The Pub Across the Pond by Mary Carter Page A

The others joined in, adding their strength to the effort. Maybe Declan was upstairs sleeping off a bender. Soon their throats were sore from shouting, which reminded them that they were thirsty.
    â€œWho wants to give the old window a smash?” Anchor said. He rolled up his sleeve.
    â€œDon’t even think about it.” Ronan whipped around. Siobhan stood in front of him, hands on hips. Behind her the rest of the estrogen gang stood in a defensive line. What were they doing here? He didn’t have time for another row, he had to place his bet. Siobhan reached into her handbag and whipped out a wad of dough wrapped in a rubber band. “Looking for this?” she said. He’d recognize that bulge anywhere. Ronan reached for his money. Siobhan snapped it behind her back.
    â€œThat’s mine,” he said.
    â€œNot on your roll-of-the-dice life,” Siobhan said.
    â€œCan ye unlock the door for us while yous have your discussion?” Eoin said.
    â€œNo,” Siobhan said. “The pub is closed until the new publican takes over.”
    â€œDeclan quit?” Ronan said. When did this happen? Why was he being left out of everything?
    â€œDeclan didn’t quit,” Siobhan said. “But it will be up to the new owner whether or not he stays.”
    â€œWhat new owner?” Ronan said.
    â€œWe’re raffling off the pub,” Katie said. “To Americans.”
    â€œYou’re what now?” Ronan said. He knew his tone wasn’t nice. But this went beyond fucking with him. Katie stepped forward.
    â€œIt’s for the best,” she said. “It was my idea.”
    â€œWhat in the world are you on about?” Ronan said.
    â€œRemember how Guinness used to raffle off a pub every year?” Katie said.
    â€œNo,” Ronan said.
    â€œOh. Well, they did. It’s kind of like an auction, only you buy a ticket,” Katie said.
    â€œProperty sales are such shite now, a lot of people are doing it,” Liz said.
    â€œIt’s win, win,” Clare said. “They get a chance to win a pub for twenty dollars, we get thousands of rich, desperate Yanks throwing money at us.”
    â€œSomebody better start making some sense here or I’m going to fucking lose it,” Ronan said.
    â€œStarting tomorrow, Irish festivals all over America will start selling raffle tickets,” Siobhan said. “Twenty American dollars apiece. We only have to sell five thousand tickets to make our hundred thousand.”
    â€œI’ll bet we make even more,” Katie said. She brought something out from behind her back and held it up. It was a poster. Stunned, Ronan moved in to look at it. It was a photo of all six girls standing in front of the pub. They were wearing tight, low-cut dresses and smiling like they had just jumped the cameraman.
    â€œYou’re joking me,” Ronan said. He grabbed the poster and started tearing it into tiny pieces that he let fall to the ground like an unattended ticker-tape parade. The girls didn’t make a move to stop him. “How could you even think of showing yourselves looking like this?” he said. Siobhan stepped closer.
    â€œLooking like what?” she said.
    â€œLike, like . . .” Ronan’s hands moved vaguely around his chest, not knowing where to land or how much he could get away with saying.
    â€œIt’s already done,” Katie said. “The posters are on their way across the pond as we speak.”
    â€œYou cannot be serious,” Ronan said.
    â€œWe’re dead serious,” Sarah said. “We’ve even contacted RTÉ. They’re coming out to interview us today.” RTÉ, Ireland’s national television and radio broadcaster. This could not be happening. Ronan looked at Anne, the only one so far who had remained silent. Divide and conquer. Anne returned his gaze.
    â€œWe all agree,” she said.
    â€œYou’re saying some Yank is going to win