The following post contains spoilers for Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son, which you can grab here:
You can also snag the complete novel, all four installments compiled, for Kindle and paperback:
Lord Have Mercy: The Complete Novel
“Are you sure about this?”
It was so unusual a question coming from Michael that Walsh paused and gave it due consideration. He was already seated at the head of the table, but hadn’t gotten comfortable: he didn’t figure it would be his chair for long.
Michael stood at the door, his back to it, one hand on the knob, ready to usher in their brothers.
Who might not consider Walsh their brother in about ten minutes.
Was he sure about this?
Other than Michael, he hadn’t yet told anyone about what he was about to say at church. Michael was a very good listener, but not the best advice-giver. That was probably part of the reason Walsh hadn’t tried to bring anyone else into his confidence. He wasn’t looking for anyone to take a side, here. He’d like to escape with his life, to live out his days with Emmie and Violet, in whatever shape those days would take once he’d lost the club’s support. But otherwise, he wasn’t picky. Michael had said he wouldn’t let anyone kill him; that was enough. It was clear, now, that he could not sit idly by in Knoxville, lying to his brothers, while New York and New Orleans decided the future of the club he’d dedicated himself to. He would play his part, and play it as well as the other Dogs would allow him to.
“I’m sure,” he said, and meant it. Felt calm, steady. “Let them in.”
Aidan was the first through the door, and he sat down beside Walsh, in his new chair, in his new role, his VP patches still shiny-white and clean-threaded on his chest.
It was Aidan who would react the strongest, and Aidan who Walsh felt was owed a pound of flesh for emotional trauma. If Aidan took a swing at him, he was going to sit still and let him take it.
My approach to storytelling has always been organic. I prefer the gardening process to the meticulous pre-planning method: no detailed outlines that require strict adherence. I know who the character is, what he or she wants, and what he or she is afraid of. When a character - or a couple - is the main focus of a book, I have a handful of scenes that I know must happen in order to move the story along. But when it comes to secondary and tertiary characters, I let them grow and develop as they will. Nothing happens in a vacuum, and so their actions, and the actions of those around them, impact their storylines going forward.
I feel like this approach could paint a writer into a corner - but for me, it only ever presents opportunities. An idea will feel right in the moment, sometimes inexplicably, and then several books down the line I'll realize just how useful a seemingly small develop has the potential to be.
Walsh comes to a BIG decision in Lord Have Mercy, one that's been slowly building since The Skeleton King.
In Fearless, a newly-elected Ghost nominates Walsh as his VP, and that was the obvious and natural choice. Ghost has Plans and Ambitions for the club, and not only is Walsh the Money Man who can make them happen financially, but he's also a steady, serious, thoughtful right-hand man who isn't swayed by emotional arguments. Then, of course, along comes Emmie. And then Violet. I think, deep down, so deep down that he doesn't acknowledge it even to himself for much of the series, Walsh worries that allowing himself to have a family, and to love them - to love them more than he loves his club - makes him weak. His self-containment has been an asset all his life - one that he finally understands, in LHM, as armor. A shield against feeling. One that's been completely unsuccessful: he does love his family, he can't and won't change that, and he's not, in fact, handling the stress of club expansion well at all. Like with Ghost, he spends the course of the series slowly becoming surlier, drinking and smoking more, and sleeping less.
I loved getting to hand Aidan the VP patches, but that couldn't have happened without the audience understanding, completely, Walsh's decision to step down. I've always blamed my diverting, side-story focus on Walsh as playing favorites, but while writing LHM, that favoritism proved to be the very necessary groundwork needed to retire Walsh as vice president in a believable and emotionally satisfying way. He'll stay on with the club, of course, Money Man and Skeleton King both. And he's very committed to helping Aidan succeed in his stead.
This scene, where he comes clean to the club, and then walks out declaring that he's going to New Orleans, and then gets hit in the face, is a favorite of mine.
“I’m not really the president, and going forward, I might not be anything, depending on how the voting shakes out. So I’m not going to give orders. You can stay here if you want, or you can hand over your cut and walk away, or you can…make up your own mind. About what to do next. Ghost is in New York.” He pushed back his chair, and stood, and his legs were steadier, stronger, than he’d hoped. “I’m going to New Orleans.”
Then he turned, walked to the door, opened it, and walked through it.
His heart was beating like a high school drumline, but the steadiness persisted. He’d come to a decision, and it was the correct one. Whatever happened afterward, he was sure of his decision to go south.
He heard footfalls behind him – but not the slow, ground-covering gait he’d expected from Michael. No, these were quick, almost running.
He reached the bar, and turned.
And his face exploded with pain.
A bright, hot, numbing shock of it along the left edge of his jaw, and Walsh had time to be grateful that whoever it wasn’t hadn’t aimed for the eye, and risked knocking him out. Then the momentum of the blow carried him sideways, he tripped, knocked over a stool, and would have hit the floor if he hadn’t fetched up against the bar. He caught himself with a hand braced on the smooth wood surface, and reached to touch his struck face with the other, ready for a second hit.
But it was only the one, and as the seconds ticked by, the first cold numbness of the strike warmed, and then flared hot, and the pain crackled in electric arcs along all the affected nerves. The skin was already swelling, tight and hot to the touch, but a quick probe with his tongue proved none of his teeth were loose, and he hadn’t bitten the inside of his cheek. He was going to have one hell of a bruise, but it wasn’t too bad, all things considered.
Anyone in the chapel could have chased him out and hit him, and any of them would have been justified. But when he turned his head, he of course found Aidan standing there.
But it was an Aidan who still looked as vice-presidential as he had in the chapel, save the working and flexing of his right hand. The knuckles were red where he’d struck Walsh, and the way he flattened and then cracked them looked like it hurt.
“You can hit me again, if you want,” Walsh said. “I won’t try to stop you.”
“I will.” That was Michael, sliding in between them, seemingly out of nowhere. “You had your hit. That’s the only one.”
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