”

“A brewery?” Patrick asked in confusion.

Raymond nodded. “It’s got a cellar big enough to hold everyone, and no windows. We don’t need an audience for this sort of meeting. Mick’s got a plan to whip up a little pretrial publicity.”

The brewery was in an old brick building that was locked for the evening, but a thick-necked man in a bowler hat let them in through a side door.

Noise from a dense crowd rose from the basement, and Patrick’s unease grew as he headed down a narrow, twisting staircase. Dank smells mingled with sawdust and the yeasty scent of hops. He ducked to avoid smacking into the low beams over the steps, but once he was downstairs, the space opened up to reveal a huge underground cellar. The ceiling was vaulted like the undercroft of a church, with domed archways and brick walls. Wooden barrels as large as a man covered most of the floor, but crammed in among them were hundreds of people.

“Lord have mercy,” he muttered as he got a glimpse of the crowd. Most looked like plainly dressed workingmen, but there were plenty of women with babies and a handful of children in the mix. They were packed shoulder to shoulder around the wooden barrels. The rough-looking men from Mingo County were here, clustered near the back alongside men wearing coveralls and work boots.

“Quite a turnout,” Raymond said with pleasure. “Some of these people came all the way from Ohio to join in the protest.”

“What are they protesting?” Patrick asked, a sick feeling gathering in his stomach.

“For a start, the Blackstones’ attempt to silence Mick Malone. They’ll be in court tomorrow to help balance the scales. This is your army, Mr. O’Neill!”