“How’s it been?” I slap Rowen’s shoulder as I edge past him along the narrow bar corridor. Collin’s in the middle of an upbeat jig that has the people cheering along.
“How do you think it’s been?” Rowen swipes at his brow with his bicep while he pours. “This is my second shirt today. Why haven’t we retrofitted this place with air conditioning yet?”
“Because it’s a waste of money. Don’t worry. They’re calling for a break starting tomorrow. That’s what Ma said. Besides,” I grab an order from the printer, “hot customers mean thirsty customers. It’ll be a good night for the pub.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t also mean a good night for a fight.” Rowen nods toward my hand. “Benoit came by earlier to have a word.”
I roll my eyes. The idiot doesn’t know what to do with his evenings now.
“That’s three tenners a week lost,” he reminds me. “At least.”
“He’s a thief.” I drop the pint on the counter a little too hard, splashing a bit on my hand. “We don’t serve thieves.”
“Fair enough, though we serve plenty of scoundrels.”
“This place is run by scoundrels!” one of our regulars pipes up from his side of the bar, earning a round of chuckles and a few handclasps. A lot of these men have formed friendships over their years on our stools. I wouldn’t necessarily call them healthy relationships, mind you—they depend on Delaney’s being open and the beer flowing—but there’s a sense of community here.
“Is this about the thief or the bird?” Rowen’s not going to let up so easily.
“Both,” I admit with a smirk, before grabbing another order coming in from the wait staff. It’s going to be a long night. Saturdays always are, even in a city graced with a thousand pubs.
“River. You’re here, finally.” Nuala, a long-standing bartender and waitress at Delaney’s, hip-checks me out of the way before bending down to pull a bottle of Budweiser from the cooler. “Which bird is your brother going on about?”
“An American damsel in distress,” Rowen pipes in, stealing a glimpse of her round, ample arse over his shoulder. “Benoit stole her wallet last night and this guy dashed in on his steed to retrieve it for her.”
“After an American. Really, River? Had enough of us pure Irish Catholic birds?” She bats her eyelashes at me. I can only laugh. Nuala and I have been friends for years now. Long enough to know that pure has never been the right word to describe her. “Do you still need me behind the bar or can I take tables now? I have me own Americans waiting.” She raises her brow suggestively. “A whole lot of them.”
“What’s wrong, had enough of us strapping Irish fellas?” Rowen turns his lip down in an exaggerated frown.
She leans into him, resting her chin against his bicep, her hand rubbing suggestively over his back. “Stop pouting. It’s unbecoming.” It’s impossible not to look at the wide gap in her front teeth as she flashes a broad grin. It’s even harder to keep our eyes on her pretty, though average, face when she adjusts her tight-fitting work shirt over a pair of giant tits. Rowen and I, and the entire row of regulars by the bar, always fail.
With a loud bark of laughter, she grabs her service apron and rounds the bar. All the staff like it when Americans come in. It usually means a decent tip, unless they’ve bought into those tourist guide magazines that tell them not to bother.
Heaven forbid. It’s not like we Irish need the extra money.
“Why’d you end that, again?” Rowen mutters, watching Nuala’s curvy hips sway as she strolls toward her section.
“We never started.” It wasn’t anything, really, and it was a long time ago now. A few late nights alone together and a few too many pints after closing the pub. Things were bound to happen eventually.
He just shakes his head, his attention shifting from Nuala to Greta as the willowy blonde punches an order in, bobbing to the steady thrum of Collin’s upbeat guitar rhythm.
I cuff him lightly upside the head. “It’s too busy for daydreaming.”
“Says the wanker who just strolled in,” he throws back, but he’s smiling. Rowen’s by far the most relaxed of the three of us. He could man this bar alone on a Saturday night and make it out alive.
“Fair enough.” I begin pouring drinks and collecting money while I flash the broad Delaney grin that’s something of a trademark. Coupled with drink, it usually works to help slide the edge off anyone’s shoulders, no matter how shitty their week has been. Working my way down to the end of the horseshoe bar, I find one of my favorite regulars sitting quietly, his face weathered, his gaze lost in the bottom of his pint. “Francis O’Reilly!” I slap the counter, snapping him out of his spell.
