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“BRENDAN, YOU ARE A man among men.” Young Seaman Fingal O’Malley roared as his hand slammed down on the Irishman’s back, nearly throwing him from the chair.
“It’s true.” James Harrison nodded, downing half his drink. “You are a braver man than I to let a girl as good as that get away. If I could get a dame half that pretty to beg me to love her, I could march back on that damn boat one hell of a happy man.” The celebrated seaman pinned between the two men could hardly agree.
“It was the principle of the thing.” Brendan Keane stated, rubbing his hand over the red scruff on his jaw, though it had darkened toward more of a chestnut brown, rather than a heated fire. Harrison again slammed his hand onto the red and white checkered tablecloth.
“Principle, shminciple. I’ve never seen you happier than when you had a girl on your arm.”
“Or when ya were kissing her in the back of a cab. Brendan, me boyo, you are a master in the art of women.” The young man cradled his drink between his hands.
“Master or not, I still let her go.”
“Didn’t take long for her to find another though. She must have seen half a dozen men this past week.” James Harrison finished his liquor and patted the front of his uniform. “C’mon, fellas. Let’s get something to settle in our stomachs.” The seaman was just about to order when a well-dressed couple entered the restaurant. The man was, without a doubt, Italian. His coal black hair and mustache were immaculately groomed and, though he was not nearly so tall as the present threesome, he was not short either.
But it was the woman on his arm that had young Keane’s full attention as she sauntered past. The floral dress she wore clung excessively to every curve and dip in her figure. He wished he could disappear. He wanted nothing more than turn to ash and flit away on the billowing winds. But there was no such luck. She passed, making a special effort to sway so close to Keane he could easily have been intoxicated on her perfume, had the liquor in his hands not already finished the task.
“Why, Brendan, isn’t this a surprise. Are you and your little friends on a search for ladies.” She turned to O’Malley and Harrison, raising her voice enough to call the attention of some unfortunate customers at the nearby tables. “You might as well leave this one behind, boys. He hasn’t got the nerve to go out of the starting gate.” Keane’s face burned and his blue eyes turned to the grey of flint. The spark was struck and the flame raged.
“How dare you.” He growled. “I’m as much a man as all the men in this room, and perhaps more so. You asked something immoral; something I dare not supply out of respect and—God help me—love for you. I see now what you are, Natasha Barra, and I am quite relieved I was able to scrape together the dignity you so obviously lack.” Before the woman could find some feminine retort, Keane was pinned backwards over the table with the Italian soldier’s hand strangling his collar while the other was pulled back in a solid fist. Down the mass of fingers came, slamming into his face with a heavy crack.
And then there was darkness.