don’t talk about that.”
That was my opening.
“Fine. Then let’s talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
Finally, a song I knew came on. “Paradise By The Dashboard Light” played and most of the crowd in Finbarr’s was singing along. I had to shout at Flannery to be heard.
“Like about the two EMTs that let that guy die in the city.”
I guess I was a little too successful at being heard. Before Flannery could say a word, a heavy hand slammed down on my shoulder and it stayed there. The guy attached to the other end of it walked around in front of me. He was twenty-five with dark red hair, a healthy mustache, and light blue eyes shot with blood. He had the look of a man who’d been drinking for a few hours and was spoiling to flex his beer muscles.
“What are you, another fucking reporter here to stir up the shit?”
“No, I’m a man having a private conversation,” I said, calm but serious. “Now if you don’t mind, please get your hand off my shoulder.”
“But I do mind, motherfucker!” He turned his attention on Flannery. “Don’t talk to this asshole. He’s looking to bury us.”
Flannery didn’t answer right away, but I was losing patience.
“Listen, I asked you politely to move your hand off my shoulder and got called a motherfucker for my trouble. Now I’m not asking, I’m telling you. Get your fucking hand off my shoulder.”
“And if I don’t?”
By now, the rest of the bar had stopped singing and focused their eyes on us. Not good. With an audience, there was no way for this guy to back down and save face. His friends started egging him on.
Kick the old guy’s ass, Hickey. Come on, Hickey, fuck him up.
And so it went.
I may have been an old man in his eyes, but I stopped taking shit from morons like Hickey when I was eight years old. And there was this other thing: I was carrying. My old .38 was holstered in the small of my back and I could have it sticking under Hickey’s chin in a second or two. I waited a beat to give him a chance to back off. He didn’t avail himself of the opportunity. No surprise there. So I reached around under my jacket, but my hand never made halfway to my holster. Flannery had a hold of my wrist and when he had hold of something, it stayed held. I looked his way and he shook his head no. I nodded that I understood and he let go. Before I could exhale, Flannery was out of his seat and had his left hand around Hickey’s throat.
“Listen, pup, what me and my friend choose to discuss is none of your fucking business. You ever interrupt me or lay a hand on a friend again and I’ll make sure you get your medical pension in a hurry. Do you take my meaning, son?” He squeezed a little tighter as he asked. Hickey nodded that he understood. “Smart lad. Now my friend and I are leaving. I turn around and even sniff you behind us, I’ll snap your arm off.” He let go of Hickey.
I thanked the barman and left the change as a tip. Outside, I asked Flannery why he stopped me from teaching Hickey a lesson.
“Because we police our own,” he said. “Now let’s find a place to do some proper drinking.”
And so we did.
TEN
Flannery knew a real neighborhood bar not two blocks from Finbarr McPhee’s. The kind of place where they played Sinatra on the jukebox and the jukebox still played vinyl records. It was the kind of place that had a name, but you didn’t need to know it because you knew where it was and what it was about. And what it was about was beers and shots of whiskey, a pool table, a dart board, and one old TV that hadn’t worked in years. Nobody came here to hit on babes or to impress anyone at all. It was a bar for men to drink in and to be comfortable doing so.
The bartender knew Flannery, which didn’t exactly shock me. I supposed most of the bartenders in Bay Ridge knew him. I gestured to a booth. Flannery wasn’t having any. He preferred sitting at the bar and that was fine with me. I took out another fifty and
That was my opening.
“Fine. Then let’s talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
Finally, a song I knew came on. “Paradise By The Dashboard Light” played and most of the crowd in Finbarr’s was singing along. I had to shout at Flannery to be heard.
“Like about the two EMTs that let that guy die in the city.”
I guess I was a little too successful at being heard. Before Flannery could say a word, a heavy hand slammed down on my shoulder and it stayed there. The guy attached to the other end of it walked around in front of me. He was twenty-five with dark red hair, a healthy mustache, and light blue eyes shot with blood. He had the look of a man who’d been drinking for a few hours and was spoiling to flex his beer muscles.
“What are you, another fucking reporter here to stir up the shit?”
“No, I’m a man having a private conversation,” I said, calm but serious. “Now if you don’t mind, please get your hand off my shoulder.”
“But I do mind, motherfucker!” He turned his attention on Flannery. “Don’t talk to this asshole. He’s looking to bury us.”
Flannery didn’t answer right away, but I was losing patience.
“Listen, I asked you politely to move your hand off my shoulder and got called a motherfucker for my trouble. Now I’m not asking, I’m telling you. Get your fucking hand off my shoulder.”
“And if I don’t?”
By now, the rest of the bar had stopped singing and focused their eyes on us. Not good. With an audience, there was no way for this guy to back down and save face. His friends started egging him on.
Kick the old guy’s ass, Hickey. Come on, Hickey, fuck him up.
And so it went.
I may have been an old man in his eyes, but I stopped taking shit from morons like Hickey when I was eight years old. And there was this other thing: I was carrying. My old .38 was holstered in the small of my back and I could have it sticking under Hickey’s chin in a second or two. I waited a beat to give him a chance to back off. He didn’t avail himself of the opportunity. No surprise there. So I reached around under my jacket, but my hand never made halfway to my holster. Flannery had a hold of my wrist and when he had hold of something, it stayed held. I looked his way and he shook his head no. I nodded that I understood and he let go. Before I could exhale, Flannery was out of his seat and had his left hand around Hickey’s throat.
“Listen, pup, what me and my friend choose to discuss is none of your fucking business. You ever interrupt me or lay a hand on a friend again and I’ll make sure you get your medical pension in a hurry. Do you take my meaning, son?” He squeezed a little tighter as he asked. Hickey nodded that he understood. “Smart lad. Now my friend and I are leaving. I turn around and even sniff you behind us, I’ll snap your arm off.” He let go of Hickey.
I thanked the barman and left the change as a tip. Outside, I asked Flannery why he stopped me from teaching Hickey a lesson.
“Because we police our own,” he said. “Now let’s find a place to do some proper drinking.”
And so we did.
TEN
Flannery knew a real neighborhood bar not two blocks from Finbarr McPhee’s. The kind of place where they played Sinatra on the jukebox and the jukebox still played vinyl records. It was the kind of place that had a name, but you didn’t need to know it because you knew where it was and what it was about. And what it was about was beers and shots of whiskey, a pool table, a dart board, and one old TV that hadn’t worked in years. Nobody came here to hit on babes or to impress anyone at all. It was a bar for men to drink in and to be comfortable doing so.
The bartender knew Flannery, which didn’t exactly shock me. I supposed most of the bartenders in Bay Ridge knew him. I gestured to a booth. Flannery wasn’t having any. He preferred sitting at the bar and that was fine with me. I took out another fifty and
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