“River,” he chuckles softly. “How has your day today been, fine sir?”
I pause to ponder that. Dragging myself out of bed was tough, but seeing Amber put me in a good mood. “Just grand. And you?”
“Yeah. Grand.” His smile falls with his gaze and I know that he’s lying.
I reach under the bar and grab a pack of smokes. Francis always gets his week’s supply on Saturday night. “Nice and fresh, arrived from the Canaries last Wednesday.” We have a steady stream of friends traveling to Spain and bringing back a suitcase worth for us to sell behind the bar, to the Irish folk who don’t want to pay a tenner for a pack. Which is every person who walks into this pub. It’s good side cash for us.
With a furtive glance around, he slides them into his pocket. “You should be careful, selling these here. You’ll have gardai breathing down your neck.”
“They’re always breathing down our necks.” I rest my elbows on the bar with ease, unperturbed. “So they’ll confiscate the cases and I’ll get a slap on the wrist and wait for the next delivery to come in.” We’ve been selling packs under the bar for the last decade with only one incident. It cost us a bit in fines but in the end, it’s still worth it.
He sighs and then nods.
“What’s really going on, Francis?” I pause. This just isn’t like him. We’re normally three dirty jokes into the conversation by now. “Everything good with Cheryl and the kids? The grandkids?”
He nods, and for a brief moment his eyes gloss over.
“Business is good?” Francis and his family have run several popular fish-and-chip shops around Dublin for over forty years. I’d be surprised if it were to blame for his mood.
“It is. Too good, maybe, because it’s attracting attention I don’t want,” he mutters, pouring back the rest of his beer. He slaps money down on the bar and stands to leave.
“Hey . . . what’s that supposed to mean?”
He sighs, glancing around before leaning forward, his voice so low I can hardly hear him over the music. “Two fellas showed up at me store yesterday. They say they’ve taken care of a small debt I had with someone and now I’m to pay them. With interest.”
Unease slips down my spine. I’ve heard of this happening before. “So tell them to fuck off.”
“It’s not so simple, River. They said they’d hurt me family if I didn’t deliver a thousand euro every week to them.” His jaw tightens. “They showed me the tattoos on their stomach.”
I heave a sigh, but it doesn’t relieve my growing anger. If I find out this is Jimmy’s doing . . . “What do they look like?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Like assholes. The one had this scar,” he gestures at his forehead, “cutting into his hairline.”
“I’m sorry this is happening to you, but you need to go to the gardai.” As much as I hate saying that. But Francis is good people. They generally try to help good people. They didn’t do much to help us the year some ballsy thugs broke into Delaney’s at night and stole cash. It was a lot of cash, too. We usually make several deposits each week, always in the mornings. But on that particular day, I didn’t have a chance and figured it would be fine locked in the safe for one more night. Gardai never figured out who did it; the two bastards who came to take my statement even suggested it might be a scam on my part.
“That’s what Cheryl wants to do. But they said they’d break all our legs if any gardai show up at their doorstep with questions. What am I supposed to do?” His shoulders hang. “I can’t believe it’s come to this. See ya, River.”
“Yeah. See ya.” I watch him shuffle away with a deep frown on my forehead, my spirits dampened. Forget Jimmy . . . if Aengus has anything to do with this, I’ll have him put back behind bars myself.
But even as I think that, I know I won’t. Besides, Aengus doesn’t have any republican tattoos on his stomach or scars across his forehead. And Francis knows Aengus. When we were little and visited our nanny on weekends, we’d sit on the front steps of Francis’s nearby store, stuffing our faces with chips.
“River!” Rowen catches my attention and I think he’s about to give me grief for slowing down. But he only juts his chin toward the other side of the bar.
To where the devil himself stands, filling a pint.
“Well, fuck,” I mutter as I pass Rowen. I knew it was only a matter of time.
“Aengus.”
He drains a third of his pint before setting it down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “How’s your back?”
The longtime regulars know enough about our family and the black sheep son to be watching closely. They’re probably bracing for a brawl. No doubt it would be an ugly one, as most of ours tend to get these days. “Grand,” I force through gritted teeth, grabbing an order for Nuala. “You know you’re not supposed to be helping yourself to the taps.”
