A Shared Confidence by William Topek

lookin’.”
    â€œWell, ain’t you sweet?” His eyes chilled to cold metal and I could see the patience had run out of him like sand from an egg-timer.
    â€œCome back when you can drink like a man,” he advised, “and not some schoolboy tastin’ his first.” I was ready to bring up the small army of old sots and souses I’d seen fall asleep in the joint, but I looked into the face of two-hundred-plus pounds of red-headed Irish bull, and even in my drunken stupor I knew I’d already pushed it as far as I dared.
    I could have just found a new haunt, but I was getting pretty sick of me, too, by then. So I dried out for a month. I stuck to water and coffee and the occasional Coca-Cola, and I made regular visits to the gymnasium, punishing my muscles in place of the unfair universe and sweating out soul-black hate in the steam room. I came to my office early and left late, working my cases, dull as they were. I read a lot, mostly the classics that are supposed to get you thinking about life. After several weeks of clean living, when I could once again pass at first glance for a respectable citizen, I braved the cold January night outside my office building and went for a stroll around the corner. Lonnigan was standing near the taps. He gave me the once-over, checking out the whites of my eyes and my neatly-shaven face, looking to see that my tie wasn’t on crooked. At last he wiped his meaty hands on his apron and sauntered over to me.
    â€œWhat’ll it be?” The neutral voice he saved for newcomers.
    â€œScotch, neat if you please.” He stood for just a moment, then grabbed a bottle and glass and started to pour. I added casually: “And one for the barkeep if he’s having.”
    He hesitated again, then poured one for himself. I raised my glass and met his gaze head on.
    â€œTo good friends who give it to you on the level. People with self-respect who demand others have some, too.” That part might have sounded rehearsed. It was.
    He nodded, picked up his glass, and clinked mine softly, and I waited for him to take a small sip before I did likewise. I put the rest of my drink down on the bar along with a dollar bill.
    â€œGot some work I have to finish tonight,” I said. “Hope to see you again soon.”
    His smile was slight, but even a slight smile from an Irishman carries its own warmth.
    â€œWelcome anytime, Mr. Caine.” I nodded and hit the door.
    And just like that we were friends again. I stop in when I feel like it, but I usually don’t stay too late and I damn sure don’t get sloppy. And the scotch still tastes as good, even if there’s a little less of it these days. Some nights I just come in for coffee and sit and talk with Lonnigan about sports, politics, and the old country that he grew up in but that I only know from my mother, rest her. Point being, there’s maybe a little more mercy in my soul these days for people in the kind of shape Ryland was in when he came to me. You don’t swim through the hard times so you can spit on someone else who’s still doing his laps.
    Just the same, I was surprised – and not pleasantly – to see Ryland sitting at the bar when I walked in that Friday night. I wandered over to him, nodding to Lonnigan for a scotch on the way. Ryland looked up from the bar and we said our hellos, and I noticed with relief that he looked a lot more cleaned up than he did two days ago. He was also reasonably sober.
    â€œThought you were heading back to Lincoln,” I said, taking my drink from Lonnigan with another nod.
    â€œI have a ticket on the train tomorrow,” he informed me. “I’ve spent the past two days in my hotel room with a pad and pencil, making some important telephone calls.”
    â€œOh?”
    He nodded, taking a sip from his drink. “It’ll be rough. I’ll have to sell most of the stores, haggle with a few bankers, try to keep