tables and sawdust on the floor. The long bar was already crowded with young and middle-aged men, as well as a scattering of women. In the corner a pair of video games colorfully and noisily zapped aliens or threatened the player’s electronic hero with instant fragmentation.
Locating an empty table, Billy sat down, ordered a beer from none other than sandy-haired Dorry Dougal himself, the genuine Irishman who operated the pub. Ten minutes later, beginning to feel relaxed, he took out the drawing pad he always carried with him and began to sketch. Soon the lines evolved into recognizable forms—a muscular warrior battling a giant, horrifying dragon with a face too similar to Mrs. Deagle’s to be mere coincidence. In the process, the warrior was defending a young princess with an uncanny resemblance to Kate Beringer. Despite the bad lighting, Billy was pleased with the results he had gotten and was admiring the effect when a sudden shadow falling across the picture brought him back to reality.
“Terrific,” a sardonic voice said. “The world needs more unemployed artists.”
It was Gerald Hopkins. In deference to its being after hours, he had unfastened the two bottom buttons of his three-piece suit and loosened his tie slightly. Without being invited, he dropped into the chair opposite Billy and smiled in a superior manner. “Speaking of unemployment, guess who almost applied for it today.”
“I give up,” Billy said coolly.
“You.” Taking a long beat so that it could sink in, he then continued. “Mr. Corben had second thoughts, though. He gets all sentimental about the holidays.”
“Imagine that.”
“Yeah,” Gerald sneered. “I would have fired you in a second.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Billy deadpanned.
“You think it’s mean of me to even think about firing somebody, right?” Gerald demanded. “Well, let me tell you something. It’s a tough world out there. To get ahead you have to be tougher. That’s why I’m junior vice-president at age twenty-three. In two or three years I’ll have Mr. Corben’s job. And when I’m thirty, I’ll be a millionaire. When you’re thirty, you’ll probably be only twenty-eight.”
Billy shrugged. “Well, you have my blessing, Ger,” he said evenly.
“Don’t call me that. My name’s Gerald.”
“Sure, Ger.”
At that moment Kate passed nearby with a tray and drinks, wearing an apron on which DORRY’S PUB was emblazoned in large green letters. Gerald spun his head and snapped his fingers in her direction. With a tight smile, she moved to the table.
“I’ll have an Irish coffee,” Gerald ordered. “But don’t pour the Irish whiskey in the coffee. Bring it in a separate glass and I’ll do it.”
Kate nodded, looked at Billy. “You all right?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said.
Glancing at the drawing in his lap, she turned her head sideways and smiled. “Do I sense some hostility there?” she murmured slyly.
“Hostility but no talent,” Gerald countered.
“I think it’s good,” Kate said.
“Then you’re still into comic books,” Gerald sneered.
Billy, somewhat embarrassed by Kate’s praise and intimidated by Hopkins’s arrogance, tried to change the subject. He succeeded only in blurting an obvious statement that Gerald gleefully pounced on.
“I guess you’re working tonight,” he said to Kate.
“No, dummy,” Gerald interjected. “She’s modeling aprons.”
“Every weeknight,” Kate said, ignoring him. “So Dorry won’t have to pay an extra waitress.”
“No pay?” Gerald said. “You work for free? Suppose everybody did that! It’s ridiculous. Maybe there’s a young mother out there who could use the money.”
“Dorry’s got to save as much money as he can or Mrs. Deagle will close down this place pretty soon. So everybody’s pitching in to help. It’s not a matter of keeping a paying job from someone else. If this place closes down, a lot of jobs will go.”
“I think it’s
Locating an empty table, Billy sat down, ordered a beer from none other than sandy-haired Dorry Dougal himself, the genuine Irishman who operated the pub. Ten minutes later, beginning to feel relaxed, he took out the drawing pad he always carried with him and began to sketch. Soon the lines evolved into recognizable forms—a muscular warrior battling a giant, horrifying dragon with a face too similar to Mrs. Deagle’s to be mere coincidence. In the process, the warrior was defending a young princess with an uncanny resemblance to Kate Beringer. Despite the bad lighting, Billy was pleased with the results he had gotten and was admiring the effect when a sudden shadow falling across the picture brought him back to reality.
“Terrific,” a sardonic voice said. “The world needs more unemployed artists.”
It was Gerald Hopkins. In deference to its being after hours, he had unfastened the two bottom buttons of his three-piece suit and loosened his tie slightly. Without being invited, he dropped into the chair opposite Billy and smiled in a superior manner. “Speaking of unemployment, guess who almost applied for it today.”
“I give up,” Billy said coolly.
“You.” Taking a long beat so that it could sink in, he then continued. “Mr. Corben had second thoughts, though. He gets all sentimental about the holidays.”
“Imagine that.”
“Yeah,” Gerald sneered. “I would have fired you in a second.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Billy deadpanned.
“You think it’s mean of me to even think about firing somebody, right?” Gerald demanded. “Well, let me tell you something. It’s a tough world out there. To get ahead you have to be tougher. That’s why I’m junior vice-president at age twenty-three. In two or three years I’ll have Mr. Corben’s job. And when I’m thirty, I’ll be a millionaire. When you’re thirty, you’ll probably be only twenty-eight.”
Billy shrugged. “Well, you have my blessing, Ger,” he said evenly.
“Don’t call me that. My name’s Gerald.”
“Sure, Ger.”
At that moment Kate passed nearby with a tray and drinks, wearing an apron on which DORRY’S PUB was emblazoned in large green letters. Gerald spun his head and snapped his fingers in her direction. With a tight smile, she moved to the table.
“I’ll have an Irish coffee,” Gerald ordered. “But don’t pour the Irish whiskey in the coffee. Bring it in a separate glass and I’ll do it.”
Kate nodded, looked at Billy. “You all right?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said.
Glancing at the drawing in his lap, she turned her head sideways and smiled. “Do I sense some hostility there?” she murmured slyly.
“Hostility but no talent,” Gerald countered.
“I think it’s good,” Kate said.
“Then you’re still into comic books,” Gerald sneered.
Billy, somewhat embarrassed by Kate’s praise and intimidated by Hopkins’s arrogance, tried to change the subject. He succeeded only in blurting an obvious statement that Gerald gleefully pounced on.
“I guess you’re working tonight,” he said to Kate.
“No, dummy,” Gerald interjected. “She’s modeling aprons.”
“Every weeknight,” Kate said, ignoring him. “So Dorry won’t have to pay an extra waitress.”
“No pay?” Gerald said. “You work for free? Suppose everybody did that! It’s ridiculous. Maybe there’s a young mother out there who could use the money.”
“Dorry’s got to save as much money as he can or Mrs. Deagle will close down this place pretty soon. So everybody’s pitching in to help. It’s not a matter of keeping a paying job from someone else. If this place closes down, a lot of jobs will go.”
“I think it’s
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