He snorts. “What are you gonna do, throw me out?”
“Da didn’t say you couldn’t come in.” Though if he knew what happened at the Green, I’m sure the ban would extend to Delaney’s as a whole. “So why don’t you grab a seat and I’ll bring it to you.”
He pulls his shoulders back and takes a step forward, until his chest is nearly butting against mine. “And what happens when Da’s in the ground? You think you’re gonna run things?”
The smell of beer on his breath tells me that Aengus has been sitting in a hole somewhere, drinking all day, and as much as I want to punch him in the face for talking about our dad being dead, or enlighten him to the fact that our parents had a will drawn up that specifically leaves the pub to me—against the Delaney tradition that the eldest gets proprietary rights—now’s not the time to get ballsy with him. “We’re just trying to work here. It’s busy. Grab a stool. In fact, here . . .” I reach down and take the one and only stool tucked away behind the bar and bring it around to the side. “Look at that. One just became available.”
After a long moment, Aengus relents, dropping onto the stool and pulling out his phone. “Don’t push him. His fuse is short,” I warn Rowen as we pass each other and get back to work, hoping that’s the end of trouble with our big brother for the night.
But when Jimmy Conlon strolls through our front door, I know that isn’t the case.
I watch with disdain as he weaves through the crowd with the arrogance of a guy unafraid of anything. Like there isn’t a warrant out for his arrest and a hit on his head right now.
To any unsuspecting person, he’s just a regular coming in for a pint. He’s average looking, with a few more gray hairs peppering the black since the last time I saw him. His nose hasn’t straightened out any. In fact I think it bends slightly more to the right now. I’m sure whoever hit him was left in worse-off shape. Jimmy may be short, but he’s built like an ox.
What the fuck is he doing in here? Aengus knows better. I would think Jimmy does, too. I’m not the only one who recognizes Jimmy around here. Several wary eyes, keen on the city’s politics and known criminals, trail him as he approaches Aengus. With a glance over his shoulder and a few quick words, Aengus climbs off his stool and rounds the bar, heading through the kitchen door that leads to the office without hesitation. Jimmy follows as if he owns the place, catching my glare and tossing a salute back.
A vice latches onto my forearm. “Why the fuck is he here?” Rowen mutters. He knows who Jimmy is.
“I don’t know. Just keep pouring. And don’t say a word to Da.” This is exactly the kind of news that will give him another heart attack.
I last all of five minutes out front, and then my Irish blood is boiling in my ears and I decide I’ve given those assholes more than enough time back there. While I don’t think Aengus would steal from us, I’m relieved that Rowen emptied the safe yesterday morning.
It takes everything in me to bang on the door three times by way of announcement before throwing it open. Jimmy sits in the office chair like he belongs there, while Aengus paces the cramped space like a caged bear.
“Bring a pint for Jimmy,” Aengus demands.
I ignore him. “Time to go. You know this place gets watched. I figure you’ve got”—I glance at my watch—“twenty minutes before gardai start sniffing around.”
“You sound like you’re expecting them,” Jimmy says in that calm, too soft voice that always sends chills down my spine.
I level a warning glare at Aengus. “Never can tell when someone will ring them.”
Aengus isn’t smart but he hears my threat—though empty—loud and clear. He kicks a box of coasters out of his way, reaching out to throttle me.
“Aengus, enough!” Jimmy snaps, and my brother freezes, though his stance stays rigid. “Have they come around in the last three days, River?”
He means, since the bombing happened. My eyes lock on my brother. Did he tell Jimmy I was there? That I know what happened? That I’m the Irish “jogger” who the gardai could connect to the crime, who could tie Aengus—and possibly, Jimmy—to it, should I want to avoid jail time? Because I wouldn’t put it past a guy like Jimmy to put a bullet in my head, just to make sure I don’t have a chance to talk. “No. They haven’t.”
“That’s good.” Jimmy twirls a pen between his fingers, his attention somewhere beyond the palpable tension in this cramped office. Scribbling a number down on a piece of paper, he pats it twice. “You’ll ring me here if they do?”
“Aengus will be the first to know.” And I’ll burn that number the second this cocksucker is gone.
