"Well, it's the sort of thing that always happens in a dynamic community," Keating said. "Times change."
Mr. Witherwax stuck his chin up. "Did I say they don't? I read in a book one time that…»
Mr. Gross, occupying a stool at the near end of the bar farther from the window, raised his glass to the bartender. "Mr. Cohan, another beer, if you please." Then, with a nod over his shoulder, "He's always reading something in a book."
The bartender smiled. "It's a fine thing in a man, to be after reading the books."
"Maybe so," Mr. Gross allowed, "but he doesn't have to go and recite them back to us, now does he? And while you're at it, see what that dapper gentleman down the other end is drinking, with my compliments."
"All I said is it's changing," Mr. Witherwax insisted. "I didn't say nothing about the immigrants."
"And a good thing, too," Mr. Cohan suggested as he busied himself with the bottles, "the half of them being Irish."
"Irish, sure," said Keating. "And Arab and Pakistani and…»
"Aren't Pakistanis Arabs?" said Mrs. Jonas.
"No, ma'am. No more than that Finns are French."
"That don't matter to me," insisted Mr. Witherwax. "All I said was it's not the same neighborhood it used to be."
"We don't get many of those Arabs in here," Mr. Cohan said. "But the Irish, now…»
"That's because their religion?Islam?doesn't let them drink alcohol." Keating worked at the library and in consequence had a great deal of miscellany in his head, perhaps as much as his companion, Mr. Witherwax, although, unlike the latter, he tended to keep it there and not let it go spilling about.
Mr. Cohan drew back in shock and turned to Gross. "Did you ever hear the like of it, Mr. Gross? I know there are those who cannot handle the creature, but a drink or two is a fine thing for a pleasant evening of talk." He turned to the stranger, wishing to include him in the general conversation, for Gavagan had always envisioned his establishment as much a salon as a saloon. "Isn't that right?"
The stranger's eyes came into focus and he looked around as if surprised to find himself present. "I'm sorry…?" he said.
Mr. Gross said helpfully, "We was talking about the neighborhood and the Irish and?"
"Damn the Irish," the man said, draining his glass.
A profound silence fell over the room. Witherwax traded looks with his two companions. Gross studied his beer. Mr. Cohan appeared to have something lodged in his throat. After a moment's strangled silence, that worthy said gently, "Gavagan does not care for me to be chastising a patron. It's bad for the trade. But I'll not be hearing such talk in this establishment."
The stranger pushed his glass away and sighed. "I shouldn't've had that second drink. I apologize… Mr. Cohan, is it? I don't usually speak so intemperately, but I have been having some troubles lately and the people who have been giving them to me are Irish."
"There," said the brass blonde to her friends. "I told you he had troubles."
"Troubles, is it?" Mr. Cohan said. "Well, the Irish are good at giving those out, though we always seem to have enough left over for ourselves. But it will do you to know that we here at Gavagan's have heard people's troubles before, but never once did they damn anyone; not even that Italian joint around the corner, which may even deserve the damning because they pour short measure."
"Didn't that magician fellow damn someone one time?" said Witherwax.
"Theophrastus V. Abaris," said the bartender, drawing the syllables out. "I'd forgotten about him. Sure, he cursed poor Mr. Murdoch, when the young felly was after losing his dragon."
"What sort of troubles?" Mr. Gross asked the stranger.
"Do you remember Madame Lavoisin?" said Mrs. Jonas. "Now she was trouble."
Mr. Witherwax gestured toward the bar, "Does he look like a man who goes to a beauty parlor?"
"I asked…," said Gross.
"These days they have unisex parlors," said Keating.
"And we'll have none of that talk in Gavagan's, either," said Mr. Cohan, who had only heard part of it. "'You need sex parlors. What is the world coming to?"
"I asked…," said Gross.
"No, no," said Keating. "I meant beauty parlors."
"Madame Lavoisin sometimes took in men…," Mrs. Jonas said.
"Quiet!" cried Gross. Everyone turned to look at him.
"Now, there's no need to be shouting, Mr. Gross," said the bartender.
"I only wanted to know what sort of troubles our friend here has been having that he damns the Irish for them."
"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," the man said. "It was only my frustration talking. Look, I'll stand a round for the rest of you to make amends."
Mr. Cohan busied himself with the makings. Another boilermaker for Mr. Witherwax. A Presidente for both Keating and Mrs. Jonas. Gross, taking advantage of the offer, switched from beer to a whiskey sour with muddled fruit. The stranger asked for a club soda. "Two cocktails were one too many," he said.
"Now," said Mr. Cohan, having settled everyone with their libations, "perhaps you will tell us your story and let us be judging the fault of any Irish."
The man sat up straight on his stool and buttoned his vest. He looked about the room at five attentive pairs of eyes. "I don't know how you can help me, but…»
"My name is W. Wilson Newbury, and I am a banker by trade…»
"I knew it," Mr. Witherwax whispered to his companions. "Just look at his suit."
"Hush," said Mrs. Jonas. "Go on dear."
"You would think that my life would be all Kiwanis meetings and mortgages, and I'll be the first to admit that I've pretty much lived the standard, bourgeois life?married, two kids, both grown now, steady work and steady promotion?and I've never seen any reason to apologize for it. Even so, some strange things have happened to me… " Newbury sighed and shook his head. "It's not something I ask for, but sometimes it seems as if I'm a magnet of some sort."
"Say," said Gross to the bartender, "do you remember that young Van Nest fella, always had those critters following him? He was something of a magnet, too."
"Well," said Newbury, "my firm has been investing in out-of-state banks. You have to do that, to stay viable these days. A few months ago, the M amp; A people?that's Mergers and Acquisitions?tipped us to a good prospect in your city. A small immigrant bank on Maclean Avenue. Yes, Mr. Cohan, 'Irish Broadway. We were interested because the Irish have a good history of bootstrapping. The Irish Emigrant Society, for example, during the nineteenth century, began as what we call today a 'microlender, and grew to become Emigrant Bank. That was why we were interested in this Luchorp?n Ltd. It seemed poised for the same sort of growth."
"In my day," Witherwax said, "banks had real names. 'First National Bank. 'Security Trust. What do you see now? 'Rock Bank. 'Fleet Bank. Do they keep stones in their vaults? Do they loan only to sailors?"
"It's all marketing nowadays," said Mr. Gross.
Mrs. Jonas waved her hand in the air. "You're not letting Mr. Newbury talk."
The banker smiled his thanks at her. "Esau Drexel?that's my president?asked me to look into matters personally. Harrison Trust is an old-fashioned firm, and we believe in the personal touch. There is only so much you can learn from paperwork, regulatory filings, and web searches. He wanted me to form an impression of the people who ran this bank, to see if they were the sort we could work with.