Anyway, I acknowledge the greeting with the same sort of wave the aforementioned Norm used to give. I even look a bit like Norm these days, although I’m quite a bit taller. About six and a half feet, topping out at three hundred pounds.
Jack already has a pint of Murphy’s waiting for me. “Right on cue, Dev,” he says as he hands me the glass, a genuine smile stretching his lips.
“Now what in the world would make me miss my night at Donlan’s?” I answer back. “And you better start pouring more drinks. Round for the house on me.”
Another cheer roars through the pub. They know that I’ll be buying rounds all night. I take a sip of the Murphy’s, grateful that Jack had poured me the ale instead of waiting for my order. I’d been hankering all day for a Jameson, and that wouldn’t have done me any good. Alcohol has always been my downfall. If I started with whiskey this early, who knows what trouble I’d get into? Better to stretch the night with Murphy’s and finish off with a couple of Jamesons. I really do enjoy my nights at Donlan’s, and it would be a shame to lose them over a sloppy night of drinking. I let out a sigh of relief that Jack had been looking out for me and say a silent prayer for him.
Katy’s working the tables and stops by to give me a wink and a smile bright enough to blind. “Howya doin’ Dev?” she says. “It’s great to have ya here, ya know?” She’s a little thing, barely able to fill out a size two pair of jeans. But as cute and perky as any I’d ever seen, and I’ve seen many, trust me. Blond hair, blue eyes, slightly upturned nose, and that perfect Irish skin.
“Seeing you makes it all worthwhile,” I tell her. “Screw all this. Let’s say you and me get married after your shift and I’ll show you how well I’m really doing.” She giggles at that, her face blushing a perfect amount of pink.
“Ah, if only you weren’t joking me,” she says, and then grabs a tray of drinks and squeezes by, turning back to give me one last wink.
I take another long drink of my Murphy’s, and I am surprised to see the pint glass already empty. Jack has another glass waiting for me. I make a mental note to slow down. Then I stand for a moment soaking in the atmosphere of Donlan’s and smile broadly at all the beaming faces that are turned my way already smiling at me.
Four months earlier, I had business up north and stopped off afterwards in Dublin for what I thought would be a couple of days’ rest and relaxation. Then I found Donlan’s. Now Dublin is a city of over a hundred bars, many of them these days trendy, loud with music blaring, and filled with well-dressed, beautiful, but basically plastic people. I can have fun in places like that, and usually in my own way find them rewarding, but Donlan’s was something special. Genuine salt-of-the-earth types. Good wholesome people. So I stretched my vacation from a few days to four months. Well, sort of, because in a way, I’m always working.
I squeeze through the bar area, getting numerous slaps on the back. Donlan’s seats forty, another thirty can crowd by the bar. These days, the place is stuffed to the rafters since word got out about that generous Yank from Brooklyn buying rounds all night long. Still, as I look around and notice most of the faces, the regulars are still fighting their way in each night.
In reality, I’m not from Brooklyn, not even from North America, but I guess I developed that heavy accent from the years I spent in New York. Anyway, I saw no reason to correct these people’s impression. With some amusement I’ve noticed an Irish brogue slipping into my speech patterns recently. If I stay here long enough, next place I go all the locals will assume I’m Irish.
Gerald Herrity, an eighty-year-old duffer who could barely keep his false teeth in his mouth, starts to get up from his bar stool to offer me his seat. I place my arm around his shoulder to keep him where he is. “I don’t mind standing awhile,” I say to him. He flashes me a drunken grin, his eyes already glazing from the alcohol, and then raises his shot glass for a salute.
I raise my own pint glass, and with some alarm notice the glass is again empty. Another mental note to slow myself down. I catch Jack’s eye and he starts pouring me another draft.
A thin, fiftyish man with a shock of white hair is making his way over so he can pump my hand.
“Devlin, an honor to be able to spend the night drinking with the likes of you.”
I like the guy. He’s a writer from Galway, been coming to Donlan’s the last two weeks. Probably made the trip to Dublin on word of my nightly buying routine at Donlan’s.
“Pleasure’s all mine, Ken.”
Jack works his way through the other patrons so he can hand me a fresh pint, and I indicate to him from this point on to make the switch to Jameson. He gives me a wary eye but acknowledges my request. I turn back to this Galway writer of all things criminal and dark.
“I finished your wonderful manuscript,” I tell him. “A thing of pure beauty. I loved every second of it.” And I’m not kidding him. I really did.
“Now if I can only find a publisher with the bollocks to print it,” the Galway writer tells me, smiling somewhat bitterly. He finishes his Jameson in a gulp. I signal to Jack with four fingers to bring us a couple more apiece.
“I don’t understand why they wouldn’t,” I say.
“Too dark and violent for them, I guess.”
“To me it could be even darker.” I finish the last of my Murphy’s and take the shot glasses from Jack, handing two of them to Ken. I hold one of my shot glasses up to the light and study the amber beauty of it. My hand shakes slightly. Deep down I know I’m making a mistake, but I’ve had the taste of whiskey on my tongue all day.
“As much as I love your manuscript,” I tell the writer, “you could make it even darker. Screw them. You need to make it even more over the top, more violent. I can give you some ideas I have about what more you could do with your hero.”
“You mean my antihero. There’s no hero in this one.”
“Sure. Whatever.” I spot Mick. I’ve been counseling him every night for the last three weeks about a problem of his, and I’m anxious to talk more with him. I slap Ken on the back, leaving him nodding, thinking over what I said.
Mick’s looking glum. I can almost feel the lump in his throat. When he sees me he tries to smile, but it doesn’t stick.
“I don’t think Cara cares for me,” he tells me.
Katy’s walking by. I ask if she can bring a tray of Jameson. Knowing the shape Mick’s in, he’s going to need them.
“Mick,” I say to him. “I’ve seen the two of you. I know about these things. I’ve been the same place you are now. Trust me, okay?”
We stand together silently twiddling our thumbs until Katy brings over the tray. After a few more shots each, I ask him if he’s been calling Cara and telling her all the things I’ve told him to tell her.
“I have,” he admits. “Although it don’t seem right.”
“Sometimes you have to let them know you won’t take no for an answer. Trust me, Mick. I’ve been there.”
With some disbelief, I realize the tray is loaded with nothing but empty shot glasses. Fortunately, Katy is within earshot. I signal for a fresh tray. After she brings it over and Mick and I have a few more shots, I explain to him that sometimes actions mean more than words.
“Mick, I can see in her eyes how she feels about you. Sometimes a girl’s just shy. Sometimes you need a boy to act like a man. Are you a man?”