“Cheers, brothers.” He exits the office quietly. I watch his back until it disappears through the door in the rear, and then I kick our office door shut and shove Aengus into the wall with all my strength.
Even though I’m ready for the blowback, I’m not strong enough to withstand it. Aengus sends me flying into the filing cabinet, the corner of it jamming perfectly against the wound in my lower back. I cry out as a sharp spasm of pain radiates, my knees weakening from the intensity, ready to puke up Ma’s stew. That doesn’t stop Aengus from pinning me with a forearm against my throat, his fist yanking at my shirt hard enough to rip the collar.
It takes a few deep breaths to see through the pain. “What the fuck are you doing, bringing him in here? You know there are always eyes on this place,” I hiss.
“They can’t prove anything.”
“And if they do? What’s Jimmy gonna do? He doesn’t want to go back to jail.”
“None of us do.” Wild eyes that remind me of the color of pond scum right now bore into mine. “I didn’t tell him you were there. All he thinks is that it was some muppet who knows better than to get involved with the gardai.”
After a lengthy, wordless showdown, Aengus’s arm finally relaxes. I let my head fall back against the nearby wall as a sharp ache throbs in my lower back.
When he speaks again, the fire in his voice is gone. He sounds tired. “I didn’t know he’d show up here. Honest.”
I don’t believe him. Aengus lies so much, I don’t think even he remembers what the truth is anymore. “What’d he want?”
Aengus releases a mouthful of booze-scented air and begins pacing. “Beznick’s sister and her kids have gone to ground. Probably back to Romania.”
And they’re surprised? I could have told them that was going to happen. “So he got the message, I gather.”
“He did.” He pauses, twisting his mouth in disdain. “And just threatened retaliation on whoever was responsible. Tit-for-tat.”
“What the fuck does that even mean . . .” I tug at the hem of my T-shirt until I can see the dark spot forming on the material. I must have torn a bloody stitch. “If anyone wants a tit, it should be me,” I mutter.
“That Gypsy bastard thinks he can threaten us!” Aengus bellows. Now I know why he was pacing the room when I came in. He’s spitting mad.
“And so you thought it’d be a good idea to meet with Jimmy here and talk about it?”
“Like I said, I didn’t—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” I cut him off, yanking my T-shirt over my head. I reach for the medic kit. Being the pub that we are, it’s well stocked. I dig out the roll of tape quickly. “How bad is it?”
“Two stitches. Here . . .You can’t reach that.” Aengus grabs the roll out of my hand and rips off a strip with his teeth. He’s always been good at quick bandaging. He’s had a lot of experience. I clench my jaw against the sting as he pulls the skin back together. “Pansy.” In another second and with some gauze in his hand, he adds, “That should hold, if you stay out of any more fights tonight.”
I toss the soiled and torn T-shirt into the rubbish can and rifle through the box of spare work shirts we have in the office. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me . . .” The largest one I can find is medium. And women’s. “Shite,” I mutter, pulling out my old one to check over it again. There’s no hiding that that’s blood. And the tear . . . I can’t be behind the bar with that, especially after a dozen witnesses watched Jimmy and Aengus come back here. That’ll spark questions.
I have no choice. “For fuck sakes.” I ease the new one on, tugging it over my torso.
Aengus doubles over in loud, raucous laughter. I haven’t heard him laugh like that in years, and it releases some of the tension in the air.
“What’s going on in here?” Rowen sticks his head in. His brow spikes with surprise. “You don’t wear that as well as Nuala.”
I jab a thumb toward the box. Rowen’s the one who takes care of T-shirt inventory. “Are those the only shirts we have?”
His lips sit pressed together tightly, twitching. He’s trying not to laugh. “They are. Told you to stop giving T-shirts away to customers because we were running low.”
Fuck.
“We’re getting slammed out front. I need you,” he adds in a serious tone.
“And I need to get home before some arse reports me to the gardai for being seen with Jimmy,” Aengus says through lingering chuckles, though the glint in his eye tells me he hasn’t forgiven me for that one.
Shaking my head, I trail Rowen out.
Preparing my healthy male ego for the bashing that’s about to come.
